to-day is the 13th Prairal, the first of June, 1868. It
is now seventy-four years ago, day for day on this very spot, in
latitude 47 deg. 24', longitude 17 deg. 28', that this vessel, after
fighting heroically, losing its three masts, with the water in its
hold, and the third of its crew disabled, preferred sinking with its
356 sailors to surrendering; and, nailing its colours to the poop,
disappeared under the waves to the cry of `Long live the Republic!'"

"The Avenger!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, sir, the Avenger! A good name!" muttered Captain Nemo, crossing
his arms.

CHAPTER XXI

A HECATOMB

The way of describing this unlooked-for scene, the history of the
patriot ship, told at first so coldly, and the emotion with which this
strange man pronounced the last words, the name of the Avenger, the
significance of which could not escape me, all impressed itself deeply
on my mind. My eyes did not leave the Captain, who, with his hand
stretched out to sea, was watching with a glowing eye the glorious
wreck. Perhaps I was never to know who he was, from whence he came, or
where he was going to, but I saw the man move, and apart from the
savant. It was no common misanthropy which had shut Captain Nemo and
his companions within the Nautilus, but a hatred, either monstrous or
sublime, which time could never weaken. Did this hatred still seek for
vengeance? The future would soon teach me that. But the Nautilus was
rising slowly to the surface of the sea, and the form of the Avenger
disappeared by degrees from my sight. Soon a slight rolling told me
that we were in the open air. At that moment a dull boom was heard. I
looked at the Captain. He did not move.

"Captain?" said I.

He did not answer. I left him and mounted the platform. Conseil and
the Canadian were already there.

"Where did that sound come from?" I asked.

"It was a gunshot," replied Ned Land.

I looked in the direction of the vessel I had already seen. It was
nearing the Nautilus, and we could see that it was putting on steam.
It was within six miles of us.

"What is that ship, Ned?"

"By its rigging, and the height of its lower masts," said the Canadian,
"I bet she is a ship-of-war. May it reach us; and, if necessary, sink
this cursed Nautilus."

"Friend Ned," replied Conseil, "what harm can it do to the Nautilus?
Can it attack it beneath the waves? Can its cannonade us at the bottom
of the sea?"

"Tell me, Ned," said I, "can y