awakened by the sound, flew past them and disappeared among the
branches, while some frightened deer fled precipitately before them.
For another hour their search was continued. The greater part
of the wood had been explored. There was nothing to reveal the
presence of the combatants. The information of the bushman was
after all doubtful, and Ardan was about to propose their
abandoning this useless pursuit, when all at once Maston stopped.
“Hush!” said he, “there is some one down there!”
“Some one?” repeated Michel Ardan.
“Yes; a man! He seems motionless. His rifle is not in his hands.
What can he be doing?”
“But can you recognize him?” asked Ardan, whose short sight was
of little use to him in such circumstances.
“Yes! yes! He is turning toward us,” answered Maston.
“And it is?”
“Captain Nicholl!”
“Nicholl?” cried Michel Ardan, feeling a terrible pang of grief.
“Nicholl unarmed! He has, then, no longer any fear of his adversary!”
“Let us go to him,” said Michel Ardan, “and find out the truth.”
But he and his companion had barely taken fifty steps, when they
paused to examine the captain more attentively. They expected
to find a bloodthirsty man, happy in his revenge.
On seeing him, they remained stupefied.
A net, composed of very fine meshes, hung between two enormous
tulip-trees, and in the midst of this snare, with its wings
entangled, was a poor little bird, uttering pitiful cries, while
it vainly struggled to escape. The bird-catcher who had laid
this snare was no human being, but a venomous spider, peculiar
to that country, as large as a pigeon’s egg, and armed with
enormous claws. The hideous creature, instead of rushing on its
prey, had beaten a sudden retreat and taken refuge in the upper
branches of the tulip-tree, for a formidable enemy menaced
its stronghold.
Here, then, was Nicholl, his gun on the ground, forgetful
of danger, trying if possible to save the victim from its
cobweb prison. At last it was accomplished, and the little
bird flew joyfully away and disappeared.
Nicholl lovingly watched its flight, when he heard these words
pronounced by a voice full of emotion:
“You are indeed a brave man.”
He turned. Michel Ardan was before him, repeating in a
different tone:
“And a kindhearted one!”
“Michel Ardan!” cried the captain. “Why are you here?”
“To press your hand, Nicholl, and to prevent you from either
killing Barbicane or being killed by him.”
“Barbicane!” returned the captain. “I have been looking for him
for the last two hours in vain. Where is he hiding?”
“Nicholl!” said Michel Ardan, “this is not courteous! we ought
always to treat an adversary with respect; rest assureed if
Barbicane is still alive we shall find him all the more easily;
because if he has not, like you, been amusing himself with
freeing oppressed birds, he must be looking for _you_. When we
have found him, Michel Ardan tells you this, there will be no
duel between you.”
“Between President Barbicane and myself,” gravely replied
Nicholl, “there is a rivalry which the death of one of us—-”
“Pooh, pooh!” said Ardan. “Brave fellows like you indeed! you
shall not fight!”
“I will fight, sir!”
“No!”
“Captain,” said J. T. Maston, with much feeling, “I am a friend
of the president’s, his _alter ego_, his second self; if you
really must kill some one, _shoot me!_ it will do just as well!”
“Sir,” Nicholl replied, seizing his rifle convulsively, “these
jokes—-”
“Our friend Maston is not joking,” replied Ardan. “I fully
understand his idea of being killed himself in order to save
his friend. But neither he nor Barbicane will fall before the balls
of Captain Nicholl. Indeed I have so attractive a proposal to
make to the two rivals, that both will be eager to accept it.”
“What is it?” asked Nicholl with manifest incredulity.
“Patience!” exclaimed Ardan. “I can only reveal it in the
presence of Barbicane.”
“Let us go in search of him then!” cried the captain.
The three men started off at once; the captain having discharged
his rifle threw it over his shoulder, and advanced in silence.
Another half hour passed, and the pursuit was still fruitless.