When I had slept about four hours, I was
awakened by the Brahmin, in whose arms I found myself, and who, feeble
as he was, handled me with the ease that a nurse does a child, or rather,
as a child does her doll. On looking around, I found myself lying on what
had been the ceiling of our chamber, which still, however, felt like the
bottom. My eyes and my feelings were thus in collision, and I could only
account for what I saw, by supposing that the machine had been turned
upside down. I was bewildered and alarmed.
After enjoying my surprise for a moment, the Brahmin observed: "We have,
while you were asleep, passed the middle point between the earth's and the
moon's attraction, and we now gravitate less towards our own planet than
her satellite. I took the precaution to move you, before you fell by your
own gravity, from what was lately the bottom, to that which is now so,
and to keep you in this place until you were retained in it by the moon's
attraction; for, though your fall would have been, at this point, like
that of a feather, yet it would have given you some shock and alarm. The
machine, therefore, has undergone no change in its position or course;
the change is altogether in our feelings."
The Brahmin then, after having looked through either telescope, but for
a longer time through the one at the bottom, and having performed his
customary devotions, soon fell into a slumber, but not into the same
quiet sleep as before, for he was often interrupted by sudden starts,
of so distressing a character, that I was almost tempted to wake him.
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