In Search of the Castaways; Or, The Children of Captain Grant. Jules Verne

the weather was so favorable, and the whole party, even Robert, were in perfect health, and altogether the journey had commenced under such favorable auspices, it was deemed advisable to push forward as quickly as possible. Accordingly, the next day they marched 35 miles or more, and encamped at nightfall on the banks of Rio Biobio. The country still presented the same fertile aspect, and abounded in flowers, but animals of any sort only came in sight occasionally, and there were no birds visible, except a solitary heron or owl, and a thrush or grebe, flying from the falcon. Human beings there were none, not a native appeared; not even one of the GUASSOS, the degenerate offspring of Indians and Spaniards, dashed across the plain like a shadow, his flying steed dripping with blood from the cruel thrusts inflicted by the gigantic spurs of his master’s naked feet. It was absolutely impossible to make inquiries when there was no one to address, and Lord Glenarvan came to the conclusion that Captain Grant must have been dragged right over the Andes into the Pampas, and that it would be useless to search for him elsewhere. The only thing to be done was to wait patiently and press forward with all the speed in their power.

      On the 17th they set out in the usual line of march, a line which it was hard work for Robert to keep, his ardor constantly compelled him to get ahead of the MADRINA, to the great despair of his mule. Nothing but a sharp recall from Glenarvan kept the boy in proper order.

      The country now became more diversified, and the rising ground indicated their approach to a mountainous district. Rivers were more numerous, and came rushing noisily down the slopes. Paganel consulted his maps, and when he found any of those streams not marked, which often happened, all the fire of a geographer burned in his veins, and he would exclaim, with a charming air of vexation:

      “A river which hasn’t a name is like having no civil standing. It has no existence in the eye of geographical law.”

      He christened them forthwith, without the least hesitation, and marked them down on the map, qualifying them with the most high-sounding adjectives he could find in the Spanish language.

      “What a language!” he said. “How full and sonorous it is! It is like the metal church bells are made of—composed of seventy-eight parts of copper and twenty-two of tin.”

      “But, I say, do you make any progress in it?” asked Glenarvan.

      “Most certainly, my dear Lord. Ah, if it wasn’t the accent, that wretched accent!”

      And for want of better work, Paganel whiled away the time along the road by practising the difficulties in pronunciation, repeating all the break-jaw words he could, though still making geographical observations. Any question about the country that Glenarvan might ask the CATAPEZ was sure to be answered by the learned Frenchman before he could reply, to the great astonishment of the guide, who gazed at him in bewilderment.

      About two o’clock that same day they came to a cross road, and naturally enough Glenarvan inquired the name of it.

      “It is the route from Yumbel to Los Angeles,” said Paganel.

      Glenarvan looked at the CATAPEZ, who replied:

      “Quite right.”

      And then, turning toward the geographer, he added:

      “You have traveled in these parts before, sir?”

      “Oh, yes,” said Paganel, quite gravely.

      “On a mule?”

      “No, in an easy chair.”

      The CATAPEZ could not make him out, but shrugged his shoulders and resumed his post at the head of the party.

      At five in the evening they stopped in a gorge of no great depth, some miles above the little town of Loja, and encamped for the night at the foot of the Sierras, the first steppes of the great Cordilleras.

CHAPTER XII ELEVEN THOUSAND FEET ALOFT

       Table of Contents

      NOTHING of importance had occurred hitherto in the passage through Chili; but all the obstacles and difficulties incident to a mountain journey were about to crowd on the travelers now.

      One important question had first to be settled. Which pass would take them over the Andes, and yet not be out of their fixed route?

      On questioning the CATAPEZ on the subject, he replied:

      “There are only two practicable passes that I know of in this part of the Cordilleras.”

      “The pass of Arica is one undoubtedly discovered by Valdivia Mendoze,” said Paganel.

      “Just so.”

      “And that of Villarica is the other.”

      “Precisely.”

      “Well, my good fellow, both these passes have only one fault; they take us too far out of our route, either north or south.”

      “Have you no other to propose?” asked the Major.

      “Certainly,” replied Paganel. “There is the pass of Antuco, on the slope of the volcano, in latitude, 37 degrees 30’ , or, in other words, only half a degree out of our way.”

      “That would do, but are you acquainted with this pass of Antuco, CATAPEZ?” said Glenarvan.

      “Yes, your Lordship, I have been through it, but I did not mention it, as no one goes that way but the Indian shepherds with the herds of cattle.”

      “Oh, very well; if mares and sheep and oxen can go that way, we can, so let’s start at once.”

      The signal for departure was given immediately, and they struck into the heart of the valley of Las Lejas, between great masses of chalk crystal. From this point the pass began to be difficult, and even dangerous. The angles of the declivities widened and the ledges narrowed, and frightful precipices met their gaze. The mules went cautiously along, keeping their heads near the ground, as if scenting the track. They marched in file. Sometimes at a sudden bend of the road, the MADRINA would disappear, and the little caravan had to guide themselves by the distant tinkle of her bell. Often some capricious winding would bring the column in two parallel lines, and the CATAPEZ could speak to his PEONS across a crevasse not two fathoms wide, though two hundred deep, which made between them an inseparable gulf.

      Glenarvan followed his guide step by step. He saw that his perplexity was increasing as the way became more difficult, but did not dare to interrogate him, rightly enough, perhaps, thinking that both mules and muleteers were very much governed by instinct, and it was best to trust to them.

      For about an hour longer the CATAPEZ kept wandering about almost at haphazard, though always getting higher up the mountains. At last he was obliged to stop short. They were in a narrow valley, one of those gorges called by the Indians “quebrads,” and on reaching the end, a wall of porphyry rose perpendicularly before them, and barred further passage. The CATAPEZ, after vain attempts at finding an opening, dismounted, crossed his arms, and waited. Glenarvan went up to him and asked if he had lost his way.

      “No, your Lordship,” was the reply.

      “But you are not in the pass of Antuco.”

      “We are.”

      “You are sure you are not mistaken?”

      “I am not mistaken. See! there are the remains of a fire left by the Indians, and there are the marks of the mares and the sheep.”

      “They must have gone on then.”

      “Yes, but no more will go; the last earthquake has made the route impassable.”

      “To mules,” said the Major, “but not to men.”

      “Ah, that’s your concern; I have done all I could. My mules and myself are at your service