Page:Twenty Thousand Verne Frith 1876.pdf/95

 “That is perhaps the right of a savage,” I said, “but not of a civilised being.”

“Monsieur, I am not, so to speak, a civilised being. I have broken with the world altogether, for reasons which I can alone appreciate. I obey no laws, and I recommend you never to put them in force against me.”

This was sternly spoken. An angry and disdainful gleam shone in his eyes, and in this man’s life I could discern a terrible past. Not only had he put himself out of reach of all human laws, but he was independent, free—in the largest acceptation of the term—beyond all reach.

Who would dare to pursue to the bottom of the sea a being, who at the surface baffled all efforts to overtake him? What ship could resist the shock of this submarine “ram?” What armour-plate could sustain his blows? None among men could demand an account of his actions. Providence, if he believed in Him; his conscience, if he had one, were the only judges before whom he could be brought.

It was evident that we did not altogether understand each other.

“I beg your pardon,” I added, “but the liberty you would accord is only that granted to a prisoner, to walk round his prison. That is not enough for us.”

“Well, it must suffice, nevertheless.”

“What! You would debar us from ever seeing our friends, relatives, and our native land again?”

“Yes, Monsieur; but to renounce the insupportable yoke of earth which men call freedom, is not such a very great sacrifice as you imagine.”