But not the faintest far
off murmur even of such a mighty tumult could break the dead brooding
silence that surrounded the travellers. Nay, the Moon, realizing the
weird fancy of the Arabian poet, who calls her a "giant stiffening into
granite, but struggling madly against his doom," might shriek, in a
spasm of agony, loudly enough to be heard in Sirius. But our travellers
could not hear it. Their ears no sound could now reach. They could no
more detect the rending of a continent than the falling of a feather.
Air, the propagator and transmitter of sound, was absent from her
surface. Her cries, her struggles, her groans, were all smothered
beneath the impenetrable tomb of eternal silence!
These were some of the fanciful ideas by which Ardan tried to amuse his
companions in the present unsatisfactory state of affairs. His efforts,
however well meant, were not successful. M'Nicholl's growls were more
savage than usual, and even Barbican's patience was decidedly giving
way. The loss of the other face they could have easily borne--with most
of its details they had been already familiar. But, no, it must be the
dark face that now escaped their observation! The very one that for
numberless reasons they were actually dying to see! They looked out of
the windows once more at the black Moon beneath them.
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