ANY one but MacNabb would have passed by, around, or even over this hut a hundred times without suspecting its existence. A projection on the surface of the snow scarcely distinguished it from the surrounding rocks. It was necessary to uncover it; after half an hour of persistent labor, Wilson and Mulready had cleared away the entrance to the “casucha,” and the little party stepped in.
This casucha, constructed by the Indians, was made of adobes, a kind of bricks dried in the sun. Ten persons could easily find room inside, and, if its walls had not been sufficiently water-tight in the rainy season, at this time, at least, they were some protection against the severity of the cold. There was, besides, a sort of fireplace with a flue of bricks very poorly laid, which enabled them to kindle a fire, and thus withstand the external temperature.
“Here is a shelter, at least,” said Glenarvan, “even if it is not comfortable. Providence has led us hither, and we cannot do better than accept this fortune.”
“Why,” replied Paganel, “it is a palace. It only wants sentries and courtiers. We shall get along admirably here.”
“Especially when a good fire is blazing on the hearth,” said Tom Austin; “for, if we are hungry, we are none the less cold it seems to me; and, for my part, a good fagot would delight me more than a slice of venison.”
“Well, Tom,” said Paganel, “we will try to find something combustible.”
“Something combustible on the top of the Andes?” said Mulready, shaking his head doubtfully.
“Since a chimney has been made in this hut,” replied the major, “there is probably something here to burn.”
“Our friend is right,” added Glenarvan. “Prepare everything for supper; and I will play the part of wood-cutter.”
“I will accompany you with Wilson,” said Paganel.
“If you need me——,” said Robert, rising.
“No, rest yourself, my brave boy,” replied Glenarvan. “You will be a man when others are only children.”
Glenarvan, Paganel, and Wilson went out of the hut. It was six o’clock in the evening. The cold was keen and cutting, in spite of the calmness of the air. The azure of the sky was already fading, and the sun shedding his last rays on the lofty peaks of the mountains.
Reaching a hillock of porphyry, they scanned the horizon in every direction. They had now gained the summit of the Andes, which commanded an extended prospect. To the east the sides of the mountains declined by gentle gradations, down which they could see the peons sliding several hundred feet below. In the distance extended long lines of scattered rocks and stones that had been crowded back by glacial avalanches. The valley of the Colorado was already growing dim in the increasing twilight; the elevations of land, the crags and the peaks, illumined by the rays of the sun, gradually faded, and darkness covered the whole eastern slope of the Andes.
Towards the north undulated a succession of ridges that mingled together insensibly. To the south, however, the view was magnificent; and, as night descended, the grandeur was inimitable. Looking down into the wild valley of Torbido, you saw Mount Antuco, whose yawning crater was two miles distant. The volcano, like some enormous monster, belched forth glowing smoke mingled with torrents of bright flame. The circle of the mountains that inclosed it seemed to be on fire. Showers of incandescent stones, clouds of reddish vapors, and streams of lava, united in glittering columns. A loud rumbling that increased every moment, and was followed by a dazzling flash, filled this vast circuit with its sharp reverberations, while the sun, his light gradually fading, disappeared as a star is extinguished in the shadows of the horizon.
Paganel and Glenarvan would have remained a long time to contemplate this magnificent struggle of the fires of earth with those of heaven, and the improvised wood-cutters were becoming admirers of nature; but Wilson, less enthusiastic, reminded them of their situation. Wood was wanting, it is true, but fortunately a scanty and dry moss clothed the rocks. An ample supply was taken, as well as of a plant whose roots were quite combustible. This precious fuel was brought to the hut, and piled in the fire-place; but it was difficult to kindle the fire, and especially to keep it burning.
When the viands were prepared, each one drank several mouthfuls of hot coffee with delight. As for the dried meat, it appeared a little unsatisfactory, which provoked on the part of Paganel a remark as useless as it was true.
“Indeed,” said he, “I must confess a llama-steak would not be bad just now.”
“What!” cried the major, “are you not content with our supper, Paganel?”
“Enchanted, my good major; but I acknowledge a plate of venison would be welcome.”
“You are a sybarite,” said MacNabb.
“I accept the title, major; but you yourself, whatever you may say, would not be displeased with a beefsteak.”
“Probably not.”
“And if you were asked to take your post at the cannon, you would go without a word.”
“Certainly: and, although it pleases you——”
His companions had not heard any more, when distant and prolonged howls were heard. They were not the cries of scattered animals, but those of a herd approaching with rapidity. Would Providence, after furnishing them with shelter, give them their supper? Such was the thought of the geographer. But Glenarvan humbled his joy somewhat by observing that the animals of the Andes were never met with in so elevated a region.
“Whence comes the noise, then?” asked Tom Austin. “Hear how it approaches!”
“An avalanche!” said Mulready.
“Impossible! these are real howls!” replied Paganel.
“Let us see,” cried Glenarvan.
“Let us see like hunters,” answered the major, as he took his rifle.
All rushed out of the hut. Night had come. It was dark, but the sky was studded with stars. The moon had not yet shown her disk. The peaks on the north and east were lost in the darkness, and the eye only perceived the grotesque outlines of a few towering rocks.
The howls—those of terrified animals—were redoubled. They came from the dark side of the mountain. What was going on?
Suddenly there came a furious avalanche, but one of living creatures, mad with terror. The whole plateau seemed to tremble. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of these animals. Were they wild beasts of the Pampas, or only llamas? The whole party had only time to throw themselves to the earth, while this living whirlwind passed a few feet above them.
At this moment the report of a fire-arm was heard. The major had shot at a venture. He thought that a large animal fell a few paces from him, while the whole herd, carried along by their resistless motion, disappeared down the slopes illumined by the volcano.
“Ah, I have them!” cried a voice, that of Paganel.
“What have you?” asked Glenarvan.
“My glasses, to be sure!”
“You are not wounded?”
“No, a little kick,—but by what?”
“By this,” replied the major, dragging after him the animal he had shot.
Each one hastened to gain the hut; and by the light of the fire MacNabb’s prize was examined. It was a pretty animal, resembling a little camel without a hump. It had a small head, flat body, long legs and claws, fine coffee-colored hair, and its breast was spotted with white.
Scarcely had Paganel looked at it when he exclaimed,—
“It is a guanaco!”
“What is that?” asked Glenarvan.
“An animal that eats itself.”
“And is it good?”
“Delicious! a dish for the gods! I knew well that you would like fresh meat for supper. And what meat this is! But who will dress the animal?”
“I will,” said Wilson.
“Well, I will engage to broil it,” replied Paganel.
“You are a cook, then, Monsieur Paganel?” said Robert.
“Certainly, my boy. A Frenchman is always a cook.”
In a little while Paganel placed large slices of meat on the coals, and, in a short time, served up to his companions this appetizing viand. No one hesitated, but each attacked it ravenously. To the great amazement of the geographer, a general grimace accompanied by a “pwah!” followed the first mouthful.
“It is horrible!” said one.
“It is not eatable!” replied another.
The poor geographer, whatever was the difficulty, was forced to agree that this steak was not acceptable even to starving men. They therefore began to launch jokes at him, and deride his “dish for the gods,” while he himself sought a reason for this unaccountable result.
“I have it!” he cried. “I have it!”
“Is the meat too old?” asked MacNabb, calmly.
“No, my intolerant major; but it has traveled too much. How could I forget that?”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom Austin.
“I mean that the animal is not good unless killed when at rest. I can affirm from the taste that it has come from a distance, and, consequently, the whole herd.”
“You are certain of this?” said Glenarvan.
“Absolutely so.”
“But what event could have terrified these animals so, and driven them at a time when they ought to be peacefully sleeping in their lairs.”
“As to that, my dear Glenarvan,” said Paganel, “it is impossible for me to say. If you believe me, let us search no farther. For my part I am dying for want of sleep. Let us retire, major!”
“Very well, Paganel.”
Thereupon each wrapped himself in his poncho, the fuel was replenished for the night, and soon all but Glenarvan were buried in profound repose.
He alone did not sleep. A secret uneasiness held him in a state of wakeful fatigue. He could not help thinking of that herd, flying in one common direction, of their inexplicable terror. They could not have been pursued by wild beasts: at that height there were scarcely any, and yet fewer hunters. What fright had driven them over the abysses of Antuco, and what was the cause of it? He thought of their strange situation, and felt a presentiment of coming danger.
However, under the influence of a partial drowsiness, his ideas gradually modified, and fear gave place to hope. He saw himself in anticipation, on the morrow, on the plain at the foot of the Andes. There his actual search was to begin; and success was not, perhaps, far distant. He thought of Captain Grant and his two sailors, delivered from a cruel slavery.
These images passed rapidly before his mind, every instant interrupted by a flash of fire, a spark, a flame, illumining the faces of his sleeping companions, and casting a flickering shadow over the walls of the hut. Then his presentiments returned with more vividness, while he listened vaguely to the external sounds so difficult to explain on these solitary summits.
At one moment he thought he heard distant rumblings, dull and threatening like the rollings of thunder. These sounds could be caused only by a tempest, raging on the sides of the mountain. He wished to convince himself, and left the hut.
The moon had risen, and the sky was clear and calm. Not a cloud was to be seen either above or below, only now and then the moving shadows of the flames of the volcano. At the zenith twinkled thousands of stars, while the rumblings still continued. They seemed to approach, and run along the chain of the mountains.
Glenarvan returned more uneasy than before, seeking to divine what relation there was between these subterranean noises and the flight of the guanacos. He looked at his watch; it was two o’clock.
However, having no certain knowledge of immediate danger, he did not wake his companions, whom fatigue held in a deep repose, but fell himself into a heavy sleep that lasted several hours.
All at once a violent crash startled him to his feet. It was a deafening roar, like the irregular noise of innumerable artillery wagons rolling over a hollow pavement. Glenarvan suddenly felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. He saw the hut sway and start open.
“Look out!” he cried.
His companions, awakened and thrown into confusion, were hurried down a rapid descent. The day was breaking, and the scene was terrible. The form of the mountains suddenly changed, their tops were truncated, the tottering peaks disappeared, as if a pitfall had opened at their base. A mass, several miles in extent, became detached entire, and slid towards the plain.
“An earthquake!” cried Paganel.
He was not mistaken. It was one of those phenomena frequent on the mountain frontier of Chili. This portion of the globe is disturbed by subterranean fires, and the volcanoes of this chain afford only insufficient outlets for the confined vapors.
In the meantime the plateau, to which seven stunned and terrified men clung by the tufts of moss, glided with the rapidity of an express. Not a cry was possible, not a movement of escape. They could not hear each other. The internal rumblings, the din of the avalanche, the crash of the blocks of granite, and the whirlwinds of snow, rendered all communication with each other impossible.
At one time the mass would slide without jolts or jars; at another, seized with a pitching and rolling motion like the deck of a vessel shaken by the billows, it would run along the edge of the abysses into which the fragments of the mountain fell, uproot the trees of centuries, and level with the precision of an enormous scythe all the inequalities of the eastern slope.
How long this indescribable scene lasted, no one could tell; in what abyss all were to be engulfed, no one was able to foresee. Whether they were all there alive, or whether one of them was lying at the bottom of a crevasse, no one could say. Stunned by the swiftness of the descent, chilled by the keenness of the cold, blinded by the whirlwinds of snow, they panted, exhausted and almost inanimate, and only clung to the rocks by the supreme instinct of preservation.
All at once a shock of unusual violence arrested their gliding vehicle. They were thrown forward and rolled upon the last declivities of the mountains. The plateau had stopped short.
For a few moments no one stirred. At last one rose, deafened by the shock, but yet firm. It was the major. He shook off the snow that blinded him, and looked around. His companions were not very far from one another. He counted them. All but one lay on the ground. The missing one was Robert Grant.