The answer was intelligible enough.
"I am a miner from Argentina. I have been among these Indians five
years. When their attack failed, I thought there was a chance of
escape. For pity's sake, señor, help me instantly, or I shall die from
the cold."
"Have the Indians gone?" asked Christobal.
"Yes. They thought to surprise you. When they come again it will be
by daylight, as they are afraid of the dark. But be quick, I implore
you. My hands are numb."
There was no resisting the man's appeal. A rope ladder was lowered,
and a Chilean sailor went down in obedience to the captain's order,
though he disliked the job, and crossed himself before descending. He
passed a rope under the fugitive's armpits, and, with aid from the
deck, hoisted him aboard. The unfortunate miner gave proof of his
wretched state by promptly collapsing in a faint, with a sigh of "Madre
de Dios!"
His only garments were a species of waistcoat and rough trousers of
untanned guanaco hide. The white skin of his breast and legs, though
darkened by exposure, showed that he had told the truth as to his
descent, notwithstanding the amazing daubs on his face. His hair,
stiffened with black grease, stood out all around his head, and the
same oily composition had been used to blacken his forehead, neck, and
hands.
Some brandy and hot water, combined with the warmth of the saloon, soon
revived him. He ate a quantity of bread with the eagerness of a man
suffering from starvation; but he could not endure the heated
atmosphere, although the temperature was barely sufficient to guard the
injured occupants from the outer cold. When offered an overcoat, he
refused it at first, saying: "I do not need so much clothing. It will make me ill. I only felt
cold in the water because it is mostly melted ice."
He was so grateful to his rescuers, however, that he took the garment
to oblige them when he saw they were incredulous. Christobal brought
him to the chart-house, where most of the others were assembled, and
there questioned him.
It was a most astonishing story which Francisco Suarez, gold-miner and
prospector, laid before an exceedingly attentive audience. As the man
spoke, so did he recover the freer usage of a civilized tongue. At
first his words had a hoarse, guttural sound, but Dr. Christobal's
questions seemed to awaken dormant memories, and every one noticed, not
least those who had small knowledge of Spanish, that he had practically
recovered command of the language at the end of half an hour.
And this was what he told them. He, with three partners and a few
Indians from the Pampas, had set out on a gold-prospecting expedition
on the head waters of the Gallegos River. They were disappointed in
their search until they crossed the Cordillera, and sighted the gloomy
shores of Last Hope Inlet, leading into Smyth Channel. They there
found alluvial sand and gold-bearing quartz, yielding but poor results.
Unfortunately, some natives assured them that the metal they sought
abounded in Hanover Island. They obtained canoes, voyaged down the
long inlet, crossed the straits, and struck inland towards the unknown
mountains beyond the swamps of Ellen Bay.