Every now and then, he would
climb up, by means of iron pins fixed in the wall, to inspect his
treasures; whatever they were, he arranged them and rearranged them with
evident pleasure, and as he rapidly passed a careful hand through
certain mysterious boxes, he joyfully sang in the falsest possible of
false voices the lively piece from _Nicolo_:
_Le temps est beau, la route est belle,
La promenade est un plaisir_.
{The day is bright, our hearts are light.}
{How sweet to rove through wood and dell.}
or the well known air in _Mignon_:
_Legeres hirondelles,
Oiseaux benis de Dieu,
Ouvrez-ouvrez vos ailes,
Envolez-vous! adieu!_
{Farewell, happy Swallows, farewell!}
{With summer for ever to dwell}
{Ye leave our northern strand}
{For the genial southern land}
{Balmy with breezes bland.}
{Return? Ah, who can tell?}
{Farewell, happy Swallows, farewell!}
Barbican was much gratified to find that his rockets and other fireworks
had not received the least injury. He relied upon them for the
performance of a very important service as soon as the Projectile,
having passed the point of neutral attraction between the Earth and the
Moon, would begin to fall with accelerated velocity towards the Lunar
surface.
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