The "Pilgrim" scudded to the northeast with a speed which could not be less than two hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and still the land did not appear!--that land, America, which is thrown like an immense barrier between the Atlantic and the Pacific, over an extent of more than a hundred and twenty degrees! Dick Sand asked himself if he was not a fool, if he was still in his right mind, if, for so many days, unknown to him, he was not sailing in a false direction.

No, he could not find fault with himself on that point.

The sun, even though he could not perceive it in the fogs, always rose before him to set behind him.

But, then, that land, had it disappeared?
That America, on which his vessel would go to pieces, perhaps, where was it, if it was not there?
Be it the Southern Continent or the Northern Continent--for anything way possible in that chaos--the "Pilgrim" could not miss either one or the other.

What had happened since the beginning of this frightful tempest?
What was still going on, as that coast, whether it should prove salvation or destruction, did not appear?
Must Dick Sand suppose, then, that he was deceived by his compass, whose indications he could no longer control, because the second compass was lacking to make that control?
Truly, he had that fear which the absence of all land might justify.
So, when he was at the helm, Dick Sand did not cease to devour the chart with his eyes.