ever opened his "Course of
Cosmography." Besides, he had other thoughts to occupy his mind. The
prospects of the morrow offered serious matter for consideration. The
captain was actuated by no personal animosity against the count; though
rivals, the two men regarded each other with sincere respect; they had
simply reached a crisis in which one of them was _de trop;_ which of
them, fate must decide.

At eight o'clock, Captain Servadac re-entered the gourbi, the single
apartment of which contained his bed, a small writing-table, and some
trunks that served instead of cupboards. The orderly performed his
culinary operations in the adjoining building, which he also used as a
bed-room, and where, extended on what he called his "good oak mattress,"
he would sleep soundly as a dormouse for twelve hours at a stretch. Ben
Zoof had not yet received his orders to retire, and ensconcing himself
in a corner of the gourbi, he endeavored to doze--a task which the
unusual agitation of his master rendered somewhat difficult. Captain
Servadac was evidently in no hurry to betake himself to rest, but
seating himself at his table, with a pair of compasses and a sheet of
tracing-paper, he began to draw, with red and blue crayons, a variety
of colored lines, which could hardly be supposed to have much connection
with a topographical survey. In truth, his character of staff-officer
was now entirely absorbed in that of Gascon poet. Whether he imagined
that the compasses would bestow upon his verses the measure of a
mathematical accuracy, or whether he fancied that the parti-colored
lines would lend variety to his rhythm, it is impossible to determine;
be that as it may, he was devoting all his energies to the compilation
of his rondo, and supremely difficult he found the task.

"Hang it!" he ejaculated, "whatever induced me to choose this meter? It
is as hard to find rhymes as to rally fugitive in a battle. But, by all
the powers! it shan't be said that a French officer cannot cope with a
piece of poetry. One battalion has fought--now for the rest!"

Perseverance had its reward. Presently two lines, one red, the other
blue, appeared upon the paper, and the captain murmured:

"Words, mere words, cannot avail,
Telling true heart's tender tale."

"What on earth ails my master?" muttered Ben Zoof; "for the last hour he
has been as fidgety as a bird returning after its winter migration."

Servadac suddenly started from hi