"I repeat--who says they have not done it?"

"When?"

"Hundreds of centuries ago, before man's appearance upon earth."

"And the bullet? Where is the bullet? I ask to see the bullet!"

"My friend," answered Barbicane, "the sea covers five-sixths of our
globe, hence there are five good reasons for supposing that the lunar
projectile, if it has been fired, is now submerged at the bottom of the
Atlantic or Pacific, unless it was buried down some abyss at the epoch
when the earth's crust was not sufficiently formed."

"Old fellow," answered Michel, "you have an answer to everything, and I
bow before your wisdom. There is one hypothesis I would rather believe
than the others, and that is that the Selenites being older than we are
wiser, and have not invented gunpowder at all."

At that moment Diana claimed her share in the conversation by a sonorous
bark. She asked for her breakfast.

"Ah!" said Michel Ardan, "our arguments make us forget Diana and
Satellite!"

A good dish of food was immediately offered to the dog, who devoured it
with great appetite.

"Do you know, Barbicane," said Michel, "we ought to have made this
projectile a sort of Noah's Ark, and have taken a couple of all the
domestic animals with us to the moon."

"No doubt," answered Barbicane, "but we should not have had room
enough."

"Oh, we might have been packed a little tighter!"

"The fact is," answered Nicholl, "that oxen, cows, bulls, and horses,
all those ruminants would be useful on the lunar continent.
Unfortunately we cannot make our projectile either a stable or a
cowshed."

"But at least," said Michel Ardan, "we might have brought an ass,
nothing but a little ass, the courageous and patient animal old Silenus
loved to exhibit. I am fond of those poor asses! They are the least
favoured animals in creation. They are not only beaten during their
lifetime, but are still beaten after their death!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked Barbicane.

"Why, don't they use his skin to make drums of?"

Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this absurd reflection.
But a cry from their merry companion stopped them; he was bending over
Satellite's niche, and rose up saying--

"Good! Satellite is no longer ill."

"Ah!" said Nicholl.

"No!" resumed Michel, "he is dead. Now," he added in a pitiful tone,
"this will be embarrassing! I very much fear, poor Diana, that you will
not leave any of your race in the lunar regions!"

The un