He had broad shoulders, and long hair bound together with leather thongs.
He was over six feet in height. His bronzed face was red between the eyes
and mouth, black by the lower eyelids, and white on the forehead.
He wore the costume of the Patagonians on the frontiers, consisting of
a splendid cloak, ornamented with scarlet arabesques, made of the skins
of the guanaco, sewed together with ostrich tendons, and with the silky
wool turned up on the edge. Under this mantle was a garment of fox-skin,
fastened round the waist, and coming down to a point in front.
A little bag hung from his belt, containing colors for painting his face.
His boots were pieces of ox hide, fastened round the ankles
by straps, across.

This Patagonian had a splendid face, indicating real intelligence,
notwithstanding the medley of colors by which it was disfigured.
His waiting attitude was full of dignity; indeed, to see him standing
grave and motionless on his pedestal of rocks, one might have taken
him for a statue of _sang-froid_.

As soon as the Major perceived him, he pointed him out to Glenarvan,
who ran toward him immediately. The Patagonian came two steps
forward to meet him, and Glenarvan caught hold of his hand
and pressed it in his own. It was impossible to mistake
the meaning of the action, for the noble face of the Scotch
lord so beamed with gratitude that no words were needed.
The stranger bowed slightly in return, and said a few words
that neither Glenarvan nor the Major could understand.

The Patagonian surveyed them attentively for a few minutes,
and spoke again in another language. But this second idiom
was no more intelligible than the first. Certain words,