He could find no others in his vocabulary. He paced restlessly up and down; sometimes stopping to examine the sails, or gaze inquiringly over the wide ocean, at the far horizon. At length he accosted Lord Glenarvan once more, and said—
“And this DUNCAN—where is she going?”
“To America, Monsieur Paganel,” was the reply.
“And to what particular part?”
“To Concepcion.”
“To Chili! to Chili!” cried the unfortunate geographer. “And my mission to India. But what will M. de Quatre-fages, the President of the Central Commission, say? And M. d’ Avezac? And M. Cortanbert? And M. Vivien de Saint Martin? How shall I show my face at the SEANCES of the Society?”
“Come, Monsieur Paganel, don’t despair. It can all be managed; you will only have to put up with a little delay, which is relatively of not much importance. The Yarou-Dzangbo-Tchou will wait for you still in the mountains of Thibet. We shall soon put in at Madeira, and you will get a ship there to take you back to Europe.”
“Thanks, my Lord. I suppose I must resign myself to it; but people will say it is a most extraordinary adventure, and it is only to me such things happen. And then, too, there is a cabin taken for me on board the SCOTIA.”
“Oh, as to the SCOTIA, you’ll have to give that up meantime.”
“But the DUNCAN is a pleasure yacht, is it not?” began Paganel again, after a fresh examination of the vessel.