“I was reflecting that if your calculations are correct we are no longer under Iceland.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am not mistaken,” I said, and examining the map, I added, “We have passed Cape Portland, and those fifty leagues bring us under the wide expanse of ocean.”
“Under the sea,” my uncle repeated, rubbing his hands with delight.
“Can it be?” I said. “Is the ocean spread above our heads?”
“Of course, Axel. What can be more natural? At Newcastle are there not coal mines extending far under the sea?”
It was all very well for the Professor to call this so simple, but I could not feel quite easy at the thought that the boundless ocean was rolling over my head. And yet it really mattered very little whether it was the plains and mountains that covered our heads, or the Atlantic waves, as long as we were arched over by solid granite. And, besides, I was getting used to this idea; for the tunnel, now running straight, now winding as capriciously in its inclines as in its turnings, but constantly preserving its southeasterly direction, and always running deeper, was gradually carrying us to very great depths indeed.
Four days later, Saturday, the 18th of July, in the evening, we arrived at a kind of vast grotto; and here my uncle paid Hans his weekly wages, and it was settled that the next day, Sunday, should be a day of rest.