“Wretch,” cried Captain Nemo, “do you wish to be immolated on the spur of the Nautilus before it is hurled against yonder ship?”
Captain Nemo, terrible to hear, was still more terrible to see. His face was pale as death, from a spasm of the heart, which had for an instant ceased to beat. The pupils of his eyes were contracted. His voice did not sound—it was almost a roar that issued from his throat as he grasped the Canadian’s shoulder. Then he turned from Ned towards the man-of-war from which the shot showered round him.
“Ah, you know who I am, you ship of a cursed race,” he cried in his powerful tones. “I don’t want to see your colours to recognise your breed. Look here, I will show you mine!”
And he displayed a black flag similar to that which he had planted at the South Pole.
At that moment a shot struck the Nautilus obliquely, and without damaging her flew close by the captain and fell into the sea.
He shrugged his shoulders, then addressing me said:
“Go below, you and your companions.”
“Monsieur,” I cried, “do you intend to attack that ship?”
“Monsieur, I am going to sink her.”
“You will not do that, surely.”
“I will,” replied Captain Nemo coldly; “and I advise you not to pass judgment upon me. Fate has shown you what you ought not to have seen. The attack has begun. The reprisal will be terrible! Go down.”
“What ship is this?” I asked.
“Do you not know? So much the better. Her nationality at least is a secret to you. Go down.”
