“Before Glenarvan speaks,” said Paganel, “I must make a remark. It is well that one of us should go to Melbourne, but not that these dangers should be incurred by Captain Mangles. He is the captain of the Duncan, and must not, therefore, expose himself. Allow me to go in his place.”
“Well said,” replied the major; “but why should it be you, Paganel?”
“Are we not here?” cried Wilson and Mulready.
“And do you believe,” continued MacNabb, “that I am afraid to make a journey of two hundred miles on horseback?”
“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “if one of us is to go to Melbourne, let fate decide. Paganel, write our names—”
“Not yours at least, my lord,” insisted Captain Mangles.
“And why?” asked Glenarvan.
“Separate you from Lady Helena, when your wound is not yet healed?”
“Glenarvan,” interposed Paganel, “you cannot leave the encampment.”
“No,” resumed the major; “your place is here. Edward, you must not go.”
“There are dangers to incur,” replied Glenarvan; “and I will not leave my part to others. Write, Paganel; let my name be mingled with those of my companions, and Heaven grant that it may be the first drawn.”
All yielded to this wish; and Glenarvan’s name was added to the others. They then proceeded to draw, and the lot fell upon Mulready. The brave sailor uttered a cry of joy.
“My lord, I am ready to go,” said he.
Glenarvan clasped his hand, and then turned towards the cart, leaving the major and Captain Mangles to guard the encampment. Lady Helena was at once informed of the decision taken to send a messenger to Melbourne, and of the result of the drawing by lot. She spoke words to Mulready that went to the heart of that noble sailor. They knew that he was brave, intelligent, hardy, and persevering. The lot could not have fallen better.
It was decided that Mulready should depart at eight o’clock, after the short twilight. Wilson charged himself with getting the horse ready. He took the precaution to change the telltale shoe that he wore on his left foot, and to replace it by one belonging to the horses that had died in the night. The convicts could not now track Mulready, or follow him, unless mounted.
While Wilson was occupied with these arrangements, Glenarvan was preparing the letter designed for Tom Austin; but his wounded arm disabled him, and he asked Paganel to write for him. The geographer, who seemed absorbed in one idea, was oblivious to what was passing around him. It must be confessed that Paganel, in all this succession of sad misfortunes, thought only of his false interpretation of the document. He turned the words about in every way to draw from them a new meaning, and remained wrapt in these meditations. Thus he did not hear Glenarvan’s request, and the latter was forced to repeat it.
“Very well,” replied Paganel; “I am ready.”
So saying, he mechanically produced his notebook. He tore out a blank page, and then, with his pencil in his hand, made ready to write. Glenarvan began to dictate the following instructions:
“Order for Tom Austin to put to sea, and bring the Duncan—”
Paganel had just finished this last word when his eyes fell upon the number of the Australian and New Zealand Gazette that lay upon the ground. The paper, being folded, only allowed him to see the two last syllables of its title. His pencil stopped, and he seemed to completely forget Glenarvan and his letter.
“Well, Paganel?” said Glenarvan.
“Ah!” continued the geographer, uttering a cry.
“What is the matter?” asked the major.
“Nothing! nothing!” replied Paganel. Then, in a lower tone, he repeated: “Aland! aland! aland!”
He had risen; he had seized the paper. He shook it, seeking to repress words ready to escape his lips. Lady Helena, Mary, Robert, and Glenarvan gazed at him without understanding this inexplicable agitation. Paganel was like a man whom a sudden frenzy has seized. But this state of nervous excitation did not last. He gradually grew calm. The joy that gleamed in his eyes died away, and, resuming his place, he said, in a quiet tone:
“When you wish, my lord, I am at your disposal.”
Glenarvan continued the dictation of his letter, which was distinctly worded as follows:
“Order for Tom Austin to put to sea, and bring the Duncan to the eastern coast of Australia.”
“Australia?” cried Paganel. “Ah, yes, Australia!”
The letter was now finished, and presented to Glenarvan for his signature, who, although affected by his recent wound, acquitted himself as well as possible of this formality. The note was then folded and sealed, while Paganel, with a hand that still trembled from excitement, wrote the following address:
“Tom Austin,
“Mate of the Yacht Duncan,
“Melbourne.”
Thereupon he left the cart, gesticulating, and repeating these incomprehensible words:
“Aland! aland! Zealand!”
XLII
Four Days of Anguish
The rest of the day passed without any other incident. Everything was ready for the departure of Mulready, who was happy to give his master this proof of his devotion.
Paganel had regained his coolness and accustomed manners. His look still indicated an uneasy state of mind, but he appeared decided to keep his secret. He had doubtless strong reasons for acting thus, for the major overheard him repeating these words, like a man who is struggling with himself:
“No, no! they would not believe me! And, besides what use is it? It is too late!”
This resolution taken, he occupied himself with giving Mulready the necessary directions for reaching Melbourne, and, with the map before him, marked out his course. All the trails of the prairie converged towards the Lucknow road, which, after extending straight southward to the coast, suddenly turned in the direction towards Melbourne. It was simply necessary to follow this, and not attempt to cross the unknown country. Mulready could not, therefore, go astray. As for dangers, they lay only a few miles beyond the
