“Yes, yes, or at any rate a coppice.”
“A coppice!” replied Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “My boy, you are dreaming.”
“I am not dreaming, and you will see for yourself. Well, this is a strange country. They sow horns, and they sprout up like wheat. I wish I could get some of the seed.”
“The boy is really speaking seriously,” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. Major, and you will soon see I am right.”
The boy had not been mistaken, for presently they found themselves in front of an immense field of horns, regularly planted and stretching far out of sight. It was a complete copse, low and close packed, but a strange sort.
“Well,” said Robert.
“This is peculiar certainly,” said Paganel, and he turned round to question Thalcave on the subject.
“The horns come out of the ground,” replied the Indian, “but the oxen are down below.”
“What!” exclaimed Paganel; “do you mean to say that a whole herd was caught in that mud and buried alive?”