It is utterly useless
to struggle against the impossible. Pray listen to reason. We are
utterly unprepared for a sea voyage; it is simply madness to think of
performing a journey of five hundred leagues upon a wretched pile of
beams, with a counterpane for a sail, a paltry stick for a mast, and a
tempest to contend with. As we are totally incapable of steering our
frail craft, we shall become the mere plaything of the storm, and it is
acting the part of madmen if we, a second time, run any risk upon this
dangerous and treacherous Central Sea."

These are only a few of the reasons and arguments I put
together--reasons and arguments which to me appeared unanswerable. I was
allowed to go on without interruption for about ten minutes. The
explanation to this I soon discovered. The Professor was not even
listening, and did not hear a word of all my eloquence.

"To the raft!" he cried in a hoarse voice, when I paused for a reply.

Such was the result of my strenuous effort to resist his iron will. I
tried again; I begged and implored him; I got into a passion; but I had
to deal with a will more determined than my own. I seemed to feel like
the waves which fought and battled against the huge mass of granite at
our feet, which had smiled grimly for so many ages at their puny
efforts.

Hans, meanwhile, without taking part in our discussion, had been
repairing the raft. One would have supposed that he instinctively
guessed at the further projects of my uncle.

By means of some fragments of cordage, he had again made the raft
seaworthy.

While I had been speaking, he had hoisted a new mast and sail, the
latter already fluttering and waving in the breeze.

The worthy Professor spoke a few words to our imperturbable guide, who
immediately began to put our baggage on board and to prepare for our
departure. The atmosphere was now tolerably clear and pure, and the
northeast wind blew steadily and serenely. It appeared likely to last
for some time.

What, then, could I do? Could I undertake to resist the iron will of two
men? It was simply impossible if even I could have hoped for the support
of Hans. This, however, was out of the question. It appeared to me that
the Icelander had set aside all personal will and identity. He was a
picture of abnegation.

I could hope for nothing from one so infatuated with and devoted to his
master. All I could do, therefore, was to swim with the stream.

In a mood of stolid and sullen resi