The major, however, before the order was given, asked permission to make a single remark.
“Speak, major,” said Glenarvan.
“My object,” said MacNabb, “is not to invalidate the arguments of my friend Paganel, still less to refute them. I consider them rational, sagacious, and worthy of our whole attention. But I desire to submit them to a final examination, that their validity may be incontestable.”
No one knew what the prudent MacNabb meant, and his hearers listened with some anxiety.
“Go on, major,” said Paganel: “I am ready to answer all your questions.”
“Nothing can be simpler,” said the major. “Five months ago, in the Frith of Clyde, when we studied the three documents, their interpretation seemed clear to us. No place but the western coast of Patagonia could, we thought, have been the scene of the shipwreck. We had not even the shadow of a doubt on the subject.”
“Very true,” added Glenarvan.
“Afterwards,” resumed the major, “when Paganel, in a moment of providential absentmindedness, embarked on board our vessel, the documents were submitted to him, and he unhesitatingly sanctioned our search upon the American coast.”
“You are right,” observed the geographer.
“And, nevertheless, we are mistaken,” said the major.
“Yes, we are mistaken,” repeated Paganel; “but to be mistaken is only to be human, while it is the part of a madman to persist in his error.”
“Wait, Paganel,” continued the major; “do not get excited. I do not mean that our search ought to be prolonged in America.”
“What do you ask, then?” inquired Glenarvan.
“Simply the acknowledgment that Australia now seems to be the scene of the Britannia’s shipwreck as much as South America did before.”
“Granted,” replied Paganel.
“Who knows, then,” resumed the major, “whether, after Australia, another country may not offer us the same probabilities, and whether, when this new search proves vain, it may not seem evident that we ought to have searched elsewhere?”
Glenarvan and Paganel glanced at each other. The major’s remarks were strictly correct.
“I desire, therefore,” added MacNabb, “that a final test be made before we start for Australia. Here are the documents and maps. Let us examine successively all points that the thirty-seventh parallel crosses, and see if there is not some other country to which the document has as precise a reference.”
“Nothing is easier,” replied Paganel.
The map was placed before Lady Helena, and all showed themselves ready to follow Paganel’s demonstration. After carefully examining the documents, it was unanimously agreed that Paganel’s interpretation was the correct one.
“I leave you, therefore, my friends,” said he, in conclusion, “to decide whether all the probabilities are not in favor of the Australian continent.”
“Evidently,” replied the passengers and the captain with unanimity.
“Captain,” said Glenarvan, “have you sufficient provisions and coal?”
“Yes, my lord, I procured ample supplies at Talcahuana, and, besides, we can lay in a fresh stock of fuel at Cape Town.”
“One more remark,” said the major.
“A thousand, if you please!”
“Whatever may be the guarantees for success in Australia, will it not be well to call for a day or two, in passing, at the islets of Tristan d’Acunha and Amsterdam? They are situated so near our strict line of search, that it is worth our while to ascertain if there be on them any trace of the shipwreck of the Britannia.”
“The unbeliever!” said Paganel.
“I do not want to have to return to them, monsieur, if Australia does not after all realize our newly-conceived expectations.”
“The precaution is not a bad one,” said Glenarvan.
“And I do not wish to dissuade you; quite the contrary,” replied the geographer.
“Well, then, we will adopt it, and start forthwith,” said Lord Glenarvan.
“Immediately, my lord,” replied the captain, as he went on deck, while Robert and Mary Grant uttered the liveliest expressions of gratitude; and the Duncan, leaving the American coast and heading to the east, was soon swiftly ploughing the waves of the Atlantic.
XXVIII
Tristan d’Acunha and the Isle of Amsterdam
The Duncan now had before her a broad stretch of ocean but little traversed by navigators. Between the shores of South America and the little speck in the ocean known by the name of Tristan d’Acunha, there was no probability of her meeting with any strange sail; and under some circumstances, or in some company, the days might have been monotonous and the hours might have hung wearily. But so ardent was the desire for success, and so accomplished, yet varied, were the characters of those who composed the little assembly, that the voyage on the South Atlantic, though devoid of striking incident, was by no means wanting in interest. Much of the time was spent on deck, where the ladies’ cabins were now located, Mary Grant especially training her hand, head, and heart in feeling, thought, and action. The geographer set to work on a composition entitled Travels of a Geographer on the Argentine Pampas; but many a blank page did he leave. The Scottish peer (when tired of examining for the thousandth time all that belonged to his yacht) could look at the books and documents which he had brought with him, intending to peruse them carefully. And as to the major he was never in company and never out of company; his cigar insured, nothing else was wanted.
Ever and anon many miles of the ocean would be covered by masses of seaweed; these different species of algæ would afford subject for research; specimens must be preserved, authorities must be consulted, and as one result at least all would become wiser. Then a discussion would ensue on some geographical problem, and maps that were not attainable were of course appealed to by each disputant, though the subject in question was often of very trivial moment. It was in the midst of a debate of this kind, during the evening, that a sailor cried out—
“Land ahead!”
“In what direction?” asked Paganel.
“To windward,” replied the sailor.
The landsmen’s eyes were strained, but to no
