“I resign myself,” said the geographer, much flattered at having supreme command.
“But mind, Paganel, no distractions,” added the Major. “Don’t you take us to the wrong place—to the borders of the Pacific, for instance.”
“Oh, you insufferable Major; it would serve you right,” replied Paganel, laughing. “But how will you manage to understand what Thalcave says, Glenarvan?” he continued.
“I suppose,” replied Glenarvan, “the Patagonian and I won’t have much to talk about; besides, I know a few Spanish words, and, at a pinch, I should not fear either making him understand me, or my understanding him.”
“Go, then, my worthy friend,” said Paganel.
“We’ll have supper first,” rejoined Glenarvan, “and then sleep, if we can, till it is starting time.”
The supper was not very reviving without drink of any kind, and they tried to make up for the lack of it by a good sleep. But Paganel dreamed of water all night, of torrents and cascades, and rivers and ponds, and streams and brooks—in fact, he had a complete nightmare.
Next morning, at six o’clock, the horses of Thalcave, Glenarvan and Robert were got ready. Their last ration of water was given them, and drunk with more avidity than satisfaction, for it was filthy, disgusting stuff. The three travelers then jumped into their saddles, and set off, shouting “Au revoir!” to their companions.
“Don’t come back whatever you do,” called Paganel after them.
The Desertio de las Salinas, which they had to traverse, is a dry plain, covered with stunted trees not above ten feet high, and small mimosas, which the Indians call curra-mammel; and JUMES, a bushy shrub, rich in soda. Here and there large spaces were covered with salt, which sparkled in the sunlight with astonishing brilliancy. These might easily have been taken for sheets of ice, had not the intense heat forbidden the illusion; and the contrast these dazzling white sheets presented to the dry, burned-up ground gave the desert a most peculiar character. Eighty miles south, on the contrary, the Sierra Ventana, toward which the travelers might possibly have to betake themselves should the Guamini disappoint their hopes, the landscape was totally different. There the fertility is splendid; the pasturage is incomparable. Unfortunately, to reach them would necessitate a march of one hundred and thirty miles south; and this was why Thalcave thought it best to go first to Guamini, as it was not only much nearer, but also on the direct line of route.