"Jules Verne. Off on a Comet. WORKS" - читать интересную книгу автора

He had sought in vain for further trace of the huge disc that had
so excited his wonder on the 1st, and it seemed most probable that,
in its irregular orbit, it had been carried beyond the range of vision.

The weather was still superb. The wind, after veering to the west,
had sunk to a perfect calm. Pursuing its inverted course, the sun
rose and set with undeviating regularity; and the days and nights
were still divided into periods of precisely six hours each--
a sure proof that the sun remained close to the new equator
which manifestly passed through Gourbi Island.

Meanwhile the temperature was steadily increasing. The captain kept
his thermometer close at hand where he could repeatedly consult it,
and on the 15th he found that it registered 50 degrees centigrade
in the shade.

No attempt had been made to rebuild the gourbi, but the captain
and Ben Zoof managed to make up quarters sufficiently comfortable
in the principal apartment of the adjoining structure,
where the stone walls, that at first afforded a refuge from
the torrents of rain, now formed an equally acceptable shelter
from the burning sun. The heat was becoming insufferable,
surpassing the heat of Senegal and other equatorial regions;
not a cloud ever tempered the intensity of the solar rays;
and unless some modification ensued, it seemed inevitable
that all vegetation should become scorched and burnt off from
the face of the island.

In spite, however, of the profuse perspirations from which he suffered,
Ben Zoof, constant to his principles, expressed no surprise at the
unwonted heat. No remonstrances from his master could induce him to abandon
his watch from the cliff. To withstand the vertical beams of that noontide
sun would seem to require a skin of brass and a brain of adamant; but yet,
hour after hour, he would remain conscientiously scanning the surface of
the Mediterranean, which, calm and deserted, lay outstretched before him.
On one occasion, Servadac, in reference to his orderly's indomitable
perseverance, happened to remark that he thought he must have been born
in the heart of equatorial Africa; to which Ben Zoof replied, with the
utmost dignity, that he was born at Montmartre, which was all the same.
The worthy fellow was unwilling to own that, even in the matter of heat,
the tropics could in any way surpass his own much-loved home.

This unprecedented temperature very soon began to take effect upon
the products of the soil. The sap rose rapidly in the trees,
so that in the course of a few days buds, leaves, flowers, and fruit
had come to full maturity. It was the same with the cereals;
wheat and maize sprouted and ripened as if by magic,
and for a while a rank and luxuriant pasturage clothed
the meadows. Summer and autumn seemed blended into one.
If Captain Servadac had been more deeply versed in astronomy,