“Why, Gaspar!” exclaims Ludwig, recalling some facts of which he had heard his father speak, “you talk as if you had travelled in the Holy Land, and in New Testament times! These very trees, or others of a similar genus, are the ones whose fruit was eaten by Saint John the Baptist. You remember that passage, where it is said: ‘his meat was locusts and wild honey.’ Some think the locusts he ate were the insects of that name; and it may be so, since they are also eaten by Arabs, and certain other tribes of Asiatic and African people. But, for my part, I believe the beans of the ‘locust tree’ are meant; which, like this, is a species of acacia that the Arabs call carob; evidently the root from which we take our word algarobia.”
Gaspar listens, both patiently and pleased, to this learned dissertation. For he is rejoiced to perceive, that the thoughts of his young companion are beginning to find some abstraction and forgetfulness, of that upon which they have been so long sadly dwelling. Cypriano, too, appears to take an interest in the subject of discourse; and to encourage it the gaucho rejoins, in gleeful tones:
“Well, Señor Ludwig; I don’t know much about those far-away countries you speak of, for I’ve not had any great deal of schooling. But I do know, that algarobia beans are not such bad eating; that is if properly prepared for it. In the States of Santiago and Tucuman, which are the places I spoke of having travelled through, the people almost live on them; rich and poor, man as well as beast. And we may be glad to make breakfast on them, if not supper; though I still trust something more dainty may drop upon us. I’m not so hopeful as to expect manna, like that which rained down upon Moses; but there’s many an eatable thing to be had in this Chaco wilderness, too—for those who know how to look for it. Ay Dios!” he adds, after a pause, with his eyes turned towards the ford, “those long-legged gentry don’t seem to care about coming back there. No doubt, the screams of that fellow I throttled have frightened them off for good. So I suppose we must give the birds up, for this night anyhow. Just possible, in the morning they’ll be as hungry as ourselves, and pay their fishing-ground a very early visit.”
Saying this, the gaucho relapses into silence, the others also ceasing to converse. They all feel a certain lethargy, which calls for repose; and for a while all three lie without speaking a word, their heads resting on their recados—the only sound heard being the “crump-crump” of their horses’ teeth grinding the algarobia pods into pulp.
Chapter Thirty Six.
A Chat about Electric Eels.
The silence of the camp is not of long continuance; Gaspar being the first to break it. For the gaucho, having a stronger stomach, and consequently a quicker digestion than the others, feels some incipient sensations of hunger.
“I only wish,” he says, “we could get hold of one of the brutes that battered us so in the stream. If we could, it would furnish us with a supper fit for a king.”