On Wednesday, the 15th, we were seven leagues underground, and had travelled fifty leagues away from Snæfells. Although we were tired, our health was perfect, and the medicine chest had not yet had occasion to be opened.

My uncle noted every hour the indications of the compass, the chronometer, the aneroid, and the thermometer the very same which he has published in his scientific report of our journey. It was therefore not difficult to know exactly our whereabouts. When he told me that we had gone fifty leagues horizontally, I could not repress an exclamation of astonishment, at the thought that we had now long left Iceland behind us.

“What is the matter?” he cried.

“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.”