THE eastern side of the Andes consists of long slopes, declining gradually to the plain upon which a portion of the mass had suddenly stopped. In this new country, garnished with rich pastures and adorned with magnificent vegetation, an incalculable number of apple-trees, planted at the time of the conquest, glowed with their golden fruit and formed true forests. It seemed as if a part of beautiful Normandy had been cast into these monotonous regions, and under any other circumstances the eye of a traveler would have been struck with this sudden transition from desert to oasis, from snowy peak to verdant prairie, from winter to summer.
The earth had regained an absolute immobility, and the earthquake had ceased. But without doubt the subterranean forces were still exerting their devastating action at a distance, for the chain of the Andes is always agitated or trembling in some part. This time, however, the commotion had been of extreme violence. The outline of the mountains was entirely changed; a new view of summits, crests, and peaks was defined against the azure of the sky; and the guide of the Pampas would have sought in vain for his accustomed landmarks.
A wonderfully beautiful day was breaking. The rays of the sun, issuing from their watery bed in the Atlantic, glittered over the Argentine plains and were already silvering the waves of the other ocean. It was eight o’clock in the morning.
Glenarvan and his companions, revived by the aid of the major, gradually recovered consciousness. Indeed, they had only undergone a severe giddiness. The mountain was descended, and they would have applauded a means of locomotion which had been entirely at nature’s expense, if one of the feeblest, Robert Grant, had not been missing. Every one loved the courageous boy: Paganel was particularly attached to him; the major, too, in spite of his coldness; but especially Glenarvan.
When the latter learned of Robert’s disappearance, he was desperate. He pictured to himself the poor child engulfed in some abyss, and calling vainly for him whom he considered his second father.
“My friends,” said he, scarcely restraining his tears, “we must search for him, we must find him! We cannot abandon him thus! Every valley, every precipice, every abyss must be explored to the very bottom! You shall tie a rope around me and let me down! I will do it, you hear me, I will! May Heaven grant that Robert is still living! Without him, how could we dare find his father? What right have we to save Captain Grant, if his rescue costs the life of his child?”
His companions listened without speaking. They felt that he was seeking in their looks some ray of hope, and they lowered their eyes.
“Well,” continued Glenarvan, “you understand me; you are silent! You have no more hope!”
A few moments of silence ensued, when MacNabb inquired:
“Who of you, my friends, remembers when Robert disappeared?”
To this question no answer was given.
“At least,” continued the major, “you can tell with whom the boy was during the descent.”
“With me,” replied Wilson.
“Well, at what moment did you last see him with you? Recall the circumstances. Speak.”
“This is all that I remember. Robert Grant was at my side, his hand grasping a tuft of moss, less than two minutes before the shock that caused our descent.”
“Less than two minutes? Remember, Wilson, the minutes may have seemed long to you. Are you not mistaken?”
“I think not—yes, it is so, less than two minutes.”
“Well,” said MacNabb; “and was Robert on your right, or on your left?”
“On my left. I remember that his poncho flapped in my face.”
“And where were you situated in reference to us?”
“On the left also.”
“Then Robert could have disappeared only on this side,” said the major, turning towards the mountain, and pointing to the right. “And also considering the time that has elapsed since his disappearance, the child must have fallen at a high part of the mountain. There we must search, and, by taking different ways, we shall find him.”
Not a word more was said. The six men, scaling the declivities of the mountain, stationed themselves at different heights along the ridge, and began their search. They kept always to the right of their line of descent, sounding the smallest fissures, descending to the bottom of precipices half filled with fragments of the mass; and more than one came forth with his garments in shreds, his feet and hands lacerated, at the peril of his life.
All this portion of the Andes, except a few inaccessible plateaus, was carefully explored for many hours without one of these brave men thinking of rest. But it was a vain search. The child had not only found death in the mountains, but also a tomb, the stone of which, made of some enormous rock, was forever closed over him.
Towards noon Glenarvan and his companions, bruised and exhausted, found themselves again in the valley. The former was a prey to the most violent grief. He scarcely spoke, and from his lips issued only these words, broken by sighs,—“I will not go; I will not go!”
Each understood this determination, and respected it.
“We will wait,” said Paganel to the major and Tom Austin. “Let us take some rest, and recruit our strength. We shall need it, whether to begin our search or continue our journey.”
“Yes,” replied MacNabb, “let us remain, since Edward wishes it. He hopes: but what does he hope?”
“God knows!” said Tom Austin.
“Poor Robert!” replied Paganel, wiping his eyes.
Trees thronged the valley in great numbers. The major chose a group of lofty carob-trees, under which was established a temporary encampment. A few blankets, the arms, a little dried meat, and some rice, was all that remained to the travelers. A stream, which flowed not far off, furnished water, still muddy from the effects of the avalanche. Mulready kindled a fire on the grass, and soon presented to his master a warm and comforting repast. But Glenarvan refused it, and remained stretched on his poncho in profound prostration.
Thus the day passed. Night came, clear and calm as the preceding. While his companions lay motionless, although wakeful, Glenarvan reascended the mountain. He listened closely, still hoping that a last cry might reach him. He ventured alone and afar, pressing his ear to the ground, listening, restraining the beatings of his heart, and calling in a voice of despair.
The whole night long he wandered on the mountain. Sometimes Paganel, sometimes the major, followed him, ready to help him on the slippery summits, or on the edge of the chasms, where his rashness led him. But his last efforts were fruitless; and to the cry of “Robert! Robert!” a thousand times repeated, echo alone replied.
Day dawned, and it was necessary to go in search of Glenarvan on the mountain, and bring him in spite of his reluctance back to the encampment. His despair was terrible. Who would now dare to speak to him of departure, and propose leaving this fatal valley? But the provisions were failing. They would soon meet the Argentine guides and horses to take them across the Pampas. To retrace their steps was more difficult than to advance. Besides, the Atlantic was the place appointed to meet the Duncan. All these reasons did not permit a longer delay, and it was for the interest of all that the hour for departure should be no longer deferred.
MacNabb attempted to draw Glenarvan from his grief. For a long time he spoke without his friend appearing to hear him. Glenarvan shook his head. At length, words escaped his lips.
“Go?” said he.
“Yes, go.”
“One hour more!”
“Well, one hour more,” replied the worthy major.
When it had passed, Glenarvan asked for another. You would have thought a condemned man was praying for his life. Thus it continued till about noon, when MacNabb, by the advice of all, would no longer hesitate, and told Glenarvan that they must go, the lives of his companions depended upon a prompt decision.
“Yes, yes,” replied Glenarvan, “we will go, we will go!”
But as he spoke his eyes were turned away from MacNabb. His gaze was fixed upon a black speck in the air. Suddenly his hand rose, and remained immovable, as if petrified.
“There! there!” cried he. “See! see!”
All eyes were raised towards the sky, in the direction so imperatively indicated. At that moment the black speck visibly increased. It was a bird hovering at a measureless height.
“A condor,” said Paganel.
“Yes, a condor,” replied Glenarvan. “Who knows? He is coming, he is descending! Let us wait.”
What did Glenarvan hope? Was his reason wandering? He had said, “Who knows?” Paganel was not mistaken. The condor became more distinct every moment.
This magnificent bird, long revered by the Incas, is the king of the southern Andes. In these regions he attains an extraordinary development. His strength is prodigious; and he often precipitates oxen to the bottom of the abysses. He attacks sheep, goats, and calves wandering on the plain, and carries them in his talons to a great height. Sometimes he hovers at an elevation beyond the limit of human vision, and there this king of the air surveys, with a piercing look, the regions below, and distinguishes the faintest objects with a power of sight that is the astonishment of naturalists.
What had the condor seen? A corpse,—that of Robert Grant? “Who knows?” repeated Glenarvan, without losing sight of him. The enormous bird approached, now hovering, now falling with the swiftness of inert bodies. He soon described circles of larger extent, and could be perfectly distinguished. He measured fifteen feet across his wings, which supported him in the air almost without motion, for it is the peculiarity of these great birds to sail with a majestic calmness unlike all others of the winged tribes.
The major and Wilson had seized their rifles, but Glenarvan stopped them with a gesture. The condor was approaching in the circles of his flight a sort of inaccessible plateau a quarter of a mile distant. He was turning with a vertical rapidity, opening and closing his formidable claws, and shaking his cartilaginous neck.
“There! there!” cried Glenarvan.
Then suddenly a thought flashed through his mind.
“If Robert is still living!” exclaimed he, with a cry of terror, “this bird! Fire, my friends, fire!”
But he was too late. The condor had disappeared behind the lofty boulders. A second passed that seemed an eternity. Then the enormous bird reappeared, heavily laden, and rising slowly.
A cry of horror was uttered. In the claws of the condor an inanimate body was seen suspended and dangling. It was Robert Grant. The bird had raised him by his garments, and was now hovering in mid-air at least one hundred and fifty feet above the encampment. He had perceived the travelers, and was violently striving to escape with his heavy prey.
“May Robert’s body be dashed upon these rocks,” cried Glenarvan, “rather than serve——”
He did not finish, but, seizing Wilson’s rifle, attempted to take aim at the condor. But his arm trembled; he could not sight the piece. His eyes were dimmed.
“Let me try,” said the major.
With clear eye, steady hand, and motionless body, he aimed at the bird, that was already three hundred feet above him. But he had not pressed the trigger, when a report resounded in the valley. A light smoke curled up between two rocks, and the condor, shot in the head, fell, slowly turning, sustained by his broad outspread wings. He had not released his prey, and at last reached the ground, ten paces from the banks of the stream.
“Quick! quick!” said Glenarvan; and without seeking whence this providential shot had come, he rushed towards the condor. His companions closely followed him.
When they arrived the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was hidden under its great wings. Glenarvan threw himself upon the child, released him from the talons of the condor, stretched him on the grass, and pressed his ear to his breast.
Never did a wilder cry of joy issue from human lips than when Glenarvan rose, exclaiming:
“He lives! he lives!”
In an instant Robert was stripped of his garments, and his face bathed with fresh water. He made a movement, opened his eyes, looked around, and uttered a few words:
“You, my lord—my father!——”
Glenarvan could not speak. Emotion stifled him, and, kneeling, he wept beside this child so miraculously saved.