It was the cord of the anchor, which, sweeping along the surface of the ground, was caught in a crevice; and my balloon, unballasted for the last time, careered off to lose itself beyond the sea. When I came to myself, I was in bed in a peasant’s cottage, at Harderwick, a village of La Gueldre, fifteen leagues from Amsterdam, on the shores of the Zuyder-Zee. A miracle had saved my life, but my voyage had been a series of imprudences, committed by a lunatic, and I had not been able to prevent them. May this terrible narrative, though instructing those who read it, not discourage the explorers of the air. A WINTER AMID THE ICE CHAPTER I THE BLACK FLAG The curé of the ancient church of Dunkirk rose at five o’clock on the 12th of May, 18—, to perform, according to his custom, low mass for the benefit of a few pious sinners. Attired in his priestly robes, he was about to proceed to the altar, when a man entered the sacristy, at once joyous and frightened. He was a sailor of some sixty years, but still vigorous and sturdy, with, an open, honest countenance. “Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please.” [Illustration: “Monsieur the curé,” said he, “stop a moment, if you please.”] “What do you want so early in the morning, Jean Cornbutte?” asked the curé. “What do I want? Why, to embrace you in my arms, i’ faith!” “Well, after the mass at which you are going to be present—” “The mass?” returned the old sailor, laughing. “Do you think you are going to say your mass now, and that I will let you do so?” “And why should I not say my mass?” asked the curé. “Explain yourself. The third bell has sounded—” “Whether it has or not,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “it will sound many more times to-day, monsieur the curé, for you have promised me that you will bless, with your own hands, the marriage of my son Louis and my niece Marie!” “He has arrived, then,” said the curé “joyfully. “It is nearly the same thing,” replied Cornbutte, rubbing his hands. “Our brig was signalled from the look out at sunrise,—our brig, which you yourself christened by the good name of the ‘Jeune-Hardie’!” “I congratulate you with all my heart, Cornbutte,” said the curé, taking off his chasuble and stole. “I remember our agreement. The vicar will take my place, and I will put myself at your disposal against your dear son’s arrival.” “And I promise you that he will not make you fast long,” replied the sailor. “You have already published the banns, and you will only have to absolve him from the sins he may have committed between sky and water, in the Northern Ocean. I had a good idea, that the marriage should be celebrated the very day he arrived, and that my son Louis should leave his ship to repair at once to the church.” “Go, then, and arrange everything, Cornbutte.” “I fly, monsieur the curé. Good morning!”