Our travellers, though as daring and as confident as ever, could not help feeling a certain sinking of heart at the approach of the moment for deciding either alternative of their doom in this world--their fall to the Moon, or their eternal imprisonment in a changeless orbit.

Barbican and M'Nicholl tried to kill time by revising their calculations and putting their notes in order; Ardan, by feverishly walking back and forth from window to window, and stopping for a second or two to throw a nervous glance at the cold, silent and impassive Moon.
Now and then reminiscences of our lower world would flit across their brains.

Visions of the famous Gun Club rose up before them the oftenest, with their dear friend Marston always the central figure.

What was his bustling, honest, good-natured, impetuous heart at now?
Most probably he was standing bravely at his post on the Rocky Mountains, his eye glued to the great Telescope, his whole soul peering through its tube.

Had he seen the Projectile before it vanished behind the Moon's north pole?
Could he have caught a glimpse of it at its reappearance?
If so, could he have concluded it to be the satellite of a satellite! Could Belfast have announced to the world such a startling piece of intelligence?
Was that all the Earth was ever to know of their great enterprise?
What were the speculations of the Scientific World upon the subject?
etc., etc.
In listless questions and desultory conversation of this kind the day slowly wore away, without the occurrence of any incident whatever to relieve its weary monotony.