“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 midair 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
