“You will change your opinion, my dear Glenarvan,” replied Paganel. “You must not think you are in Switzerland.”
“Then these Australian Alps—?” asked Lady Helena.
“Are miniature mountains,” continued Paganel. “You will cross them without noticing it.”
The next day, in spite of the assurances of the confident geographer, the little party found great difficulty in crossing the mountains. They were forced to advance at a venture, and descend into deep and narrow gorges that, for aught they knew, might end in a wall of rock. Ayrton would doubtless have been eventually nonplussed had they not, after an hour’s climbing, caught sight of a tavern on one of the paths of the mountain.
“Well!” said Paganel, as they reached the hostelry, “the proprietor of this inn cannot make a great fortune in such a place. Of what use can he be?”
“To give us the information we need for our journey,” replied Glenarvan. “Let us go in.”
Glenarvan, followed by Ayrton, entered the tavern. The landlord of “Bush Inn” was a coarse man, of forbidding appearance, who had to consider himself as the principal customer for the gin, brandy, and whisky of his tavern, and scarcely ever saw anyone but squatters or herdsmen.
He replied in an ill-humored way to the questions that were addressed him; but his answers sufficed to determine Ayrton upon his course. Glenarvan, however, remunerated the tavern-keeper for the little trouble they had given him, and was about to leave the inn, when a placard, affixed to the wall, attracted his attention. It was a notice of the colonial police, detailing the escape of the convicts from Perth, and setting a price upon the head of Ben Joyce—a hundred pounds sterling to anyone who should deliver him up.
“Indeed,” said Glenarvan, “that is a rascal worth hanging.”
“And especially worth taking,” replied Ayrton. “A hundred pounds! What a sum! He is not worth it.”
“As for the innkeeper,” added Glenarvan, as he left the room, “I scarcely put faith in him, despite his placard.”
“Nor I either,” said Ayrton.
Glenarvan and the quartermaster rejoined the party, and they all proceeded to where a narrow pass wound across the chain. Here they began the ascent.
But it was an arduous task. More than once the ladies and their companions had to dismount, and it was often necessary to push the wheels of the heavy vehicle at some steep ascent, or to hold it back along the edge of some dangerous precipice. The oxen, as they could not work to advantage at sudden turns, had frequently to be unyoked, and the cart blocked to prevent it from sliding back. Ayrton was repeatedly forced to bring the already exhausted horses to his assistance.
Whether this exertion was too prolonged, or whether from some other cause, one of the horses gave out during the ascent. He fell suddenly, without an instant’s warning. It was Mulready’s horse; and when the sailor attempted to help him up, he found that he was dead. Ayrton examined the animal carefully, but did not seem to understand the cause of this sudden death.
“The beast must have burst a blood-vessel,” said Glenarvan.
“Evidently,” replied Ayrton.
“Take my horse, Mulready,” added Glenarvan; “I will join Lady Helena in the cart.”
Mulready obeyed, and the little party continued their fatiguing ascent, abandoning the body to the crows.
The next day they began the descent, which was much more rapid. During its course a violent hailstorm burst on them, and they were forced to seek a shelter beneath the rocks. Not hailstones, but pieces of ice as large as one’s hand, were precipitated from the angry clouds. A sling could not have hurled them with greater force, and several sharp blows warned Paganel and Robert to be on their guard. The cart was pierced through in many places: indeed, few roofs could have resisted the fall of these cutting missiles, some of which froze to the trunks of the trees. It was necessary to wait for the end of this avalanche, for fear of being stoned to death, and it was an hour before the party regained the steep path, still slippery with icy incrustations. At evening the cart, considerably shattered, but still firm on its wooden wheels, descended the last slopes of the Alps, between tall solitary pines, and reached the plains of Gippsland.
All were impatient to gain their destination, the Pacific Ocean, where the Britannia had been wrecked. There only could traces of the shipwrecked seamen be found, and not in these desert regions. Ayrton urged Lord Glenarvan to send an order to the Duncan to repair to the coast, that he might have at his disposal all the aid possible in his search. In his opinion they ought to take advantage of the Lucknow road, which would lead them to Melbourne. Afterwards this might be difficult, for highways leading directly to the capital would be absolutely wanting.
This advice of the quartermaster seemed reasonable. Paganel seconded it. He thought, too, that the yacht would be very useful under the present circumstances, and added that they could no longer communicate with Melbourne after passing the Lucknow road.
Glenarvan was undecided, and perhaps would have sent the order that Ayrton so particularly desired, if the major had not opposed this plan with great energy. He explained that Ayrton’s presence was necessary to the expedition; that on approaching the coast the country would be unknown; that, if chance set them on the track of Captain Grant, the quartermaster would be more capable than anyone else of following it; in short, that he alone could point out the place where the Britannia was lost.
MacNabb, therefore, advocated their continuing on the journey without change. Captain Mangles was of the same opinion. The young captain observed that his lordship’s orders could more easily reach the Duncan if sent from Twofold Bay, than by dispatching a messenger two hundred miles over a wild country.
The major carried his point, and it was therefore decided that they should proceed to Twofold Bay. MacNabb noticed that Ayrton seemed quite disappointed, but he
