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Night came. The dim light of the stars was all that illumined the plain. The waters of the river ran silently. Glenarvan, Robert, and Thalcave lay in profound slumber on their soft couch of lucerne.
However, the Indian’s sleep did not last long; for at ten o’clock he woke, sat up, and turned his ear toward the plain, listening intently, with half-closed eyes. The horse gave a low neigh, and stretched its nostrils.
This startled the Patagonian, and made him rise to his feet at once.
“The horse scents an enemy,” he said to himself.
He did not wait long, for a strange cry—a confused sound of barking and howling—broke over the Pampas, followed next instant by the report of the carbine.
Glenarvan and Robert woke in alarm, and started to their feet instantly.
“What is it?” exclaimed Robert.
“Is it the Indians?” asked Glenarvan.
“No,” replied Thalcave, “the red wolves of the Pampas.”
Robert drew back involuntarily.
“You are not afraid of wolves, my boy?” said Glenarvan.
“No, my Lord,” said the lad in a firm tone, “and moreover, beside you I am afraid of nothing.”
“Never mind; we are all well armed; let them come. We’ll certainly give them a warm reception,” rejoined Glenarvan.
His Lordship only spoke thus to reassure the child, for a secret terror filled him at the sight of this legion of bloodthirsty animals. There might possibly be some hundreds, and what could three men do against such a multitude?
Thalcave lowered their weapons.
“What does Thalcave mean?” asked Robert.
“He forbids our firing.”
“And why?”
“Perhaps he thinks it is not the right time.”
But this was not the Indian’s reason, and so Glenarvan saw when he lifted the powder-flask, showed him it was nearly empty.
“What’s wrong?” asked Robert.
“We can’t fire more than twenty times,” was the reply.
The boy made no reply, and Glenarvan asked him if he was frightened.
“No, my Lord,” he said.
“That’s right,” returned Glenarvan.
“What does Thalcave say?”
“He says that at any price we must hold out till daybreak. The red wolf is a cowardly beast, that loves the darkness and dreads the light—an owl on four feet.”
“Very well, let us defend ourselves, then, till morning.”
The made a fire wall, the wolves could not come nearer. But very soon this means of defense would be at an end. About two o’clock, Thalcave flung his last armful of combustibles into the fire.
The fire was fast dying out, and the end of the terrible drama was approaching. The flames got lower and lower. Thalcave loaded his carbine for the last time, killed one more enormous monster, and then folded his arms. His head sank on his chest, and he appeared buried in deep thought.
At this very moment the wolves began to change their tactics. The howls suddenly ceased: they seemed to be going away. Robert exclaimed:
“They’re gone!”
But Thalcave shook his head. The Indian went up to his horse, who was trembling with impatience. A dark suspicion crossed Glenarvan’s mind as he watched him.
“He is going to desert us,” he exclaimed at last.
“He! Never!” replied Robert. Instead of deserting them, the truth was that the Indian was going to try and save his friends by sacrificing himself.
Glenarvan seized the Patagonian’s arm with a convulsive grip, and said, pointing to the open prairie.
“You are going away?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian, understanding his gesture. Then he said a few words in Spanish, which meant: “A good horse; quick; will draw all the wolves away after it.”
“Oh, Thalcave,” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Quick, quick!” replied the Indian.
“Robert, my child, do you hear him? He wants to sacrifice himself for us. He wants to rush away over the Pampas, and turn off the wolves from us by attracting them to himself.”
“Friend Thalcave,” returned Robert, throwing himself at the feet of the Patagonian, “friend Thalcave, don’t leave us!”
“No,” said Glenarvan, “he shall not leave us.”
And turning toward the Indian, he said, pointing to the frightened horses, “Let us go together.”
“No,” replied Thalcave, catching his meaning. “Bad beasts; frightened; my horse, good horse.”
“Be it so then!” returned Glenarvan. “Thalcave will not leave you, Robert. He teaches me what I must do. It is for me to go, and for him to stay by you.”
Then seizing Thaouka’s bridle, he said, “I am going, Thalcave, not you.”
“No,” replied the Patagonian quietly.
“I am,” exclaimed Glenarvan, snatching the bridle out of his hands. “I, myself! Save this boy, Thalcave! I commit him to you.”
Glenarvan was so excited that he mixed up English words with his Spanish. But the two men understood each other.
Glenarvan was blind and obstinate, and determined to sacrifice himself, when suddenly he felt himself violently pushed back. A clear, young voice called out:
“God save you, my lord!”
“Robert! Oh you unfortunate boy!” cried Glenarvan.
The wolves had dashed off at a tremendous speed on the track of the horse.
Glenarvan sank prostrate on the ground, and clasped his hands despairingly. He looked at Thalcave, who smiled with his accustomed calmness, and said:
“A good horse. Brave boy. He will save himself!”
“And suppose he falls?” said Glenarvan.
“He’ll not fall.”
At four o’clock morning began to dawn. The time for starting had arrived.
“Now!” cried Thalcave, “Come.”
Glenarvan made no reply, but took Robert’s horse and sprung into the saddle. Next minute both men were galloping at full speed toward the west. Soon they came up to the little detachment conducted by Paganel. A cry broke from Glenarvan’s lips, for Robert was there, alive and well, still mounted. The horse neighed loudly with delight at the sight of his master.
“Oh, my child, my child!” cried Glenarvan, with indescribable tenderness in his tone. “He is alive, he is alive.”
Glenarvan put his arms round the boy and said,
“Why wouldn’t you let me or Thalcave save us, my son?”
“My lord,” replied the boy in tones of gratitude, “Thalcave has saved my life already, and you—you are going to save my father.”
At ten o’clock next morning Glenarvan gave the signal for starting. The leather bottles were filled with water, and the day’s march commenced. The horses were so well rested that they were quite fresh again. No incident of any importance occurred during the 2nd and 3rd of November, and in the evening they reached the boundary of the Pampas, and camped for the night on the frontiers of the province of Buenos Ayres. Two-thirds of their journey was now accomplished. It was twenty-two days since they left the Bay of Talcahuano, and they had gone 450 miles.
Next morning they crossed the conventional line which separates the Argentine plains from the region of the Pampas. It was here that Thalcave hoped to meet the Caciques, in whose hands, he had no doubt, Harry Grant and his men were prisoners.
From the time there was marked change in the temperature, to the great relief of the travelers. It was much cooler, thanks to the violent and cold winds from Patagonia. But contrary to what Thalcave had said, the whole district appeared uninhabited, or rather abandoned. It was very strange.
Glenarvan called out:
“Come along, friend Paganel. Thalcave and I can’t understand each other at all.”
After a few minute’s talk with the Patagonian, the interpreter turned to Glenarvan and said:
“Thalcave is quite astonished at the fact, and certainly it is very strange that there are no Indians, nor even traces of any to be seen in these plains.”
“And what does Thalcave think is the reason?”
“He does not know; he is amazed and that’s all.”
“But what must we do then?”
“I’ll go and ask him,” replied Paganel.
After a brief colloquy he returned and said: “This is his advice, and very sensible it is, I think. He says we had better continue our route to the east as far as Fort Independence, and if we don’t get news of Captain Grant there we shall hear, at any rate, what has become of the Indians of the Argentine plains.”
“Is Fort Independence far away?” asked Glenarvan.
“No, a distance of about sixty miles.”
“And when shall we arrive?”
“The day after tomorrow, in the evening.”
The Sierra Tandil rises a thousand feet above the level of the sea. It is formed of a semi-circular ridge of hills, covered with fine short grass. The district of Tandil, to which it has given its name, includes all the south of the Province of Buenos Ayres, and terminates in a river.
They reached the postern gate, so carelessly guarded by an Argentine sentinel that they passed through without difficulty.
A few minutes afterward the Commandant appeared in person. Thalcave acted as a spokesman, and addressed the officer, presenting Lord Glenarvan and his companions. While he was speaking, the Commandant kept staring fixedly at Paganel in rather an embarrassing manner. The geographer could not understand what he meant by it, and was just about to interrogate him, when the Commandant came forward, and seizing both his hands, said in a joyous voice, in the mother tongue of the geographer: “A Frenchman!”
“Yes, a Frenchman,” replied Paganel.
“Ah! Delightful! Welcome, welcome. I am a Frenchman too,” he added, shaking Paganel’s hand.
The Commandant related his entire history. The fact was that the Governor of Fort Independence was a French sergeant.
Then Paganel began an account of their journey across the Pampas, and ended by inquiring the reason of the Indians having deserted the country.
“Ah! There was no one!” replied the Sergeant, shrugging his shoulders. “Really no one! Nothing to do!”
“But why?”
“War.”
“War?”
“Yes, civil war between the Paraguayans and Buenos Ayriens. Indians all in the north,” replied the Sergeant.
“But where are the Caciques?”
“Caciques are with them.”
This circumstance upset all Glenarvan’s projects, for if Harry Grant was a prisoner in the hands of the Caciques, he must have been dragged north with them. How and where should they ever find him? It was a serious question which would need to be well talked over.
However, there was one more inquiry to make to the Sergeant.
“Had the Sergeant heard whether any Europeans were prisoners in the hands of the Caciques?”
He looked thoughtful for a few minutes. At last he said: “Yes.”
“Ah!” said Glenarvan, catching at the fresh hope.
They all eagerly crowded round the Sergeant, exclaiming “Tell us, tell us.”
“It was some years ago,” replied Manuel. “Yes; all I heard was that some Europeans were prisoners, but I never saw them.”
“You are making a mistake,” said Glenarvan. “It can’t be some years ago; the date of the shipwreck is explicitly given. The Britannia was wrecked in June, 1862. It is scarcely two years ago.”
“Oh, more than that, my Lord.”
“Impossible!” said Paganel.
“Oh, but it must be. There were two prisoners.”
“No, three!” said Glenarvan.
“Two!” replied the Sergeant, in a positive tone.
“Two?” echoed Glenarvan, much surprised. “Two Englishmen?”
“No, no. Who is talking of Englishmen? No; a Frenchman and an Italian. Yes; and I heard afterward that the Frenchman was saved.”
“Saved!” exclaimed young Robert, his very life hanging on the lips of the Sergeant.
“Yes; delivered out of the hands of the Indians.”
Paganel struck his forehead with an air of desperation, and said at last: “Ah! I understand. It is all clear now; everything is explained.”
“But what is it?” asked Glenarvan, with as much impatience.
“My friends,” replied Paganel, taking both Robert’s hands in his own, “we have been on a wrong track. The prisoner mentioned is not the captain at all. Instead of following the track of Harry Grant, we were following the track of a Frenchman and an Italian.”
This announcement was heard with profound silence. The mistake was palpable. Glenarvan looked at Thalcave with a crestfallen face, and the Indian, turning to the Sergeant, asked whether he had never heard of three English captives.
“Never,” the Sergeant. “I am sure.”
After this, there was nothing further to do at Fort Independence but to shake hands with the Commandant, and thank him and take leave.
“Since Harry Grant is not in the Pampas,” exclaimed Paganel, “he is not in America; but where he is the document must say, and it shall say, my friends, or my name is not Jacques Paganel any longer!”
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