"No," replied Thalcave, gently. "Here is Thaouka, and there are the Pampas!" he added, indicating with a sweep of his hand the vast expanse of the plains.
It was clear that the Indian would never leave the prairies, where the bones of his fathers whitened. Glenarvan knew the strong attachment of these children of the desert to their native country. He therefore shook Thalcave's hand, and did not insist; not even when the Indian, smiling in his peculiar way, refused the price of his services, saying,—
"It was done out of friendship."
His lordship, however, desired to give the brave Indian something which might at least serve as a souvenir of his European friends. But what had he left? His arms, his horses, everything had been lost in the inundation. His friends were no richer than himself. For some moments he was at a loss how to repay the disinterested generosity of the brave guide; but at last a happy idea occurred to him. He drew from his pocket-book a costly medallion inclosing an admirable portrait, one of Lawrence's master-pieces, and presented it to Thalcave.
"My wife," said Glenarvan.
Thalcave gazed with wonder at the portrait, and pronounced these simple words,—
"Good and beautiful!"
Then Robert, Paganel, the major, Tom Austin, and the two sailors bade an affectionate adieu to the noble Patagonian, who clasped each one in succession to his broad breast. All were sincerely sorry at parting with so courageous and devoted a friend. Paganel forced him to accept a map of South America and the two oceans, which the Indian had frequently examined with interest. It was the geographer's most precious possession. As for Robert, he had nothing to give but caresses, which he freely lavished upon his deliverer and upon Thaouka.