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

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

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: “Sem duvida um Patag~ao [65] .”

No response still.

“Dizeime! [66] ” said Paganel.

But no answer came.

“Vos compriendeis? [67] ” shouted Paganel, at the very top of his voice.

Evidently the Indian did not understand, for he replied in Spanish: “No comprendo [68] .”

Addressing the Patagonian, Glenarvan repeated the word: “Espa~nol?”

“S'i, s'i [69] ,” replied the Indian.

Paganel’s surprise became absolute stupefaction.

“It’s clear enough the man speaks Spanish.”

“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. 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, from the depths of one of his numerous pockets.

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

“The ‘Lusiades’ [70] , an admirable epic, which—”

“The ‘Lusiades’!” exclaimed Glenarvan.

“Yes, my friend, the ‘Lusiades’ of the great Camoens, neither more nor less.” [71]

“Camoens!” repeated Glenarvan; “but Paganel, my unfortunate fellow, Camoens was a Portuguese! It is Portuguese you have been learning for the last six weeks!”

“Camoens! ‘Lusiades’! Portuguese!” Paganel could not say more. He looked vexed, while his companions broke out in a furious burst of laughter.

The Indian never moved a muscle of his face. He quietly awaited the explanation.

“Fool, idiot, that I am!” at last uttered Paganel. “Is it really a fact? You are not joking with me? It is what I have actually been doing? Ah me! My friends, what is to become of me? To start for India and arrive at Chili! To learn Spanish and talk Portuguese! Laugh away, my friends, laugh as loud as you like; you can’t laugh at me half as much as I laugh at myself!”

“But, I say,” said the Major, after a minute, “this doesn’t alter the fact that we have no interpreter.”

“Oh, don’t distress yourself about that,” replied Paganel, “Portuguese and Spanish are much alike. In a very short time I shall be able to thank the Patagonian in the language he speaks so well.”

Paganel was right. He soon managed to exchange a few words with the stranger, and found out even that his name was Thalcave [72] , a word that signified “The Thunderer.”

But what rejoiced Glenarvan most was to learn that he was a guide by occupation, and, moreover, a guide across the Pampas.

When the party went back to Robert, the Patagonian silently laid his hand on his head, and proceeded to examine him with the greatest care, gently feeling each of his aching limbs. Then he gathered a few handfuls of wild celery, which grew on the banks, with which he rubbed the child’s body all over. He handled him with the most exquisite delicacy, and his treatment revived the lad’s strength.

Happily, Thalcave was a practiced guide, and one of the most intelligent of his class. He undertook to find all that was needed, and offered to take them to Indians, where he could get supplies. This proposition was partly made by gestures, and partly by a few Spanish words which Paganel managed to understand. His offer was accepted, and Glenarvan and his learned friend started off with him at once.