Jules Verne For Children: 16 Incredible Tales of Mystery, Courage & Adventure (Illustrated Edition). Jules Verne

      The latter, on seeing them approach, at first gave signs of the greatest surprise. Very certainly, he did not expect to meet strangers on that part of the coast. Evidently, also, he had not yet perceived the remains of the Pilgrim, otherwise the presence of the shipwrecked would very naturally be explained to him. Besides, during the night the surf had finished demolishing the ship’s hull; there was nothing left but the wrecks that floated in the offing.

      At the first moment the unknown, seeing four armed men marching toward him, made a movement as if he would retrace his steps. He carried a gun in a shoulder-belt, which passed rapidly into his hand, and from his hand to his shoulder. They felt that he was not reassured.

      Dick Sand made a gesture of salutation, which doubtless the unknown understood, for, after some hesitation, he continued to advance.

      Dick Sand could then examine him with attention.

      He was a vigorous man, forty years old at the most, his eyes bright, his hair and beard gray, his skin sunburnt like that of a nomad who has always lived in the open air, in the forest, or on the plain. A kind of blouse of tanned skin served him for a close coat, a large hat covered his head, leather boots came up above his knees, and spurs with large rowels sounded from their high heels.

      What Dick Sand noticed at first—and which was so, in fact—was that he had before him, not one of those Indians, habitual rovers over the pampas, but one of those adventurers of foreign blood, often not very commendable, who are frequently met with in those distant countries.

      It also seemed, by his rather familiar attitude, by the reddish color of a few hairs of his beard, that this unknown must be of Anglo-Saxon origin. At all events, he was neither an Indian nor a Spaniard.

      And that appeared certain, when in answer to Dick Sand, who said to him in English, “Welcome!” he replied in the same language and without any accent.

      “Welcome yourself, my young friend,” said the unknown, advancing toward the novice, whose hand he pressed.

      As to the blacks, he contented himself with making a gesture to them without speaking to them.

      “You are English?” he asked the novice.

      “Americans,” replied Dick Sand.

      “From the South?”

      “From the North.”

      This reply seemed to please the unknown, who shook the novice’s hand more vigorously and this time in very a American manner.

      “And may I know, my young friend,” he asked, “how you find yourself on this coast?”

      But, at that moment, without waiting till the novice had replied to his question, the unknown took off his hat and bowed.

      Mrs. Weldon had advanced as far as the steep bank, and she then found herself facing him.

      It was she who replied to this question.

      “Sir,” said she, “we are shipwrecked ones whose ship was broken to pieces yesterday on these reefs.”

      An expression of pity spread over the unknown’s face, whose eyes sought the vessel which had been stranded.

      “There is nothing left of our ship,” added the novice. “The surf has finished the work of demolishing it during the night.”

      “And our first question,” continued Mrs. Weldon, “will be to ask you where we are.”

      “But you are on the sea-coast of South America,” replied the unknown, who appeared surprised at the question. “Can you have any doubt about that?”

      “Yes, sir, for the tempest had been able to make us deviate from our route,” replied Dick Sand. “But I shall ask where we are more exactly. On the coast of Peru, I think.”

      “No, my young friend, no! A little more to the south! You are wrecked on the Bolivian coast.”

      “Ah!” exclaimed Dick Sand.

      “And you are even on that southern part of Bolivia which borders on Chili.”

      “Then what is that cape?” asked Dick Sand, pointing to the promontory on the north.

      “I cannot tell you the name,” replied the unknown, “for if I know the country in the interior pretty well from having often traversed it, it is my first visit to this shore.”

      Dick Sand reflected on what he had just learned. That only half astonished him, for his calculation might have, and indeed must have, deceived him, concerning the currents; but the error was not considerable. In fact, he believed himself somewhere between the twenty-seventh and the thirtieth parallel, from the bearings he had taken from the Isle of Paques, and it was on the twenty-fifth parallel that he was wrecked. There was no impossibility in the Pilgrim’s having deviated by relatively small digression, in such a long passage.

      Besides, there was no reason to doubt the unknown’s assertions, and, as that coast was that of lower Bolivia there was nothing astonishing in its being so deserted.

      “Sir,” then said Dick Sand, “after your reply I must conclude that we are at a rather great distance from Lima.”

      “Oh! Lima is far away—over there—in the north!”

      Mrs. Weldon, made suspicious first of all by Negoro’s disappearance, observed the newly-arrived with extreme attention; but she could discover nothing, either in his attitude or in his manner of expressing himself which could lead her to suspect his good faith.

      “Sir,” said she, “without doubt my question is not rash. You do not seem to be of Peruvian origin?”

      “I am American as you are, madam,” said the unknown, who waited for an instant for the American lady to tell him her name.

      “Mrs. Weldon,” replied the latter.

      “I? My name is Harris and I was born in South Carolina. But here it is twenty years since I left my country for the pampas of Bolivia, and it gives me pleasure to see compatriots.”

      “You live in this part of the province, Mr. Harris?” again asked Mrs. Weldon.

      “No, Mrs. Weldon,” replied Harris, “I live in the South, on the Chilian frontier; but at this present moment I am going to Atacama, in the northeast.”

      “Are we then on the borders of the desert of that name?” asked Dick Sand.

      “Precisely, my young friend, and this desert extends far beyond the mountains which shut off the horizon.”

      “The desert of Atacama?” repeated Dick Sand.

      “Yes,” replied Harris. “This desert is like a country by itself, in this vast South America, from which it differs in many respects. It is, at the same time, the most curious and the least known portion of this continent.”

      “And you travel alone?” asked Mrs. Weldon.

      “Oh, it is not the first time that I have taken this journey!” replied the American. “There is, two hundred miles from here, an important farm, the Farm of San Felice, which belongs to one of my brothers, and it is to his house that I am going for my trade. If you wish to follow me you will be well received, and the means of transport to gain the town of Atacama will not fail you. My brother will be happy to furnish them.”

      These offers, made freely, could only prepossess in favor of the American, who immediately continued, addressing Mrs. Weldon:

      “These blacks