I then began an attentive examination of our cell.
Nothing was changed inside. The prison was still a prison--
the prisoners, prisoners. However, the steward, during our sleep,
had cleared the table. I breathed with difficulty. The heavy air
seemed to oppress my lungs. Although the cell was large, we had
evidently consumed a great part of the oxygen that it contained.
Indeed, each man consumes, in one hour, the oxygen contained in more
than 176 pints of air, and this air, charged (as then) with a nearly
equal quantity of carbonic acid, becomes unbreathable.
It became necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and no doubt
the whole in the submarine boat. That gave rise to a question in my mind.
How would the commander of this floating dwelling-place proceed?
Would he obtain air by chemical means, in getting by heat the oxygen contained
in chlorate of potash, and in absorbing carbonic acid by caustic potash?
Or--a more convenient, economical, and consequently more probable alternative--
would he be satisfied to rise and take breath at the surface of the water,
like a whale, and so renew for twenty-four hours the atmospheric provision?
In fact, I was already obliged to increase my respirations to eke
out of this cell the little oxygen it contained, when suddenly I was
refreshed by a current of pure air, and perfumed with saline emanations.
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