“Since there is nothing else to be done,” said Nicholl, “I make a proposition.” “What is it?” asked Barbicane. “I propose to go to sleep.” “What a motion!” exclaimed Michel Ardan. “It is forty hours since we closed our eyes,” said Nicholl. “Some hours of sleep will restore our strength.” “Never,” interrupted Michel. “Well,” continued Nicholl, “every one to his taste; I shall go to sleep.” And stretching himself on the divan, he soon snored like a forty-eight pounder. “That Nicholl has a good deal of sense,” said Barbicane; “presently I shall follow his example.” Some moments after his continued bass supported the captain’s baritone. “Certainly,” said Michel Ardan, finding himself alone, “these practical people have sometimes most opportune ideas.” And with his long legs stretched out, and his great arms folded under his head, Michel slept in his turn. But this sleep could be neither peaceful nor lasting, the minds of these three men were too much occupied, and some hours after, about seven in the morning, all three were on foot at the same instant. The projectile was still leaving the moon, and turning its conical part more and more toward her. An explicable phenomenon, but one which happily served Barbicane’s ends. Seventeen hours more, and the moment for action would have arrived. The day seemed long. However bold the travelers might be, they were greatly impressed by the approach of that moment which would decide all—either precipitate their fall on to the moon, or forever chain them in an immutable orbit. They counted the hours as they passed too slow for their wish; Barbicane and Nicholl were obstinately plunged in their calculations, Michel going and coming between the narrow walls, and watching that impassive moon with a longing eye. At times recollections of the earth crossed their minds. They saw once more their friends of the Gun Club, and the dearest of all, J. T. Maston. At that moment, the honorable secretary must be filling his post on the Rocky Mountains. If he could see the projectile through the glass of his gigantic telescope, what would he think? After seeing it disappear behind the moon’s south pole, he would see them reappear by the north pole! They must therefore be a satellite of a satellite! Had J. T. Maston given this unexpected news to the world? Was this the _denouement_ of this great enterprise? But the day passed without incident. The terrestrial midnight arrived. The 8th of December was beginning. One hour more, and the point of equal attraction would be reached. What speed would then animate the projectile? They could not estimate it. But no error could vitiate Barbicane’s calculations. At one in the morning this speed ought to be and would be _nil_.