“That would be a difficult matter, for an Indian knows nothing about degrees, and the finding of the document would appear to him a mere fantastic story.”
“Is it the story he would not understand, or the storyteller?” said McNabbs, quietly.
“Ah, McNabbs, I see you have small faith in my Spanish yet.”
“Well, try it, my good friend.”
“So I will.”
And turning round to the Patagonian he began his narrative, breaking down frequently for the want of a word, and the difficulty of making certain details intelligible to a half-civilized Indian. It was quite a sight to see the learned geographer. He gesticulated and articulated, and so worked himself up over it, that the big drops of sweat fell in a cascade down his forehead on to his chest. When his tongue failed, his arms were called to aid. Paganel got down on the ground and traced a geographical map on the sand, showing where the lines of latitude and longitude cross and where the two oceans were, along which the Carmen route led. Thalcave looked on composedly, without giving any indication of comprehending or not comprehending.
The lesson had lasted half an hour, when the geographer left off, wiped his streaming face, and waited for the Patagonian to speak.
“Does he understand?” said Glenarvan.
“That remains to be seen; but if he doesn’t, I give it up,” replied Paganel.
Thalcave neither stirred nor spoke. His eyes remained fixed on the lines drawn on the sand, now becoming fast effaced by the wind.