On the 11th and 12th Prairal
of the second year, this squadron fell in with an English vessel.
Sir, to-day is the 13th Prairal, the first of June, 1868. It is now
seventy-four years ago, day for day on this very spot, in latitude 47@
24', longitude 17@ 28', that this vessel, after fighting heroically,
losing its three masts, with the water in its hold, and the third of its
crew disabled, preferred sinking with its 356 sailors to surrendering;
and, nailing its colours to the poop, disappeared under the waves to
the cry of `Long live the Republic!'"
"The Avenger!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, sir, the Avenger! A good name!" muttered Captain Nemo,
crossing his arms.
CHAPTER XXI
A HECATOMB
The way of describing this unlooked-for scene, the history
of the patriot ship, told at first so coldly, and the emotion
with which this strange man pronounced the last words,
the name of the Avenger, the significance of which could
not escape me, all impressed itself deeply on my mind.
My eyes did not leave the Captain, who, with his hand stretched
out to sea, was watching with a glowing eye the glorious wreck.
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