Until nightfall a dull, noiseless agitation like that which precedes great catastrophes ran through the anxious crowd.  An indescribable uneasiness oppressed all minds, and stopped the beating of all hearts.  Every one wished it over.

However, about seven o’clock this heavy silence was suddenly broken.  The moon rose above the horizon.  Several millions of hurrahs saluted her apparition.  She was punctual to the appointment.  Shouts of welcome broke from all parts, whilst the blonde Phoebe shone peacefully in a clear sky, and caressed the enraptured crowd with her most affectionate rays.

At that moment the three intrepid travellers appeared.  When they appeared the cries redoubled in intensity.  Unanimously, instantaneously, the national song of the United States escaped from all the spectators, and “Yankee Doodle,” sung by 5,000,000 of hearty throats, rose like a roaring tempest to the farthest limits of the atmosphere.

Then, after this irresistible outburst, the hymn was ended, the last harmonies died away by degrees, and a silent murmur floated over the profoundly-excited crowd.

In the meantime the Frenchman and the two Americans had stepped into the inclosure round which the crowd was pressing.  They were accompanied by the members of the Gun Club, and deputations sent by the European observatories.  Barbicane was coolly and calmly giving his last orders.  Nicholl, with compressed lips and hands crossed behind his back, walked with a firm and measured step.  Michel Ardan, always at his ease, clothed in a perfect travelling suit, with leather gaiters on his legs, pouch at his side, in vast garment of maroon velvet, a cigar in his mouth, distributed shakes of the hand with princely prodigality.  He was full of inexhaustible gaiety, laughing, joking, playing pranks upon the worthy J.T.  Maston, and was, in a word, “French,” and, what is worse, “Parisian,” till the last second.

Ten o’clock struck.  The moment had come to take their places in the projectile; the necessary mechanism for the descent the door-plate to screw down, the removal of the cranes and scaffolding hung over the mouth of the Columbiad, took some time.

Barbicane had set his chronometer to the tenth of a second by that of the engineer Murchison, who was entrusted with setting fire to the powder by means of the electric spark; the travellers shut up in the projectile could thus watch the impassive needle which was going to mark the precise instant of their departure.

The moment for saying farewell had come.  The scene was touching; in spite of his gaiety Michel Ardan felt touched.  J.T.  Maston had found under his dry eyelids an ancient tear that he had, doubtless, kept for the occasion.  He shed it upon the forehead of his dear president.

“Suppose I go too?” said he.  “There is still time!”

“Impossible, old fellow,” answered Barbicane.

A few moments later the three travelling companions were installed in the projectile, and had screwed down the door-plate, and the mouth of the Columbiad, entirely liberated, rose freely towards the sky.