“Quick! quick!” said Glenarvan; and without seeking whence this providential shot had come, he rushed towards the condor. His companions closely followed him.
When they arrived the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was hidden under its great wings. Glenarvan threw himself upon the child, released him from the talons of the condor, stretched him on the grass, and pressed his ear to his breast.
Never did a wilder cry of joy issue from human lips than when Glenarvan rose, exclaiming:
“He lives! he lives!”
In an instant Robert was stripped of his garments, and his face bathed with fresh water. He made a movement, opened his eyes, looked around, and uttered a few words:
“You, my lord—my father!—”
Glenarvan could not speak. Emotion stifled him, and, kneeling, he wept beside this child so miraculously saved.
XV
Thalcave
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 oxhide, 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
