Was it possible my ears had not deceived me? Was my uncle mad? I looked at him, with, I am sure, quite an idiotic expression. I could not believe him. I too much feared the counteraction of disappointment. "Drink," he said again. Had I heard aright? Before, however, I could ask myself the question a second time, a mouthful of water cooled my parched lips and throat--one mouthful, but I do believe it brought me back to life. I thanked my uncle by clasping my hands. My heart was too full to speak. "Yes," said he, "one mouthful of water, the very last--do you hear, my boy--the very last! I have taken care of it at the bottom of my bottle as the apple of my eye. Twenty times, a hundred times, I have resisted the fearful desire to drink it. But--no--no, Harry, I saved it for you." "My dear uncle," I exclaimed, and the big tears rolled down my hot and feverish cheeks. "Yes, my poor boy, I knew that when you reached this place, this crossroad in the earth, you would fall down half dead, and I saved my last drop of water in order to restore you." "Thanks," I cried; "thanks from my heart." As little as my thirst was really quenched, I had nevertheless partially recovered my strength. The contracted muscles of my throat relaxed--and the inflammation of my lips in some measure subsided. At all events, I was able to speak. "Well," I said, "there can be no doubt now as to what we have to do. Water has utterly failed us; our journey is therefore at an end. Let us return." While I spoke thus, my uncle evidently avoided my face: he held down his head; his eyes were turned in every possible direction but the right one. "Yes," I continued, getting excited by my own words, "we must go back to Sneffels. May heaven give us strength to enable us once more to revisit the light of day. Would that we now stood on the summit of the crater." "Go back," said my uncle, speaking to himself, "and must it be so?" "Go back--yes, and without losing a single moment," I vehemently cried. For some moments there was silence under that dark and gloomy vault. "So, my dear Harry," said the Professor in a very singular tone of voice, "those few drops of water have not sufficed to restore your energy and courage." "Courage!" I cried. "I see that you are quite as downcast as before--and still give way to discouragement and despair." What, then, was the man made of, and what other projects were entering his fertile and audacious brain! "You are not discouraged, sir?" "What! Give up just as we are on the verge of success?" he cried. "Never, never shall it be said that Professor Hardwigg retreated." "Then we must make up our minds to perish," I cried with a helpless sigh. "No, Harry, my boy, certainly not. Go, leave me, I am very far from desiring your death. Take Hans with you. <i>I will go on alone.</i>" "You ask us to leave you?"