“The road from Yumbel to Los Angelos.”
Glenarvan looked at the catapaz.
“Exactly,” replied he.
Then, addressing the geographer, he said—
“You have traveled in this country?”
“Certainly,” replied Paganel gravely.
“On a mule?”
“No; in an armchair.”
The catapaz did not understand, for he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the head of the troop.
At five o’clock in the afternoon they stopped in a shallow gorge, a few miles above the little town of Loja; and that night the travelers encamped at the foot of the first slopes of the Andes.
XII
Eleven Thousand Feet Aloft
The route through Chile had as yet presented no serious obstacles; but now the dangers that attend a journey across the mountains suddenly increased, the struggle with the natural difficulties was about to begin in earnest.
An important question had to be decided before starting. By what pass could they cross the Andes with the least departure from the prescribed course? The catapaz was questioned on this subject.
“I know,” he replied, “of but two passes that are practicable in this part of the Andes.”
“Doubtless the pass of Arica,” said Paganel, “which was discovered by Valdivia Mendoza.”
“Exactly.”
“And that of Villarica, situated to the south of Nevado.”
“You are right.”
“Well, my friend, these two passes have only one difficulty; they will carry us to the south, or the north, farther than we wish.”
“Have you another pass to propose?” asked the major.
“Yes,” replied Paganel; “the pass of Antuco.”
“Well,” said Glenarvan; “but do you know this pass, catapaz?”
“Yes, my lord, I have crossed it, and did not propose it because it is only a cattle-track for the Indian herdsmen of the eastern slopes.”
“Never mind, my friend,” continued Glenarvan; “where the herds of the Indians pass, we can also; and, since this will keep us in our course, let us start for the pass of Antuco.”
The signal for departure was immediately given, and they entered the valley of Los Lejos between great masses of crystalized limestone, and ascended a very gradual slope. Towards noon they had to pass around the shores of a small lake, the picturesque reservoir of all the neighboring streams which flowed into it.
Above the lake extended vast llanos, lofty plains, covered with grass, where the herds of the Indians grazed. Then they came upon a swamp which extended to the south and north, but which the instinct of the mules enabled them to avoid. Soon Fort Ballenare appeared on a rocky peak which it crowned with its dismantled walls. The ascent had already become abrupt and stony, and the pebbles, loosened by the hoofs of the mules, rolled under their feet in a rattling torrent.
The road now became difficult, and even perilous. The steepness increased, the walls on either side approached each other more and more, while the precipices yawned frightfully. The mules advanced cautiously in single file, with their noses to the ground, scenting the way.
Now and then, at a sudden turn, the madrina disappeared, and the little caravan was then guided by the distant tinkling of her bell. Sometimes, too, the capricious windings of the path would bend the column into two parallel lines, and the catapaz could talk to the peons, while a crevasse, scarcely two fathoms wide, but two hundred deep, formed an impassable abyss between them.
Under these conditions it was difficult to distinguish the course. The almost incessant action of subterranean and volcanic agency changes the road, and the landmarks are never the same. Therefore the catapaz hesitated, stopped, looked about him, examined the form of the rocks, and searched on the crumbling stones for the tracks of Indians.
Glenarvan followed in the steps of his guide. He perceived, he felt, his embarrassment, increasing with the difficulties of the way. He did not dare to question him, but thought that it was better to trust to the instinct of the muleteers and mules.
For an hour longer the catapaz wandered at a venture, but always seeking the more elevated parts of the mountain. At last he was forced to stop short. They were at the bottom of a narrow valley—one of those ravines that the Indians call quebradas. A perpendicular wall of porphyry barred their exit.
The catapaz, after searching vainly for a passage, dismounted, folded his arms, and waited. Glenarvan approached him.
“Have you lost your way?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” replied the catapaz.
“But we are not at the pass of Antuco?”
“We are.”
“Are you not mistaken?”
“I am not. Here are the remains of a fire made by the Indians, and the tracks left by their horses.”
“Well, they passed this way?”
“Yes; but we cannot. The last earthquake has made it impracticable.”
“For mules,” replied the major; “but not for men.”
“That is for you to decide,” said the catapaz. “I have done what I could. My mules and I are ready to turn back, if you please, and search for the other passes of the Andes.”
“But that will cause a delay.”
“Of three days, at least.”
Glenarvan listened in silence to the words of the catapaz, who had evidently acted in accordance with his engagement. His mules could go no farther; but when the proposal was made to retrace their steps, Glenarvan turned towards his companions, and said—
“Do you wish to go on?”
“We will follow you,” replied Tom Austin.
“And even precede you,” added Paganel. “What is it, after all? To scale a chain of mountains whose opposite slopes afford an unusually easy descent. This accomplished, we can find the Argentine laqueanos, who will guide us across the Pampas, and swift horses accustomed to travel over the plains. Forward, then, without hesitation.”
“Forward!” cried his companions.
“You do not accompany us?” said Glenarvan to the catapaz.
“I am the muleteer,” he replied.
“As you say.”
“Never mind,” said Paganel; “on the other side of this
