dred miles through this
inhospitable country, in the midst of incessant dangers, was no longer
possible.

"Happily," he said to himself, "Mrs. Weldon and all are ignorant of
the danger of the situation. Old Tom and I, we alone are to know that
Negoro has thrown us on the coast of Africa; and that Harris has led
me into the wilds of Angola."

Dick Sand was thus sunk in overpowering thoughts, when he felt a
breath on his forehead. A hand rested on his shoulder, and a trembling
voice murmured these words in his ear:

"I know all, my poor Dick, but God can yet save us! His will be done!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE DIVING-BELL.

To this unexpected revelation Dick Sand could not reply. Besides, Mrs.
Weldon had gone back at once to her place beside little Jack. She
evidently did not wish to say any more about it, and the young novice
had not the courage to detain her.

Thus Mrs. Weldon knew what to believe. The various incidents, of the
way had enlightened her also, and perhaps, too, that word, "Africa!"
so unluckily pronounced the night before by Cousin Benedict.

"Mrs. Weldon knows everything," repeated Dick Sand to himself. "Well,
perhaps it is better so. The brave woman does not despair. I shall not
despair either."

Dick Sand now longed for day to return, that he might explore the
surroundings of this termite village. He must find a tributary of the
Atlantic with a rapid course to transport all his little troop. He had
a presentiment that this watercourse could not be far distant. Above
all, they must avoid an encounter with the natives, perhaps already
sent in pursuit of them under Harris's and Negoro's direction.

But it was not day yet. No light made its way into the cone through
the lower orifice. Rumblings, rendered low by the thickness of the
walls, indicated that the storm still raged. Listening, Dick Sand also
heard the rain falling with violence at the base of the ant-hill. As
the large drops no longer struck a hard soil, he must conclude that
the whole plain was inundated.

It must have been about eleven o'clock. Dick Sand then felt that a
kind of torpor, if not a true sleep, was going to overcome him. It
would, however, be rest. But, just as he was yielding to it, the
thought came to him that, by the settling of the clay, washed in, the
lower orifice was likely to be obstructed. All passage for the outer
air would be closed. Within, the respiration of ten persons would soon
vitiate the air by load