“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 woodcutter.”
“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 enclosed 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 woodcutters 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 fireplace; 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 firearm 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
