scorching, and when evening came, a bar of clouds streaked the southwest horizon—a sure sign of a change in the weather. The Patagonian pointed it out to the geographer, who replied:
“Yes, I know;” and turning to his companions, added, “see, a change of weather is coming! We are going to have a taste of PAMPERO.”
And he went on to explain that this PAMPERO is very common in the Argentine plains. It is an extremely dry wind which blows from the southwest. Thalcave was not mistaken, for the PAMPERO blew violently all night, and was sufficiently trying to poor fellows only sheltered by their ponchos. The horses lay down on the ground, and the men stretched themselves beside them in a close group. Glenarvan was afraid they would be delayed by the continuance of the hurricane, but Paganel was able to reassure him on that score, after consulting his barometer.
“The PAMPERO generally brings a tempest which lasts three days, and may be always foretold by the depression of the mercury,” he said. “But when the barometer rises, on the contrary, which is the case now, all we need expect is a few violent blasts. So you can make your mind easy, my good friend; by sunrise the sky will be quite clear again.”
“You talk like a book, Paganel,” replied Glenarvan.
“And I am one; and what’s more, you are welcome to turn over my leaves whenever you like.”
The book was right. At one o’clock the wind suddenly lulled, and the weary men fell asleep and woke at daybreak, refreshed and invigorated.
It was the 20th of October, and the tenth day since they had left Talcahuano. They were still ninety miles from the point where the Rio Colorado crosses the thirty-seventh parallel, that is to say, about two days’ journey. Glenarvan kept a sharp lookout for the appearance of any Indians, intending to question them, through Thalcave, about Captain Grant, as Paganel could not speak to him well enough for this. But the track they were following was one little frequented by the natives, for the ordinary routes across the Pampas lie further north. If by chance some nomadic horseman came in sight far away, he was off again like a dart, not caring to enter into conversation with strangers. To a solitary individual, a little troop of eight men, all mounted and well armed, wore a suspicious aspect, so that any intercourse either with honest men or even banditti, was almost impossible.
Glenarvan was regretting this exceedingly, when he unexpectedly met with a singular justification of his rendering of the eventful document.
In pursuing the course the travelers had laid down for themselves, they had several times crossed the routes over the plains in common use, but had struck into none of them. Hitherto Thalcave had made no remark about this. He understood quite well, however, that they were not bound for any particular town, or village, or settlement. Every morning they set out in a straight line toward the rising sun, and went on without the least deviation. Moreover, it must have struck Thalcave that instead of being the guide he was guided; yet, with true Indian reserve, he maintained absolute silence. But on reaching a particular point, he checked his horse suddenly, and said to Paganel:
“The Carmen route.”
“Yes, my good Patagonian,” replied Paganel in his best Spanish; “the route from Carmen to Mendoza.”
“We are not going to take it?”
“No,” replied Paganel.
“Where are we going then?”
“Always to the east.”
“That’s going nowhere.”
“Who knows?”
Thalcave was silent, and gazed at the geographer with an air of profound surprise. He had no suspicion that Paganel was joking, for an Indian is always grave.
“You are not going to Carmen, then?” he added, after a moment’s pause.
“No.”
“Nor to Mendoza?”
“No, nor to Mendoza.”
Just then Glenarvan came up to ask the reason of the stoppage, and what he and Thalcave were discussing.
“He wanted to know whether we were going to Carmen or Mendoza, and was very much surprised at my negative reply to both questions.”
“Well, certainly, it must seem strange to him.”
“I think so. He says we are going nowhere.”
“Well, Paganel, I wonder if it is possible to make him understand the object of our expedition, and what our motive is for always going east.”
“That would be a difficult matter, for an Indian knows nothing about degrees, and the finding of the document would appear to him a mere fantastic story.”
“Is it the story he would not understand, or the storyteller?” said McNabbs, quietly
“Ah, McNabbs, I see you have small faith in my Spanish yet.”
“Well, try it, my good friend.”
“So I will.”
And turning round to the Patagonian he began his narrative, breaking down frequently for the want of a word, and the difficulty of making certain details intelligible to a half-civilized Indian. It was quite a sight to see the learned geographer. He gesticulated and articulated, and so worked himself up over it, that the big drops of sweat fell in a cascade down his forehead on to his chest. When his tongue failed, his arms were called to aid. Paganel got down on the ground and traced a geographical map on the sand, showing where the lines of latitude and longitude cross and where the two oceans were, along which the Carmen route led. Thalcave looked on composedly, without giving any indication of comprehending or not comprehending.
The lesson had lasted half an hour, when the geographer left off, wiped his streaming face, and waited for the Patagonian to speak.
“Does he understand?” said Glenarvan.
“That remains to be seen; but if he doesn’t, I give it up,” replied Paganel.
Thalcave neither stirred nor spoke. His eyes remained fixed on the lines drawn on the sand, now becoming fast effaced by the wind.
“Well?” said Paganel to him at length.
The Patagonian seemed not to hear. Paganel fancied he could detect an ironical smile already on the lips of the Major, and determined to carry the day, was about to recommence his geographical illustrations, when the Indian stopped him by a gesture, and said:
“You are in search of a prisoner?”
“Yes,” replied Paganel.
“And just on this line between the setting and rising sun?” added Thalcave, speaking in Indian fashion of the route from west to east.
“Yes, yes, that’s it.”
“And it’s your God,” continued the guide, “that has sent you the secret of this prisoner on the waves.”
“God himself.”
“His
