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

blood, and life was returning. Smith moved his arm again, then his head, and a second time some incoherent words escaped his lips.

Neb, leaning over him, spoke, but the engineer seemed not to hear, and his eyes remained closed. Life was revealing itself by movement, but consciousness had not yet returned. Pencroff had, unfortunately, forgotten to bring the burnt linen, which could have been ignited with a couple of flints, and without it they had no means of making a fire. The pockets of the engineer were empty of everything but his watch. It was therefore the unanimous opinion that Cyrus Smith must be carried to the Chimneys as soon as possible.

Meantime the attention lavished on the engineer restored him to consciousness sooner than could have been hoped. The moistening of his lips had revived him, and Pencroff conceived the idea of mixing some of the juice of the tetras with water. Herbert ran to the shore and brought back two large shells; and the sailor made a mixture which they introduced between the lips of the engineer, who swallowed it with avidity. His eyes opened. Neb and the reporter were leaning over him.

“My master! my master!” cried Neb.

The engineer heard him. He recognized Neb and his companions, and his hand gently pressed theirs.

Again he spoke some words⁠—doubtless the same which he had before uttered, and which indicated that some thoughts were troubling him. This time the words were understood.

“Island or continent?” he murmured.

“What the devil do we care,” cried Pencroff, unable to restrain the exclamation, “now that you are alive, sir. Island or continent? We will find that out later.”

The engineer made a motion in the affirmative, and then seemed to sleep.

Taking care not to disturb him, the reporter set to work to provide the most comfortable means of moving him.

Neb, Herbert, and Pencroff left the cave and went towards a high down on which were some gnarled trees. On the way the sailor kept repeating:⁠—

“Island or continent! To think of that, at his last gasp! What a man!”

Having reached the top of the down, Pencroff and his companions tore off the main branches from a tree, a sort of sea pine, sickly and stunted. And with these branches they constructed a litter, which they covered with leaves and grass.

This work occupied some little time, and it was ten o’clock when the three returned to Smith and Spilett.

The engineer had just wakened from the sleep, or rather stupor, in which they had found him. The color had come back to his lips, which had been as pale as death. He raised himself slightly, and looked about, as if questioning where he was.

“Can you listen to me without being tired, Cyrus?” asked the reporter.

“Yes,” responded the engineer.

“I think,” said the sailor, “that Mr. Smith can listen better after having taken some more of this tetra jelly⁠—it is really tetra, sir,” he continued, as he gave him some of the mixture, to which he had this time added some of the meat of the bird.

Cyrus Smith swallowed these bits of tetra, and the remainder was eaten by his companions, who were suffering from hunger, and who found the repast light enough.

“Well,” said the sailor, “there are victuals waiting for us at the Chimneys, for you must know, Mr. Smith, that to the south of here we have a house with rooms and beds and fireplace, and in the pantry dozens of birds which our Herbert calls couroucous. Your litter is ready, and whenever you feel strong enough we will carry you to our house.”

“Thanks, my friend,” replied the engineer, “in an hour or two we will go. And now, Spilett, continue.”

The reporter related everything that had happened. Recounting the events unknown to Smith; the last plunge of the balloon, the landing upon this unknown shore, its deserted appearance, the discovery of the Chimneys, the search for the engineer, the devotion of Neb, and what they owed to Top’s intelligence, etc.

“But,” asked Smith, in a feeble voice, “you did not pick me up on the beach?”

“No,” replied the reporter.

“And it was not you who brought me to this hollow?”

“No.”

“How far is this place from the reef?”

“At least half a mile,” replied Pencroff, “and if you are astonished, we are equally surprised to find you here.”

“It is indeed singular,” said the engineer, who was gradually reviving and taking interest in these details.

“But,” asked the sailor, “cannot you remember anything that happened after you were washed away by that heavy sea?”

Cyrus Smith tried to think, but he remembered little. The wave had swept him from the net of the balloon, and at first he had sunk several fathoms. Coming up to the surface, he was conscious, in the half-light, of something struggling beside him. It was Top, who had sprung to his rescue. Looking up, he could see nothing of the balloon, which, lightened by his and the dog’s weight, had sped away like an arrow. He found himself in the midst of the tumultuous sea, more than half a mile from shore. He swum vigorously against the waves, and Top sustained him by his garments; but a strong current seized him, carrying him to the north, and, after struggling for half an hour, he sank, dragging the dog with him into the abyss. From that moment to the instant of his finding himself in the arms of his friends, he remembered nothing.

“Nevertheless,” said Pencroff, “you must have been cast upon the shore, and had strength enough to walk to this place, since Neb found your tracks.”

“Yes, that must be so,” answered the engineer, reflectively. “And you have not seen any traces of inhabitants upon the shore?”

“Not a sign,” answered the reporter. “Moreover, if by chance someone had rescued you from the waves, why should he then have abandoned you?”

“You are right, my dear Spilett. Tell me, Neb,” inquired the engineer, turning towards his servant, “it was not you⁠—you could not have been in a trance⁠—during which⁠—No, that’s absurd. Do any of the footprints still