XXIII

XXIII

FOR A WHOLE HOUR I tried to work out in my delirious brain the reasons which this quiet huntsman might have. The most absurd ideas were entangled in my mind. I thought I was going mad!

But at last a noise of footsteps sounded in the depths of the abyss. Hans was returning. The dim light began to glimmer on the walls, then showed up at the opening of the tunnel. Hans appeared.

He approached my uncle, put his hand on his shoulder, and gently woke him. My uncle rose up.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Vatten!” replied the hunter.

It seems that under the impact of violent pain, everybody becomes polyglot. I did not know a word of Danish, and yet instinctively I understood our guide’s word.

“Water! water!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands and gesticulating like a madman.

“Water!” repeated my uncle. “Hvar?” he asked, in Icelandic.

“Nedat,” replied Hans.

Where? Down below! I understood it all. I seized the hunter’s hands, and pressed them while he looked at me calmly.

The preparations for our departure were not long in making, and we were soon on our way along a passage sloping down at a rate of two feet per fathom.

In an hour we had gone a thousand fathoms, and descended two thousand feet.

At that moment, I began to hear distinctly an unusual sound of something running inside the granite wall, a kind of dull rumbling like distant thunder. During the first half-hour of our walk, when we did not find the promised spring, I felt my anguish returning; but then my uncle told me the cause of these noises.

“Hans was not mistaken,” he said. “What you hear is the rushing of a torrent.”

“A torrent?” I exclaimed.

“There can be no doubt. A subterranean river is flowing around us.”

We hurried forward, overexcited because of our hope. I no longer sensed my fatigue. This sound of murmuring water was refreshing me already. It increased perceptibly. The torrent, after having for some time flowed over our heads, was now running within the left wall, roaring and bouncing. I often brushed with my hand over the rock, hoping to feel some seeping or moisture. But in vain.

Yet another half-hour passed. We put another half league behind us.

Then it became clear that the hunter had not been able to extend his investigation further during his absence. Guided by an instinct peculiar to mountaineers, to water-dowsers, he ‘felt’ this torrent through the rock, but he had certainly not seen the precious liquid; he had drunk nothing himself.

Soon it became obvious that if we continued on our walk, we would move away from the stream, whose noise was growing more faint.

We returned. Hans stopped at the precise point where the torrent seemed closest.

I sat near the wall, while the waters were rushing past me at a distance of two feet with extreme violence. But there was a thick granite wall still separating us from it.

Without reflection, without wondering if there was not some means of accessing this water, I gave way to a first moment of despair.

Hans looked at me, and I thought I saw a smile on his lips.

He rose and took the lamp. I followed him. He moved towards the wall. I looked on. He pressed his ear against the dry stone, and moved it slowly to and fro, listening intently. I understood at once that he was looking for the exact point where the torrent could be heard the loudest. He found that point on the left side of the tunnel, three feet from the ground.

How stirred up I was! I hardly dared guess what the hunter was about to do! But I had to understand and cheer him on when I saw him lay hold of the pickaxe to attack the rock.

“Saved!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” exclaimed my uncle frantically. “Hans is right. Ah! Brave hunter! We wouldn’t have thought of this!”

Absolutely true! Such an expedient, however simple, would never have entered into our minds. Nothing more dangerous than to strike a blow of the pickaxe in this part of the earth’s structure. What if there were a collapse that would crush us all! What if the torrent, bursting through, would drown us in a sudden flood! There was nothing chimerical about these dangers; but still no fears of landslides of floods could stop us now, and our thirst was so intense that, to satisfy it, we would have dug into the very bottom of the ocean.

Hans set about the task which neither my uncle nor I could have accomplished. With impatience guiding our hands, we would have shattered the rock into a thousand fragments. The guide, by contrast, calm and moderate, gradually wore down the rock with a succession of light strokes, creating a six-inch opening. I could hear the noise of the torrent grow louder, and I thought I could already feel the healing water touch my lips.

The pickaxe had soon penetrated two feet into the granite partition. The work had lasted more than an hour. I writhed with impatience! My uncle wanted to use more forceful measures. I had some difficulty stopping him and he had already taken a pickaxe in his hand, when a sudden hissing was heard. A jet of water spurted out of the rock and hit the opposite wall.

Hans, almost thrown off his feet by the shock, could not hold back a cry of pain. I understood it when, just as I had plunged my own hands into the liquid jet, I shouted out loudly in my turn. The water was scalding hot.

“The water is a hundred degrees!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’ll cool down,” my uncle replied.

The tunnel filled with steam, while a stream formed which lost itself in subterranean meanderings; soon we had the satisfaction of swallowing our first draught.

Ah! What enjoyment! What incomparable pleasure! What was this water? Where did it come from? No matter. It was water, and though it was still warm, it brought back to one’s heart the life that had been on the point of vanishing. I drank without stopping or even tasting.

It was only after a minute of enjoyment that I exclaimed, “Why, this water contains iron!”

“Excellent for the stomach,” replied my uncle, “and full of minerals ! This journey will be as good for us as going to Spa or Töplitz!”aw

“Well, it’s delicious!”

“Of course it is, water found two leagues underground should be. It has an inky flavor, which is not at all unpleasant. What an excellent resource Hans has found for us here! We’ll give his name to this wholesome creek.”

“Great!” I exclaimed.

And Hansbachax it was from that moment.

Hans was none the prouder. After a moderate draught, he went to rest in a corner with his usual calm.

“Now,” I said, “we mustn’t lose this water.”

“What for?” my uncle replied. “I imagine that the source is inexhaustible.”

“Never mind! Let’s fill the leather bottle and our flasks, and then we can try to stop up the opening.”

My advice was followed. Hans tried to stop the cut in the wall with pieces of granite and tow. It was not an easy task. One scalded one’s hands without succeeding; the pressure was too strong, and our efforts remained fruitless.

“It’s obvious,” I said, “that the upper reaches of this course of water are very high up, judging by the force of the jet.”

“No doubt,” answered my uncle. “If this column of water is 32,000 feet high, it has a thousand atmospheres of pressure. But I’ve got an idea.”

“What idea?”

“Why should we trouble ourselves to close up this opening?”

“Because...”

I could not come up with a reason.

“When our flasks are empty, are we sure we’ll be able to fill them again?”

“No, obviously.”

“Well, then let’s allow the water to run on. It’ll flow down, and will both guide and refresh us on the way.”

“That’s well planned!” I exclaimed. “With this stream as our guide, there’s no reason why we should not succeed in our undertaking.”

“Ah! You’re coming around to my way of thinking, my boy,” said the professor laughing.

A jet of water spurted out of the rock and hit the opposite wall.

“I’m not coming around to it, I’m with it.”

“Just a moment! Let’s start by resting for a few hours.”

I had really forgotten that it was night. The chronometer soon informed me of that fact; and soon all of us, sufficiently restored and refreshed, fell into a deep sleep.