Towards morning,
Belfast gave up in despair and went to take a sleep; but no sleep for
Marston. Though he was now quite alone, the assistants having also
retired, he kept on talking incessantly to himself, expressing the most
unbounded confidence in the safety of his friends, and the absolute
certainty of their return. It was not until some hours after the Sun
had risen and the Moon had disappeared behind the snowy peaks of the
west, that he at last withdrew his weary eye from the glass through
which every image formed by the great reflector was to be viewed. The
countenance he turned on Belfast, who had now come back, was rueful in
the extreme. It was the image of grief and despair.
"Did you see nothing whatever during the night, Professor?" he asked of
Belfast, though he knew very well the answer he was to get.
"Nothing whatever."
"But you saw them once, didn't you?"
"Them! Who?"
"Our friends."
"Oh! the Projectile--well--I think I must have made some oversight."
"Don't say that! Did not Mr. M'Connell see it also?"
"No. He only wrote out what I dictated."
"Why, you must have seen it! I have seen it myself!"
"You shall never see it again! It's shot off into space.
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