PROVIDENTIALLY RESCUED.
The eastern side of the Andes consists of long slopes, declining
gradually to the plain upon which a portion of the mass had suddenly
stopped. In this new country, garnished with rich pastures and adorned
with magnificent vegetation, an incalculable number of apple-trees,
planted at the time of the conquest, glowed with their golden fruit
and formed true forests. It seemed as if a part of beautiful Normandy
had been cast into these monotonous regions, and under any other
circumstances the eye of a traveler would have been struck with this
sudden transition from desert to oasis, from snowy peak to verdant
prairie, from winter to summer.
The earth had regained an absolute immobility, and the earthquake had
ceased. But without doubt the subterranean forces were still exerting
their devastating action at a distance, for the chain of the Andes is
always agitated or trembling in some part. This time, however, the
commotion had been of extreme violence. The outline of the mountains
was entirely changed; a new view of summits, crests, and peaks was
defined against the azure of the sky; and the guide of the Pampas would
have sought in vain for his accustomed landmarks.
[Sidenote: COMEDY CHANGED TO TRAGEDY.]
A wonderfully beautiful day was breaking. The rays of the sun, issuing
from their watery bed in the Atlantic, glittered over the Argentine
plains and were already silvering the waves of the other ocean. It was
eight o'clock in the morning.
Glenarvan and his companions, revived by the aid of the major,
gradually recovered consciousness. Indeed, they had only undergone
a severe giddiness. The mountain was descended, and they would have
applauded a means of locomotion which had been entirely at nature's
expense, if one of the feeblest, Robert Grant, had not been missing.
Every one loved the courageous boy: Paganel was particularly attached
to him; the major, too, in spite of his coldness; but especially
Glenarvan.
When the latter learned of Robert's disappearance, he was desperate. He
pictured to himself the poor child engulfed in some abyss, and calling
vainly for him whom he considered his second father.
"My friends," said he, scarcely restraining his tears, "we must search
for him, we must find him! We cannot abandon him thus! Every valley,
every precipice, every abyss must be explored to the very bottom! You
shall tie a rope around me and let me down! I will do it, you hear me,
I will! May Heaven grant that Robert is still living! Without him,
how could we dare find his father? What right have we to save Captain
Grant, if his rescue costs the life of his child?"
His companions listened without speaking. They felt that he was seeking
in their looks some ray of hope, and they lowered their eyes.
"Well," continued Glenarvan, "you understand me; you are silent! You
have no more hope!"
A few moments of silence ensued, when MacNabb inquired:
"Who of you, my friends, remembers when Robert disappeared?"
To this question no answer was given.
"At least," continued the major, "you can tell with whom the boy was
during the descent."
"With me," replied Wilson.
"Well, at what moment did you last see him with you? Recall the
circumstances. Speak."
"This is all that I remember. Robert Grant was at my side, his hand
grasping a tuft of moss, less than two minutes before the shock that
caused our descent."
"Less than two minutes? Remember, Wilson, the minutes may have seemed
long to you. Are you not mistaken?"
"I think not--yes, it is so, less than two minutes."
"Well," said MacNabb; "and was Robert on your right, or on your left?"
"On my left. I remember that his poncho flapped in my face."
"And where were you situated in reference to us?"
"On the left also."
"Then Robert could have disappeared only on this side," said the major,
turning towards the mountain, and pointing to the right. "And also
considering the time that has elapsed since his disappearance, the
child must have fallen at a high part of the mountain. There we must
search, and, by taking different ways, we shall find him."
Not a word more was said. The six men, scaling the declivities of the
mountain, stationed themselves at different heights along the ridge,
and began their search. They kept always to the right of their line of
descent, sounding the smallest fissures, descending to the bottom of
precipices half filled with fragments of the mass; and more than one
came forth with his garments in shreds, his feet and hands lacerated,
at the peril of his life.
[Sidenote: A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.]
All this portion of the Andes, except a few inaccessible plateaus,
was carefully explored for many hours without one of these brave men
thinking of rest. But it was a vain search. The child had not only
found death in the mountains, but also a tomb, the stone of which,
made of some enormous rock, was forever closed over him.
Towards noon Glenarvan and his companions, bruised and exhausted, found
themselves again in the valley. The former was a prey to the most
violent grief. He scarcely spoke, and from his lips issued only these
words, broken by sighs,--"I will not go; I will not go!"
Each understood this determination, and respected it.
"We will wait," said Paganel to the major and Tom Austin. "Let us take
some rest, and recruit our strength. We shall need it, whether to begin
our search or continue our journey."
"Yes," replied MacNabb, "let us remain, since Edward wishes it. He
hopes: but what does he hope?"
"God knows!" said Tom Austin.
"Poor Robert!" replied Paganel, wiping his eyes.
Trees thronged the valley in great numbers. The major chose a group of
lofty carob-trees, under which was established a temporary encampment.
A few blankets, the arms, a little dried meat, and some rice, was
all that remained to the travelers. A stream, which flowed not far
off, furnished water, still muddy from the effects of the avalanche.
Mulready kindled a fire on the grass, and soon presented to his master
a warm and comforting repast. But Glenarvan refused it, and remained
stretched on his poncho in profound prostration.
Thus the day passed. Night came, clear and calm as the preceding. While
his companions lay motionless, although wakeful, Glenarvan reascended
the mountain. He listened closely, still hoping that a last cry might
reach him. He ventured alone and afar, pressing his ear to the ground,
listening, restraining the beatings of his heart, and calling in a
voice of despair.
The whole night long he wandered on the mountain. Sometimes Paganel,
sometimes the major, followed him, ready to help him on the slippery
summits, or on the edge of the chasms, where his rashness led him. But
his last efforts were fruitless; and to the cry of "Robert! Robert!" a
thousand times repeated, echo alone replied.
Day dawned, and it was necessary to go in search of Glenarvan on
the mountain, and bring him in spite of his reluctance back to the
encampment. His despair was terrible. Who would now dare to speak
to him of departure, and propose leaving this fatal valley? But the
provisions were failing. They would soon meet the Argentine guides
and horses to take them across the Pampas. To retrace their steps was
more difficult than to advance. Besides, the Atlantic was the place
appointed to meet the Duncan. All these reasons did not permit a longer
delay, and it was for the interest of all that the hour for departure
should be no longer deferred.
MacNabb attempted to draw Glenarvan from his grief. For a long time he
spoke without his friend appearing to hear him. Glenarvan shook his
head. At length, words escaped his lips.
"Go?" said he.
"Yes, go."
"One hour more!"
"Well, one hour more," replied the worthy major.
When it had passed, Glenarvan asked for another. You would have thought
a condemned man was praying for his life. Thus it continued till about
noon, when MacNabb, by the advice of all, would no longer hesitate, and
told Glenarvan that they must go, the lives of his companions depended
upon a prompt decision.
"Yes, yes," replied Glenarvan, "we will go, we will go!"
But as he spoke his eyes were turned away from MacNabb. His gaze was
fixed upon a black speck in the air. Suddenly his hand rose, and
remained immovable, as if petrified.
"There! there!" cried he. "See! see!"
[Illustration: The bird had raised him by his garments, and was now
hovering in mid-air at least one hundred and fifty feet above the
encampment. He had perceived the travelers, and was violently striving
to escape with his heavy prey.] All eyes were raised towards the sky,
in the direction so imperatively indicated. At that moment the black
speck visibly increased. It was a bird hovering at a measureless height.
"A condor," said Paganel.
"Yes, a condor," replied Glenarvan. "Who knows? He is coming, he is
descending! Let us wait."
What did Glenarvan hope? Was his reason wandering? He had said, "Who
knows?" Paganel was not mistaken. The condor became more distinct every
moment.
This magnificent bird, long revered by the Incas, is the king of
the southern Andes. In these regions he attains an extraordinary
development. His strength is prodigious; and he often precipitates
oxen to the bottom of the abysses. He attacks sheep, goats, and calves
wandering on the plain, and carries them in his talons to a great
height. Sometimes he hovers at an elevation beyond the limit of human
vision, and there this king of the air surveys, with a piercing look,
the regions below, and distinguishes the faintest objects with a power
of sight that is the astonishment of naturalists.
What had the condor seen? A corpse,--that of Robert Grant? "Who knows?"
repeated Glenarvan, without losing sight of him. The enormous bird
approached, now hovering, now falling with the swiftness of inert
bodies. He soon described circles of larger extent, and could be
perfectly distinguished. He measured fifteen feet across his wings,
which supported him in the air almost without motion, for it is the
peculiarity of these great birds to sail with a majestic calmness
unlike all others of the winged tribes.
The major and Wilson had seized their rifles, but Glenarvan stopped
them with a gesture. The condor was approaching in the circles of his
flight a sort of inaccessible plateau a quarter of a mile distant.
He was turning with a vertical rapidity, opening and closing his
formidable claws, and shaking his cartilaginous neck.
[Sidenote: SOMETHING WORSE.]
"There! there!" cried Glenarvan.
Then suddenly a thought flashed through his mind.
"If Robert is still living!" exclaimed he, with a cry of terror, "this
bird! Fire, my friends, fire!"
But he was too late. The condor had disappeared behind the lofty
boulders. A second passed that seemed an eternity. Then the enormous
bird reappeared, heavily laden, and rising slowly.
A cry of horror was uttered. In the claws of the condor an inanimate
body was seen suspended and dangling. It was Robert Grant. The bird had
raised him by his garments, and was now hovering in mid-air at least
one hundred and fifty feet above the encampment. He had perceived the
travelers, and was violently striving to escape with his heavy prey.
[Illustration]
"May Robert's body be dashed upon these rocks," cried Glenarvan,
"rather than serve----"
He did not finish, but, seizing Wilson's rifle, attempted to take aim
at the condor. But his arm trembled; he could not sight the piece. His
eyes were dimmed.
"Let me try," said the major.
With clear eye, steady hand, and motionless body, he aimed at the bird,
that was already three hundred feet above him. But he had not pressed
the trigger, when a report resounded in the valley. A light smoke
curled up between two rocks, and the condor, shot in the head, fell,
slowly turning, sustained by his broad outspread wings. He had not
released his prey, and at last reached the ground, ten paces from the
banks of the stream.
"Quick! quick!" said Glenarvan; and without seeking whence this
providential shot had come, he rushed towards the condor. His
companions closely followed him.
[Illustration]
[Sidenote: "THE LOST IS FOUND."]
When they arrived the bird was dead, and the body of Robert was hidden
under its great wings. Glenarvan threw himself upon the child, released
him from the talons of the condor, stretched him on the grass, and
pressed his ear to his breast.
Never did a wilder cry of joy issue from human lips than when Glenarvan
rose, exclaiming:
"He lives! he lives!"
In an instant Robert was stripped of his garments, and his face bathed
with fresh water. He made a movement, opened his eyes, looked around,
and uttered a few words:
"You, my lord--my father!----"
Glenarvan could not speak. Emotion stifled him, and, kneeling, he wept
beside this child so miraculously saved.