Chapter 20.

From latitude 47 degrees 24 to longitude 17 degrees 28.

In consequence of the storm, we had been thrown eastward once more, all hope of escape

on the shores of New York, or St. Lawrence, had faded away, and poor Ned in despair had

isolated himself like Captain Nemo.

One say and I, however, never left each other.

I said that the Nautilus had gone aside to the east.

I should have said to be more exact, the northeast.

For some days it wandered first on the surface, and then beneath it, amid those fogs so dreaded

by sailors.

What accidents are due to these thick fogs?

What shocks upon these reefs when the wind drowns the breaking of the waves?

What collisions between vessels, in spite of their warning lights, whistles and alarm bells?

And the bottom of these seas looked like a field of battle.

We're still lie all the conquered of the ocean, some old and already encrested, others

fresh and reflecting from their iron bands and copper plates, the brilliancy of our lantern.

On the 15th of May we were at the extreme south of the Bank of Newfoundland.

This bank consists of large heaps of organic matter, brought either from the equator by

the Gulf Stream, or from the North Pole by the countercurrent of cold water which skirts

the American coast.

There also are heaped up those erratic blocks which are carried along by the broken

ice and close by a vast churnal house of mollusks which perish here by millions.

...