Not a tree, not a shrub, not a plant was visible in the landscape.

There was no sign of the wooded hills between which the village of Klock-Klock ought to lie, or of the streams from which the crew of the fane had not ventured to drink.
There was no water anywhere; but everywhere absolute, awful drought.
Nevertheless, Hunt walked on rapidly, without showing any hesitation.

It seemed as though he was led by a natural instinct, "a bee's flight," as we say in America.

I know not what presentiment induced us to follow him as the best of guides, a Chingachgook, a Renard-Subtil.

And why not?
Was not he the fellow-countryman of Fenlmore Coopet's heroes?
But, I must repeat that we had not before our eyes that fabulous land which Arthur Pym described.