“Monsieur Paganel! Monsieur Paganel! A forest of horns!”
“What!” replied the geographer, “have you found a forest of horns?”
“Yes, yes; or at least a field.”
“A field! you are dreaming, my boy,” said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders.
“I am not dreaming,” retorted Robert; “you shall see for yourself. This is a strange country! People sow horns, and they spring up like corn! I should like very well to have some of the seed.”
“But he speaks seriously,” said the major.
“Yes, major, you shall see.”
Robert was not mistaken, and soon they found themselves before a vast field of horns, regularly planted.
“Well?” said Robert.
“This is something singular,” replied Paganel, turning towards the Indian with a questioning look.
“The horns come from the ground,” explained Thalcave; “and the cattle are under it.”
“What!” cried Paganel, “is there a whole drove in this mire?”
“Yes,” answered the Patagonian.
In fact, a vast herd had perished in this bog, which had given way beneath them. Hundreds of cattle had thus met their death, side by side, by suffocation in this vast quagmire. This circumstance, which sometimes takes place on the plains, could not be ignored by the Indian, and it was a warning which it was proper to heed. They passed around this immense hecatomb, which would have satisfied the most exacting gods of antiquity; and an hour after the field of horns was far behind.
Thalcave now began to observe with an anxious air the state of things around him. He frequently stopped, and rose in his stirrups. His tall form enabled him to survey a wide range; but, perceiving nothing that could enlighten him, he resumed his undeviating course. A mile farther, he stopped again, and, turning from the beaten track, proceeded a short distance, first to the north, then to the south, and then resumed his place at the head of the party, without saying either what he hoped or what he feared.
These maneuvers, many times repeated, puzzled Paganel and annoyed Glenarvan. The geographer was accordingly requested to interrogate the Indian, which he did at once. Thalcave replied that he was astonished to see the plain so soaked with moisture. Never within his recollection, since he had performed the office of guide, had his feet trodden a soil so saturated. Even in the season of the great rains the Argentine plain was always easily passed.
“But to what do you attribute this increasing moisture?” asked Paganel.
“I know not,” replied the Indian; “and what if I did?”
“Do the mountain streams, when swollen with the rains, ever overflow their banks?”
“Sometimes.”
“And now, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” said Thalcave.
Paganel was forced to be contented with this answer, and communicated to Glenarvan the result of the conversation.
“And what does Thalcave advise?” inquired Glenarvan.
“What is to be done?” asked Paganel of the Patagonian.
“Advance quickly,” replied the Indian.
This advice was easier to give than to follow. The horses were quickly fatigued with treading a soil that sank beneath them deeper and deeper as they progressed, so that this part of the plain might have been compared to an immense basin in which the invading waters would rapidly accumulate. It was advisable, therefore, to cross without delay these sloping terraces that an inundation would have instantly transformed into a lake.
They hastened their pace, though there was no great depth to the water which spread out in a sheet beneath the horses’ feet. About two o’clock the floodgates of the heavens opened, and tropical torrents of rain descended. Never was a finer opportunity presented for showing oneself a philosopher. There was no chance of escaping this deluge, and it was better for the travelers to receive it stoically. Their ponchos were soon dripping, and their hats wet them still more, like roofs whose gutters have overflowed. The fringes of the saddle-cloths seemed so many liquid streams; and the horsemen, bespattered by their animals, whose hoofs splashed in the water at every step, rode in a double shower, which came from the ground as well as the sky.
It was in this wretchedly cold and exhausted state that they arrived, towards evening, at a very miserable rancho. Only people who were not fastidious could have given it the name of a shelter, only travelers in distress would consent to occupy it. But Glenarvan and his companions had no choice. They therefore cowered down in the abandoned hut which would not have satisfied even a poor Indian of the plains. A sorry fire of grass, which gave out more smoke than heat, was kindled with difficulty. The torrents of rain made havoc without, and large drops oozed through the mouldy thatch. The fire was extinguished twenty times, and twenty times did Wilson and Mulready struggle against the invading water.
The supper was very meagre and comfortless, and everyone’s appetite failed. The major alone did justice to the water-soaked repast, and did not lose a mouthful: he was superior to misfortune. As for Paganel, like a Frenchman, he tried to joke; but now he failed.
“My jokes are wet,” said he: “they misfire.”
However, as it was more agreeable—if possible, under the circumstances—to sleep, each one sought in slumber a temporary forgetfulness of his fatigues.
The night was stormy. The sides of the rancho cracked as if they would break, while the frail structure bent beneath the gusts of wind and threatened to give way at every shock. The unfortunate horses neighed in terror without, exposed to the inclemency of the tempest; and their masters did not suffer less in their miserable shelter. However, sleep drowned all their troubles at last. Robert first closed his eyes, reclining his head on Lord Glenarvan’s shoulder; and soon all the inmates of the rancho slept under the protection of God.
They woke the next morning at the call of Thaouka, who, always ready, neighed without, and struck the wall of the hut vigorously with his hoof, as though to give the signal for departure. They owed him too much not to obey him, and they accordingly resumed their journey.
The rain had ceased, but the hard earth held what had
