VERNANIA: The Celebrated Works of Jules Verne in One Edition. Жюль Верн

repeated Glenarvan, keeping his eye immovably fixed on the bird. The enormous creature was fast approaching, sometimes hovering for awhile with outspread wings, and sometimes falling with the swiftness of inert bodies in space. Presently he began to wheel round in wide circles. They could see him distinctly. He measured more than fifteen feet, and his powerful wings bore him along with scarcely the slightest effort, for it is the prerogative of large birds to fly with calm majesty, while insects have to beat their wings a thousand times a second.

      The Major and Wilson had seized their carbines, but Glenarvan stopped them by a gesture. The condor was encircling in his flight a sort of inaccessible plateau about a quarter of a mile up the side of the mountain. He wheeled round and round with dazzling rapidity, opening and shutting his formidable claws, and shaking his cartilaginous carbuncle, or comb.

      “It is there, there!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

      A sudden thought flashed across his mind, and with a terrible cry, he called out, “Fire! fire! Oh, suppose Robert were still alive! That bird.”

      But it was too late. The condor had dropped out of sight behind the crags. Only a second passed, a second that seemed an age, and the enormous bird reappeared, carrying a heavy load and flying at a slow rate.

      A cry of horror rose on all sides. It was a human body the condor had in his claws, dangling in the air, and apparently lifeless— it was Robert Grant. The bird had seized him by his clothes, and had him hanging already at least one hundred and fifty feet in the air. He had caught sight of the travelers, and was flapping his wings violently, endeavoring to escape with his heavy prey.

      “Oh! would that Robert were dashed to pieces against the rocks, rather than be a—”

      He did not finish his sentence, but seizing Wilson’s carbine, took aim at the condor. His arm was too trembling, however, to keep the weapon steady.

      “Let me do it,” said the Major. And with a calm eye, and sure hands and motionless body, he aimed at the bird, now three hundred feet above him in the air.

      But before he had pulled the trigger the report of a gun resounded from the bottom of the valley. A white smoke rose from between two masses of basalt, and the condor, shot in the head, gradually turned over and began to fall, supported by his great wings spread out like a parachute. He had not let go his prey, but gently sank down with it on the ground, about ten paces from the stream.

      “We’ve got him, we’ve got him,” shouted Glenarvan; and without waiting to see where the shot so providentially came from, he rushed toward the condor, followed by his companions.

      When they reached the spot the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was quite concealed beneath his mighty wings. Glenarvan flung himself on the corpse, and dragging it from the condor’s grasp, placed it flat on the grass, and knelt down and put his ear to the heart.

      But a wilder cry of joy never broke from human lips, than Glenarvan uttered the next moment, as he started to his feet and exclaimed:

      “He is alive! He is still alive!”

      The boy’s clothes were stripped off in an instant, and his face bathed with cold water. He moved slightly, opened his eyes, looked round and murmured, “Oh, my Lord! Is it you!” he said; “my father!”

      Glenarvan could not reply. He was speechless with emotion, and kneeling down by the side of the child so miraculously saved, burst into tears.

CHAPTER XV THALCAVE

      Table of Contents

      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 foxskin, 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