AFTER the great danger that he had just escaped, Robert incurred another, no less great,—that of being overwhelmed with caresses. However feeble he was still, not one of these good people could refrain from pressing him to his heart. But it must be confessed that these well-meant embraces are not fatal, for the boy did not die.
When his rescue was certain, thought reverted to his rescuer, and the major very naturally thought of looking around him. Fifty paces from the stream, a man of lofty stature was standing, motionless, on one of the first ledges of the mountain. A long gun lay at his feet. This individual, who had so suddenly appeared, had broad shoulders, and long hair tied with leathern thongs. His height exceeded six feet, and his bronzed face was red between his eyes and mouth, black below his eyelids, and white on his forehead. After the manner of the Patagonians of the frontiers, the native wore a splendid cloak, decorated with red arabesques, made of the skin of a guanaco, its silky fur turned outward, and sewed with ostrich-tendons. Under his cloak a tippet of fox-skin encircled his neck and terminated in a point in front. At his girdle hung a little bag containing the colors with which he painted his face. His leggings were of ox-hide, and fastened to the ankle with straps regularly crossed.
The figure of this Patagonian was fine, and his face denoted real intelligence in spite of the colors that adorned (!) it. He waited in an attitude full of dignity, and, seeing him so motionless and stern on his pedestal of rocks, you would have taken him for a statue.
The major, as soon as he perceived him, pointed him out to Glenarvan, who hastened towards him. The Patagonian took two steps forward; Glenarvan took his hand, and pressed it. There was in the latter’s look, in his physiognomy, such a feeling, such an expression of gratitude, that the native could not mistake it. He inclined his head gently, and uttered a few words that neither the major nor his friend could understand.
The Patagonian, after regarding the strangers attentively, now changed the language; but whatever it was, this new idiom was no better understood than the first. However, certain expressions which he used struck Glenarvan. They seemed to belong to the Spanish language, of which he knew several common words.
“Spanish?” said he.
The Patagonian nodded.
“Well,” said the major, “this is our friend Paganel’s business. It is fortunate that he thought of learning Spanish.”
Paganel was called. He came at once and with all the grace of a Frenchman saluted the Patagonian, to which the latter paid no attention. The geographer was informed of the state of affairs, and was only too glad to use his diligently-acquired knowledge.
“Exactly,” said he. And opening his mouth widely in order to articulate better, he said, in his best Spanish,—
“You—are—a—brave—man.”
The native listened, but did not answer.
“He does not understand,” said the geographer.
“Perhaps you do not pronounce well,” replied the major.
“Very true! Curse the pronunciation!”
And again Paganel began, but with no better success.
“I will change the expression,” said he. And pronouncing with magisterial slowness, he uttered these words,—
“A—Patagonian,—doubtless?”
The native remained mute as before.
“Answer!” added Paganel.
The Patagonian did not reply.
“Do—you—understand?” cried Paganel, violently enough to damage his organs of speech.
It was evident that the Indian did not understand, for he answered, but in Spanish,—
“I do not understand.”
It was Paganel’s turn now to be astonished, and he hastily put on his glasses, like one irritated.
“May I be hanged,” said he, “if I understand a word of this infernal jargon! It is certainly Araucanian.”
“No,” replied Glenarvan; “this man answered in Spanish.”
And, turning to the Patagonian, he repeated,—
“Spanish?”
“Yes,” replied the native.
Paganel’s surprise became amazement. The major and Glenarvan looked at him quizzingly.
“Ah, my learned friend!” said the major, while a half smile played about his lips, “you have committed one of those blunders peculiar to you.”
“What!” cried the geographer, starting.
“Yes, it is plain that this Patagonian speaks Spanish.”
“He?”
“Yes. By mistake you have learnt another language, while thinking that you studied——”
MacNabb did not finish. A loud “Oh!” from the geographer, accompanied by shrugs of the shoulders, cut him short.
“Major, you are going a little too far,” said Paganel in a very dry tone.
“To be sure, since you do not understand.”
“I do not understand because this native speaks so badly!” answered the geographer, who began to be impatient.
“That is to say, he speaks badly, because you do not understand,” returned the major, calmly.
“MacNabb,” said Glenarvan, “that is not a probable supposition. However abstracted our friend Paganel may be, we cannot suppose that his blunder was to learn one language for another.”
“Now, my dear Edward, or rather you, my good Paganel, explain to me what the difficulty is.”
“I will not explain,” replied Paganel, “I insist. Here is the book in which I practice daily the difficulties of the Spanish language! Examine it, major, and you will see whether I impose upon you.”
So saying, Paganel groped in his numerous pockets. After searching a few moments, he drew forth a volume in a very bad state, and presented it with an air of assurance. The major took the book, and looked at it.
“Well, what work is this?” he asked.
“The Lusiad,” replied Paganel; “an admirable poem which——”
“The Lusiad!” cried Glenarvan.
“Yes, my friend, the Lusiad of the immortal Camoëns, nothing more or less.”
“Camoëns!” repeated Glenarvan; “but, unfortunate friend, Camoëns was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese that you have been studying for six weeks.”
“Camoëns! Lusiad! Portuguese!”
Paganel could say no more. His eyes wandered, while a peal of Homeric laughter rang in his ears.
The Patagonian did not wink; he waited patiently for the explanation of this event, which was totally incomprehensible to him.
“Insensate! fool!” cried Paganel, at last. “What! is it so? Is it not a mere joke? Have I done this? It is the confusion of languages, as at Babel. My friends! my friends! to start for India and arrive at Chili! to learn Spanish and speak Portuguese! this is too much, and, if it continues, I shall some day throw myself out of the window instead of my cigar.”
To hear Paganel take his blunder thus, to see his comical actions, it was impossible to keep serious. Besides, he set the example himself.
“Laugh, my friends,” said he, “laugh with a will! you cannot laugh as much as I do at myself.”
And he uttered the most formidable peal of laughter that ever issued from the mouth of a geographer.
“But we are none the less without an interpreter,” said the major.
“Oh, do not be troubled,” replied Paganel. “The Portuguese and Spanish resemble each other so much that I made a mistake. However, this very resemblance will soon enable me to rectify my error, and in a short time I will thank this worthy Patagonian in the language he speaks so well.”
Paganel was right, for he could soon exchange a few words with the native. He even learned that his name was Thalcave, a word which signifies in Araucanian “the thunderer.” This surname was doubtless given to him for his skill in the use of fire-arms.
But Glenarvan was particularly rejoiced to discover that the Patagonian was a guide, and, moreover, a guide of the Pampas. There was, therefore, something so providential in this meeting that the success of the enterprise seemed already an accomplished fact, and no one any longer doubted the rescue of Captain Grant.
In the meantime the travelers and the Patagonian had returned to Robert. The latter stretched his arms towards the native, who, without a word, placed his hand upon his head. He examined the child and felt his wounded limbs. Then, smiling, he went and gathered on the banks of the stream a few handfuls of wild celery, with which he rubbed the boy’s body. Under this treatment, performed with an extreme gentleness, the child felt his strength revive, and it was plain that a few hours would suffice to restore him.
It was therefore decided that that day and the following night should be passed at the encampment. Besides, two important questions remained to be settled—food, and means of conveyance. Provisions and mules were both wanting.
Fortunately Thalcave solved the difficulty. This guide, who was accustomed to conduct travelers along the Patagonian frontiers, and was one of the most intelligent baqueanos of the country, engaged to furnish Glenarvan all that his little party needed. He offered to take him to a “tolderia” (encampment) of Indians, about four miles distant, where they would find everything necessary for the expedition. This proposal was made partly by gestures, partly by Spanish words which Paganel succeeded in understanding. It was accepted, and Glenarvan and his learned friend, taking leave of their companions, reascended the stream under the guidance of the Patagonian.
They proceeded at a good pace for an hour and a half, taking long strides to keep up to the giant Thalcave. All the region was charming, and of a rich fertility. The grassy pastures succeeded each other, and could easily have fed thousands of cattle. Large ponds, united by a winding chain of streams, gave these plains a verdant moisture. Black-headed swans sported on the mirror-like surface, and disputed the empire of the waters with numberless ostriches that gamboled over the plains, while the brilliant feathered tribes were in wonderful variety.
Jacques Paganel proceeded from admiration to ecstasy. Exclamations of delight continually escaped his lips, to the astonishment of the Patagonian, who thought it very natural that there should be birds in the air, swans on the lakes, and grass on the prairies. The geographer had no reason to regret his walk, or complain of its length. He scarcely believed himself started, or that the encampment would soon come in sight.
This tolderia was at the bottom of a narrow valley among the mountains. Here in huts of branches lived thirty wandering natives, grazing large herds of milch cows, sheep, cattle and horses. Thus they roamed from one pasture to another, always finding a repast ready for their four-footed companions.
Thalcave took upon himself the negotiation, which was not long. In return for seven small Argentine horses, all saddled, a hundred pounds of dried meat, a few measures of rice, and some leathern bottles for water, the Indians received twenty ounces of gold, the value of which they perfectly understood. Glenarvan would have bought another horse for the Patagonian, but he intimated that it was unnecessary.
The bargain concluded, Glenarvan took leave of his new “providers,” as Paganel expressed it, and returned to the encampment. His arrival was welcomed by cries of joy at sight of the provisions and horses. Every one ate with avidity. Robert partook of some nourishment; he had almost entirely regained his strength, and the remainder of the day was passed in perfect rest. Various subjects were alluded to: the absent dear ones, the Duncan, Captain Mangles, his brave crew, and Harry Grant who was, perhaps, not far distant.
As for Paganel, he did not leave the Indian. He became Thalcave’s shadow, and could not remain quiet in the presence of a real Patagonian, in comparison with whom he would have passed for a dwarf. He overwhelmed the grave Indian with Spanish phrases, to which the latter quietly listened. The geographer studied this time without a book, and was often heard repeating words aloud.
“If I do not get the accent,” said he to the major, “you must not be angry with me. Who would have thought that one day a Patagonian would teach me Spanish!”