“Ah, it is too much!” exclaimed Michel Ardan’s adversary, “and I do not know why I go on with so childish a discussion.  Go on with your mad enterprise as you like.  It is not your fault.”

“Fire away.”

“No, another must bear the responsibility of your acts.”

“Who is that, pray?” asked Michel Ardan in an imperious voice.

“The fool who has organised this attempt, as impossible as it is ridiculous.”

The attack was direct.  Barbicane since the intervention of the unknown had made violent efforts to contain himself and “consume his own smoke,” but upon seeing himself so outrageously designated he rose directly and was going to walk towards his adversary, who dared him to his face, when he felt himself suddenly separated from him.

The platform was lifted up all at once by a hundred vigorous arms, and the president of the Gun Club was forced to share the honours of triumph with Michel Ardan.  The platform was heavy, but the bearers came in continuous relays, disputing, struggling, even fighting for the privilege of lending the support of their shoulders to this manifestation.

However, the unknown did not take advantage of the tumult to leave the place.  He kept in the front row, his arms folded, still staring at President Barbicane.

The president did not lose sight of him either, and the eyes of these two men met like flaming swords.

The cries of the immense crowds kept at their maximum of intensity during this triumphant march.  Michel Ardan allowed himself to be carried with evident pleasure.

Sometimes the platform pitched and tossed like a ship beaten by the waves.  But the two heroes of the meeting were good sailors, and their vessel safely arrived in the port of Tampa Town.

Michel Ardan happily succeeded in escaping from his vigorous admirers.  He fled to the Franklin Hotel, quickly reached his room, and glided rapidly into bed whilst an army of 100,000 men watched under his windows.

In the meanwhile a short, grave, and decisive scene had taken place between the mysterious personage and the president of the Gun Club.

Barbicane, liberated at last, went straight to his adversary.

“Come!” said he in a curt voice.

The stranger followed him on to the quay, and they were soon both alone at the entrance to a wharf opening on to Jones’ Fall.

There these enemies, still unknown to one another, looked at each other.

“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.

“Captain Nicholl.”

“I thought so.  Until now fate has never made you cross my path.”

“I crossed it of my own accord.”

“You have insulted me.”

“Publicly.”

“And you shall give me satisfaction for that insult.”

“Now, this minute.”

“No.  I wish everything between us to be kept secret.  There is a wood situated three miles from Tampa—­Skersnaw Wood.  Do you know it?”