When I entered the Nautilus—after two hours’ work—to get some food and repose, I perceived a great difference between the air on board and what had been supplied by the apparatus. The air in the Nautilus had not been renewed for forty-eight hours, and its vivifying qualities were considerably weakened. But, after a lapse of twelve hours, we had only raised a block of ice a yard thick, on the marked portion, which was about 600 cubic yards. At this rate, we should take five nights and four days to finish the task.
“Five nights and four days,” I said to my companions; “and we have but two days’ supply of air in the reservoirs.”
“Without counting,” added Ned, “that, if we ever do get out of this damned prison, we shall still be under the iceberg, and without communication with the open air.”
It was quite true. Who could foresee the minimum of time necessary for our deliverance? Might not we be suffocated before the Nautilus had time to reach the surface again? Were we doomed to perish in this tomb of ice which shut us in? The situation was terrible! But everyone looked it in the face, and all were determined to do their duty to the end.
As I had foreseen, another block, a yard square, was raised during the night. But in the morning when, clothed in my diving dress, I explored the water in a temperature of 6° or 7° below zero, it seemed to me that the lateral walls were coming closer! The water at a distance from the trench—not warmed by the presence of the workers— had a tendency to solidify. Our chances of escape were diminished by this discovery. And how were we to stop the solidification of the surrounding water, which, when frozen, would crack the Nautilus like glass?
I did not point out this new danger to my companions,
