The Mysterious Island by Jules Verne (uplifting books for women txt) 📕

it. Can you answer that the convicts will not see you go off, that they will not wait till you are deep in the woods, and then make their attack in your absence upon a man and a sick boy?”

There was nothing to say in answer to this reasoning, which went home to the minds of all.

“If only Ayrton was yet one of the party!” said Spilett. “Poor fellow! his return to a life with his kind was not for long!”

“If he is dead!” added Pencroff, in a peculiar tone.

“Have you any hope that those rascals have spared him, Pencroff?” asked Spilett.

“Yes, if their interest led them to do so.”

“What! do you suppose that Ayrton, among his former companions in guilt, would forget all he owed to us⁠—”

“Nobody can tell,” answered the sailor, with some hesitation.

“Pencroff,” said Smith, laying his hand on the sailor’s arm, “that was an unworthy thought. I will guarantee Ayrton’s fidelity!”

“And I too,” added the reporter, decidedly.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Smith, I am wrong,” answered Pencroff. “But really I am a little out of my mind. This imprisonment in the corral is driving me to distraction.”

“Be patient, Pencroff,” answered the engineer. “How soon, my dear Spilett, do you suppose Herbert can be carried to Granite House?”

“That is hard to say, Cyrus,” answered the reporter, “for a little imprudence might be fatal. But if he goes on as well as he is doing now for another week, why then we will see.”

At that season the spring was two months advanced. The weather was good, and the heat began to be oppressive. The woods were in full leaf, and it was almost time to reap the accustomed harvest. It can easily be understood how this siege in the corral upset the plans of the colonists.

Once or twice the reporter risked himself outside, and walked around the palisade. Top was with him, and his carbine was loaded.

He met no one and saw nothing suspicious. Top would have warned him of any danger, and so long as the dog did not bark, there was nothing to fear.

But on his second sortie, on the 27th of November, Spilett, who had ventured into the woods for a quarter of a mile to the south of the mountain, noticed that Top smelt something. The dog’s motions were no longer careless; he ran to and fro, ferreting about in the grass and thistles, as if his keen nose had put him on the track of an enemy.

Spilett followed the dog, encouraging and exciting him by his voice; his eye on the alert, his carbine on his shoulder, and availing himself of the shelter of the trees. It was not likely that Top had recognized the presence of a man, for in that case he would have announced it by a half-stifled but angry bark. Since not even a growl was to be heard, the danger was evidently neither near nor approaching.

About five minutes had passed in this way, Top ferreting about and the reporter cautiously following him, when the dog suddenly rushed towards a thicket and tore from it a strip of cloth. It was a piece from a garment, dirty and torn. Spilett went back with it to the corral. There the colonists examined it and recognized it as a piece of Ayrton’s waistcoat, which was made of the felt prepared only in the workshop at Granite House.

“You see, Pencroff,” observed Smith, “Ayrton resisted manfully, and the convicts dragged him off in spite of his efforts. Do you still doubt his good faith?”

“No, Mr. Smith,” replied the sailor; “I have long ago given up that momentary suspicion. But I think we may draw one conclusion from this fact.”

“What is that?”

“That Ayrton was not killed at the corral. They must have dragged him out alive, and perhaps he is still alive.”

“It may be so,” said the engineer, thoughtfully.

The most impatient of them all to get back to Granite House was Herbert. He knew how necessary it was for them all to be there, and felt that it was he who was keeping them at the corral. The one thought which had taken possession of his mind was to leave the corral, and to leave it as soon as possible. He believed that he could bear the journey to Granite House. He was sure that his strength would come back to him sooner in his own room, with the sight and the smell of the sea.

It was now November 29. The colonists were talking together in Herbert’s room, about seven o’clock in the morning, when they heard Top barking loudly. They seized their guns, always loaded and cocked, and went out of the house.

Top ran to the bottom of the palisade, jumping and barking with joy.

“Someone is coming!”

“Yes.”

“And not an enemy.”

“Neb, perhaps?”

“Or Ayrton?”

These words had scarcely been exchanged between the engineer and his comrade, when something leaped the palisade and fell on the ground inside. It was Jup. Master Jup himself, who was frantically welcomed by Top.

“Neb has sent him!” said the reporter.

“Then he must have some note on him,” said the engineer.

Pencroff rushed to the orang. Neb could not have chosen a better messenger, who could get through obstacles which none of the others could have surmounted. Smith was right. Around Jup’s neck was hung a little bag, and in it was a note in Neb’s handwriting. The dismay of the colonists may be imagined when they read these words:⁠—

“Friday, 6 a.m.⁠—The convicts are on the plateau. Neb.”

They looked at each other without saying a word, then walked back to the house. What was there to do? The convicts on Prospect Plateau meant disaster, devastation and ruin! Herbert knew at once from their faces that the situation had become grave, and when he saw Jup, he had no more doubt that misfortune was threatening Granite House.

“Mr. Smith,” said he, “I want to go. I can bear the journey. I want to start.”

Spilett came up to Herbert and looked at him intently.

“Let us start then,” said he.

The question of