ROBERT had no sooner escaped one terrible danger than he ran the risk of another scarcely less formidable. He was almost torn to pieces by his friends, for the brave fellows were so overjoyed at the sight of him, that in spite of his weak state, none of them would be satisfied without

V. IV Verne giving him a hug. However, it seemed as if good rough hugging did not hurt sick people; at any rate it did not hurt Robert, but quite the contrary.

But the first joy of deliverance over, the next thought was who was the deliverer? Of course it was the Major who suggested looking for him, and he was not far off, for about fifty paces from the RIO a man of very tall stature was seen standing motionless on the lowest crags at the foot of the mountain. A long gun was lying at his feet.

He had broad shoulders, and long hair bound together with leather thongs. He was over six feet in height. His bronzed face was red between the eyes and mouth, black by the lower eyelids, and white on the forehead. He wore the costume of the Patagonians on the frontiers, consisting of a splendid cloak, ornamented with scarlet arabesques, made of the skins of the guanaco, sewed together with ostrich tendons, and with the silky wool turned up on the edge. Under this mantle was a garment of fox-skin, fastened round the waist, and coming down to a point in front. A little bag hung from his belt, containing colors for painting his face. His boots were pieces of ox hide, fastened round the ankles by straps, across.

This Patagonian had a splendid face, indicating real intelligence, notwithstanding the medley of colors by which it was disfigured. His waiting attitude was full of dignity; indeed, to see him standing grave and motionless on his pedestal of rocks, one might have taken him for a statue of sang-froid.

As soon as the Major perceived him, he pointed him out to Glenarvan, who ran toward him immediately. The Patagonian came two steps forward to meet him, and Glenarvan caught hold of his hand and pressed it in his own. It was impossible to mistake the meaning of the action, for the noble face of the Scotch lord so beamed with gratitude that no words were needed. The stranger bowed slightly in return, and said a few words that neither Glenarvan nor the Major could understand.

The Patagonian surveyed them attentively for a few minutes, and spoke again in another language. But this second idiom was no more intelligible than the first. Certain words, however, caught Glenarvan’s ear as sounding like Spanish, a few sentences of which he could speak.

ESPANOL?” he asked.

The Patagonian nodded in reply, a movement of the head which has an affirmative significance among all nations.

“That’s good!” said the Major. “Our friend Paganel will be the very man for him. It is lucky for us that he took it into his head to learn Spanish.”

Paganel was called forthwith. He came at once, and saluted the stranger with all the grace of a Frenchman. But his compliments were lost on the Patagonian, for he did not understand a single syllable.

However, on being told how things stood, he began in Spanish, and opening his mouth as wide as he could, the better to articulate, said:

“Vos sois um homen de bem.” (You are a brave man.)

The native listened, but made no reply.

“He doesn’t understand,” said the geographer.

“Perhaps you haven’t the right accent,” suggested the Major.

“That’s just it! Confound the accent!”

Once more Paganel repeated his compliment, but with no better success.

“I’ll change the phrase,” he said; and in slow, deliberate tones he went on, “Sam duvida um Patagao“ (A Patagonian, undoubtedly).

No response still.

“DIZEIME!” said Paganel (Answer me).

But no answer came.

“Vos compriendeis?“ (Do you understand?) shouted Paganel, at the very top of his voice, as if he would burst his throat.

Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in Spanish,

“No comprendo“ (I do not understand).

It was Paganel’s turn now to be amazed. He pushed his spectacles right down over his nose, as if greatly irritated, and said,

“I’ll be hanged if I can make out one word of his infernal patois. It is Araucanian, that’s certain!”

“Not a bit of it!” said Glenarvan. “It was Spanish he spoke.”

And addressing the Patagonian, he repeated the word, “ESPANOL?” (Spanish?).

“Si, si“ (yes, yes) replied the Indian.

Paganel’s surprise became absolute stupefaction. The Major and his cousin exchanged sly glances, and McNabbs said, mischievously, with a look of fun on his face, “Ah, ah, my worthy friend; is this another of your misadventures? You seem to have quite a monopoly of them.”

“What!” said Paganel, pricking up his ear.

“Yes, it’s clear enough the man speaks Spanish.”

“He!”

“Yes, he certainly speaks Spanish. Perhaps it is some other language you have been studying all this time instead of —”

But Paganel would not allow him to proceed. He shrugged his shoulders, and said stiffly,

“You go a little too far, Major.”

“Well, how is it that you don’t understand him then?”

“Why, of course, because the man speaks badly,” replied the learned geographer, getting impatient.

“He speaks badly; that is to say, because you can’t understand him,” returned the Major coolly.

“Come, come, McNabbs,” put in Glenarvan, “your supposition is quite inadmissable. However DISTRAIT our friend Paganel is, it is hardly likely he would study one language for another.”

“Well, Edward — or rather you, my good Paganel — explain it then.”

“I explain nothing. I give proof. Here is the book I use daily, to practice myself in the difficulties of the Spanish language. Examine it for yourself, Major,” he said, handing him a volume in a very ragged condition, which he had brought up, after a long rummage, from the depths of one of his numerous pockets. “Now you can see whether I am imposing on you,” he continued, indignantly.

“And what’s the name of this book?” asked the Major, as he took it from his hand.

“The LUSIADES, an admirable epic, which —”

“The LUSIADES!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, my friend, the LUSIADES of the great Camoens, neither more nor less.”

“Camoens!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow, Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning fo............