Remembering these things, and others not here set down, I can hardly judge this remarkable man without bias; but even his most bitter enemies could not truly say he was wholly bad. And it may be stated here that during my stay in the ravine I was treated like a prince. The best of everything was set before me, my slightest wish was law, and even the fiercest of the white men, forming a small minority of the band, were compelled to behave peaceably in my presence.

After I had eaten and slept for a time, I told the chief the story I had heard from the young Spanish officer, Santiago Mariano, concerning my father, and asked his opinion.

"I would build no hopes on that," said he, shaking his head thoughtfully. "If your father is alive, we shall find him at Callao; but I doubt it."

"The governor was expected to capitulate when I left Lima last," I remarked.

"Yes; his provisions must be gone by now. Your San Martin is an old woman. Why did he allow Canterac to escape? My men and I have been marched about from place to place just where we could do no good. I shall not trouble to obey orders any more. We are not children to be treated thus."

Sorillo was very sore on the subject, and returned to it over and over again. In the evening one of the band arrived with the information that Colonel Miller had sent out search-parties to look for me, and that three men were waiting at the entrance to the ravine.

"Tell them," said the chief, "that Don Juan Crawford is with me. He has sprained his ankle very badly, and cannot move for several days; otherwise he is unhurt. As soon as he is well enough we will take him home."

"I wish the colonel would let my mother know," said I; "she would be less anxious."

"That is a poor compliment to me," observed Sorillo, smiling. "My messenger is already on his way to the hacienda with the news. I have told him to say you are in absolutely no danger, so that your mother will not be alarmed."

"Then I am more than ever in your debt," said I gratefully, for the chief's action showed a thoughtful consideration quite unexpected.

"We shall never pay all that is owing to the son of Don Eduardo Crawford," he answered gravely. "And now let me carry you to my hut. A bed has been prepared there for you; it is a simple affair, but you will be comfortable."

I slept well that night. The pain had considerably decreased, and I had no cause for fear or anxiety. Sorillo slept in another corner of the hut, going out so quietly in the morning that he did not disturb me. Indeed the sun was high in the heavens when I wakened.

The chief's messenger had not returned, and another day passed before he appeared; then, to my delight, he brought Jose with him.

"Well, Jack," exclaimed my old friend, on finding that I was really not much hurt, "you gave Miller a fine fright. He thought you were either dead or carried off. His troops are back in Lima. It seems Canterac was too good for you."

"He flung half his army at us," I responded rather sulkily, for one does not like being reminded of a beating. "It must have been a matter of ten to one. But never mind that. What news do you bring from Lima? How is my mother? and how are events moving there?"

"Your mother is well, and sends her love to you, and events are shaping just as we could wish them to. We are masters of Callao."

"Then the forts have fallen? O Jose, tell me quickly—I am burning with excitement—was my father there?"

"Keep cool!" said he, smiling; "I don't want you to throw yourself into a fever. Yes, we found your father there."

"Thank God for that!" I murmured reverently. "You can tell me the rest at your leisure."

"There isn't much to tell," he replied. "It seems that your father was suddenly surrounded in the mountains by a body of regulars, and ordered to submit. Taken by surprise, there was nothing else to do; but while he stood hesitating, some one—not the captain in charge—shot him down, and he remembers nothing more till he found himself in Callao. The governor, La Mar, happens to be a kind-hearted fellow; so he had your father's wound dressed, gave him the most comfortable cell, and altogether treated him so well that, in spite of a long illness, he is entirely recovered."

"This is better and better, Jose! I hope we shall have a chance of doing La Mar a good turn."

"Your father will be in a position to see to that, as San Martin has already made him a member of the government."

"That's all right then.—By-the-bye, have you seen Montilla?"

"Yes. The old fox plays the game well. He is delighted—so he says—to be able to hand over the estates, which he was keeping in trust for you, to the rightful owner."

"Do you think my father believes him?"

"I can't say. Your mother doesn't; neither do I."

"Nor I."

We remained silent for some minutes, when, Sorillo joining us, I told him the good news. At first he did not seem to comprehend. When he did, I thought he would take leave of his senses. Even Jose, who was not given to judging by outward show, was impressed by the man's genuine pleasure.

But the grand event took place some days later, when my father himself came to remove me to Lima. Sorillo marshalled his Indians at the mouth of the pass, and they escorted him up the ravine in a triumphal procession, amidst enthusiastic cries of "Long live Don Eduardo Crawford! long live the Indians' friend!"

There is not much to tell about our meeting. It was all very simple, though I suppose there were not at that moment two happier people in Peru. My father was exceptionally loving and kind-hearted, but he never made a fuss, while my English blood kept me from being too demonstrative.

"Well, Jack, my boy," he exclaimed, giving me a warm grip of the hand, "I reckon you never expected to see me again?"

"Well, father, I had heard it was possible you were alive, but I hardly dared hope so."

As Jose said, he was looking very well, considering the circumstances. His cheeks were thinner, and had lost their colour; his hair had turned gray; he seemed less robust than formerly; but his mind was brisk and alert, and his eyes retained their old fire.

Sorillo would have kept him awhile as an honoured guest; but he was anxious to return, and the carriage waited at the foot of the mountains. On one point, however, the guerilla chief would not be denied. Leaving the Spaniards and mulattoes in the ravine, he insisted on accompanying us, with his Indians, to Lima, and my father did not like to refuse him. From the ravine they carried me on a comfortable litter to the foot of the mountains, where Jose had stayed with the carriage. Then forming up in front, they marched along singing and cheering for Don Eduardo Crawford.

We slept that night in a deserted hacienda, and arrived at our home next day. Jose had ridden forward to inform my mother of her coming visitors, so that she might be able to provide them with food and drink.

It was a grand home-coming for me, and a great triumph for my father. Though not a vain man, the incident pleased him, because it showed that the people for whom he had suffered so much were grateful for his efforts to do them good.

As the journey had made me rather excited, I took no part in the rejoicings which were kept up through the night; but after breakfast the Indians took their departure, and the noise of their cheering might have been heard at the other end of the town.

"It's rather rough on you, Jack," laughed my father, coming into my room; "but now you will have a chance of a little quiet."

"I am not sure of that," observed my mother, who was looking from a window: "here are two cavaliers crossing the park. By the way they ride, I should say they are Englishmen."

"Is one a big, handsome man?" I asked.

"Well, yes, he is certainly big!"

"That is O'Brien, then; and the other most probably is the colonel."

I was not mistaken. In a short time Colonel Miller and his friend were in the room, and each in turn shook me heartily by the hand.

"We hardly expected to see you again so soon," said the colonel, laughing. "We thought Canterac had taken a fancy to your company. I hope there is no permanent injury to the foot?"

"Oh no, colonel; only I shan't be able to do any more mountain climbing yet awhile."

"There's none to do," broke in O'Brien; "we've taken to dancing instead."

"I shall not be able even to join in that for some time."

"No? What a pity! We are enjoying ourselves immensely, though it seems rather an odd way of carrying on a war."

"The general perhaps considers that his troops require rest," suggested my mother.

"Even so, staying here is a great mistake," said the colonel. "We are giving the Royalists time to recover their strength, and we shall suffer for it later on. Unfortunately the general appears to think that Lima is Peru."

"Not the general only," remarked my father; "many of his officers would be sorry to exchange Lima for the mountains."

"That is so," admitted O'Brien frankly. "The truth of the matter is, the citizens have treated us too well. They have made us so comfortable that we wish to stay here as long as possible."

"In that case," said my mother, smiling, "we must steel our hearts against you."

"And drive us into the wilderness again!" laughed O'Brien gaily. "Senora, you will not be so cruel?"

"I will not begin to-day," she replied merrily, "because I hope you will stay and dine with us. To-morrow—"

"Ah! let us think of to-morrow when it comes; to-day we will enjoy ourselves."

"A pleasant creed," remarked my father, "though more often than not it leads to ruin. I shall begin to think you are falling a victim to our South American vice."

"What is that?"

"Never to do to-day what can be put off till to-morrow."

"That is exactly what we are doing," remarked the colonel, "and I quite agree with you that it is not a paying game, especially in time of war. A chance once missed never presents itself again."

"An excellent reason for accepting Donna Maria's gracious invitation," laughed O'Brien. "Colonel, I congratulate you on your powers of argument."

Although talking in this bantering way, it must not be thought that he was really in favour of remaining idle; but he was a soldier, and had to obey orders, however much he disliked them.

My father, being a member of the government, was in a much worse position, as many held him responsible in a measure for the lazy way in which the war was being conducted. Really he had no power over the army at all, and could not on his own authority have moved a section of recruits.

O'Brien had spoken truly in saying that the officers had taken to dancing instead of climbing. All the chief families opened their doors to them, and our neighbour, Montilla, who had so suddenly been converted to our side, gave a ball more brilliant than even the oldest inhabitant could remember.

Thus the days passed into weeks; my ankle grew strong and well, I was able to resume my duties, and still there was no sign of moving. We held possession of Lima and Callao, but on the other side of the mountains the Royalists did as they pleased.

"I hope," remarked my father more than once, "that when we wish to move we shall be able to do so."



CHAPTER XVII.

DUTY FIRST.

As far as we in Peru were concerned, the winter of 1821-22 passed without disturbance; but Colonel Miller busied himself in drilling the new regiment of Peruvians which had been placed under his command. As he had made me his aid-de-camp, we were much together, and he paid frequent visits to our house, where he was always gladly welcomed.

Owing to my father's office, I saw a great deal at this time of the protector, who treated me with extreme kindness. Although such a great soldier, he had no love for war, and planned to bring about the real independence of the country without fighting.

"I do not wish the Peruvians to kill each other," he repeatedly declared. "I wish them to live at peace with each other; and whenever they are ready to do that I will step aside, so that they may choose whatever kind of government they please."

My father, who admired him greatly, several times pointed out the dangers that loomed ahead.

"You are reckoning without Bolivar," said he. "He has already driven the Spaniards from Venezuela and Colombia, and is steadily pushing them into Peru. He will follow them and mix himself up with our affairs. He is mad with ambition, and you will find there is not room enough for both of you in one country."

"In that case I will go away," answered San Martin, with a sad smile. "I am here, not for my own good, but for that of Peru."

"After bearing the heat and burden of the day, you will give up your just reward? It is monstrous!"

"I seek no reward, Crawford; I seek only the happiness of Peru. In order to gain that I shall willingly sacrifice myself."

"We will not permit it, general!"

"You must, because it is your duty. Having made South America independent of Spain, it would be sheer wickedness to turn and rend each other. Let Bolivar have the glory. I shall have a quiet conscience. But it seems to me that we are giving substance to shadows. Bolivar will join hands with me. We shall establish a strong government in Peru; then having done our duty, each will retire."

My father shook his head, saying, "You are mistaken; General Bolivar's ambition is to make all South America into one country, with himself at the head. Nothing less than that will content him."

"Then he will fail," answered San Martin. "Let us hope he will not drag the country to ruin with him."

About this time, March 1822, news reached us that our forces at Ica had met with a terrible defeat. By a swift and daring march, the Spanish general, Canterac, had thrown his army against them with startling suddenness. They tried to retreat, but, being attacked in the night, were cut to pieces, and an enormous quantity of stores passed into the hands of the Royalists. The news cast a gloom over the city, and many weak-kneed Patriots lost their heads entirely. Unless we could obtain help from General Bolivar, they cried, our cause was undone. My father did not believe this; he distrusted Bolivar, and made no scruple of saying so.

"Still we must find out just what he means to do," remarked San Martin one evening.

"His intentions are evident," replied my father, rather bitterly. "He means to make himself master of the country, and to push you aside."

"I think you misjudge him; but in any case I place the happiness of Peru before personal ambition.—By the way," he added, turning to me, "have you ever seen this remarkable man?"

"No, general."

"Would you like to do so? Ah, I see you would. Well, you shall. I am going to meet him at Guayaquil; you shall go with me, unless your father objects."

"I have no objection, general. It will do him good, by opening his eyes!"

"Very well; let him be ready to-morrow morning. I will let Colonel Miller know of the arrangement."

"Jack," exclaimed my father when San Martin had gone, "this is a great honour for you. I don't expect the protector will take any one else, except Guido, who goes with him everywhere. I almost envy you, my boy, for San Martin and Bolivar are certainly the two most wonderful men in South America."

"Will there be any danger?" asked my mother.

"I think not; the visit is a friendly one."

The next day, having put on my gaudiest uniform, blue with red facings, white edging, and abundance of gold lace, I went over to Callao, meeting the general and his "aid" just as they were embarking on the schooner Macedonia. As usual, the general looked grave and rather stern. He was very silent too, and as the schooner slipped from her moorings he disappeared within his cabin. Guido, who shared a cabin with me, was far less reserved than his chief.

"This is a fool's errand," said he brusquely. "The protector is just playing into Bolivar's hands."

"He knows what he is doing, I think."

"That makes me the more angry. But for him the Spaniards would still be in possession of Peru; and now, rather than make a bother, he'll let the other fellow take the prize."

"What would you have him do?"

"Do?" cried he excitedly; "why, stand his ground. I would say, 'I have done all the hard work, I have made Peru free, and I am going to be master of the country. Let Bolivar or any one else come here at his peril!'"

"Then there would be a three-cornered fight, and the Spaniards would have the best of it!"

"That wouldn't be San Martin's fault. Do you think Bolivar cares how the country suffers as long as he comes out on top? Not he!"

"If that is so, San Martin is certainly playing the better part."

"The better part? a fig for the better part! He can beat Bolivar and the Spanish put together if he chooses. He is far and away the finest general in South America."

"And one of the best men, if he acts as you say he will."

But Guido was much too angry to take that view. When I added that without Bolivar's help we could hardly reduce the Spaniards to submission, he laughed scornfully and turned away.

On the evening of July 25, 1822, the Macedonia dropped anchor in the harbour of Guayaquil, and immediately afterwards two of Bolivar's officers came on board with a friendly greeting from their chief.

"Caramba!" muttered Guido beneath his breath, "it makes me mad! It's like the old custom of garlanding a victim before offering him up as a sacrifice!"

That night we slept on the schooner, disembarking the next day. The route was lined by Bolivar's soldiers, who saluted stiffly, and by thousands of people cheering wildly for their renowned visitor.

"There it is, you see," whispered Guido; "the people want San Martin. If they had their way, Guayaquil would be a part of Peru, with him as president."

"But they haven't," said I, "and Bolivar has; which makes all the difference."

"Look!" exclaimed he contemptuously, as the carriage stopped; "isn't it like a circus show?"

In front of a house stood a group of officers dressed in the most magnificent and gorgeous uniforms. As San Martin stepped from the carriage, one of them, moving a pace forward, embraced him.

"That's Bolivar!" whispered Guido, and I gazed at the great captain with intense interest.

Perhaps I was prejudiced against him, but he did not come up to my expectations. He was short, thin, and narrow-chested, his skin was sallow, his high but narrow forehead was deeply lined. His hair was black and curly; he had thick lips and beautiful white teeth, which he was fond of showing. His eyes were large and black but deeply sunken; now bright and sparkling, again dull and glassy. His features, to me at least, were harsh and unpleasing; but he was evidently a man of great energy, to whom action was as the breath of life.

Arm in arm the two leaders entered the house, Guido and I following with Bolivar's staff. The saloon presented a striking scene, being filled with officers in brilliant uniforms and by beautifully-dressed ladies. A young girl, stepping forward, greeted San Martin, and placed a laurel wreath of gold upon his head.

"What rubbish!" muttered Guido testily. "Does she think he is as great a mummer as Bolivar?"

"Hush!" I whispered, not wishing his outspoken comments to be heard. "See, he is taking it off."

We could not hear what he said, but he spoke pleasantly, and beckoning to Guido, placed the wreath in his hand.

"Take great care of this," said he; "I value it highly for the sake of the giver."

"Bolivar would have worn a dozen, one on top of the other," growled Guido.

Presently the two chiefs proceeded to an inner room, where they remained alone for nearly two hours, while we chatted with the Bolivian officers, several of whom were Englishmen.

At length the door opened, the leaders came out, and San Martin accompanied Bolivar to the street, where they parted with a show of cordial friendship. Directly afterwards the assembly dispersed, and we were left in peace. The next day they had a much longer interview, and at its close I read in San Martin's face that he had resolved to sacrifice himself for the good of Peru.

"Guido," said he quietly, "let the baggage be taken aboard. They are giving a grand dinner in my honour this evening; as soon as I can get away, we sail for Callao."

The banquet, which was held in the house set apart for Bolivar, was on the most magnificent scale. The room was bright with showy uniforms; every one appeared to be covered with stars and crosses and decorations. I almost regretted that my silver key was not dangling outside my tunic.

San Martin sat in the chair of honour at the right of our host. Of all the good things set before him he ate and drank little, his thoughts being evidently far removed from the banqueting-room.

This was the first time I had been at a public dinner, and but for anxiety on our leader's account, I should have enjoyed it immensely. Presently, when the servants had removed the dishes, Bolivar filled his glass with wine, and stood up. Instantly the buzz of conversation ceased; the officers gazed intently at their chief, who was about to propose a toast. I listened too, wondering if my ears were playing me false. As to Guido, I thought that, in his scornful contempt, he would have kicked the table over.

"Gentlemen," said our host, "to the two greatest men of South America—General San Martin and myself!"

There was a round of cheering, while Guido and I hardly dared look at each other, and not at all at our chief.

Soon afterward we adjourned to the ballroom, but did not stay long, San Martin saying, "Let us go; I cannot stand this riot!"

Quietly bidding Bolivar farewell, we followed one of the high officials, who let us out through a private door, and escorted us to the quay. There we boarded the schooner, which in less than an hour was under way. The protector went straight to his cabin without speaking. He was bitterly disappointed at the result of the interview, but all that passed his lips on the subject was, "Bolivar is not the man we took him to be." These words were said as we paced the deck together next morning, and they were spoken more to himself than to us.

"It has happened as I predicted," remarked Guido that afternoon, "and the rest will follow. As soon as he has put things in order, he will leave Peru to make room for Bolivar. And he will not let people know the reason; he will even make Bolivar's path smoother."

"You would plant it thick with thorns, I suppose?"

"I would plant it with naked swords!"

"Ah, Guido," I cried, "that is not San Martin's teaching!"

"No," said he surlily; "it's a lesson of my own composing."

The voyage passed uneventfully, and on the twentieth of August the Macedonia once more sailed into the Bay of Callao.

During our absence a riot had taken place in Lima; but the people received San Martin enthusiastically, coming down in thousands to the port, and escorting him to his country house in triumph.

I said little of what had taken place to any one except my father, and he was able to judge of things by other signs. The protector, who told him Bolivar had agreed to help Peru with troops, worked feverishly day and night, until the opening of the first Peruvian Congress. Then removing his sash of authority, he resigned his office, and formally handed over the care of the country to the new Parliament. That same evening my father and I called at his house, where we found Guido, ever faithful, waiting in the anteroom.

"Where is the general?" asked my father.

"Here, Crawford!" answered San Martin, opening the door of an inner room. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, general, but I fear there soon will be. Do you know it is whispered in the town that you are about to leave Peru?"

"The rumour is correct, my friend, as I have just been telling Guido. No, it is useless to talk; my mind is made up. I can do the country no more good."

For a long time both Guido and my father tried to prevail upon him to stay, but in vain.

"The world will regard you as a deserter!" urged Guido.

"What matters it as long as I know the truth? I care not for the applause of the world, my friends, nor fear its frowns. I leave my work unfinished, it is true, but others will finish it and reap the glory. Besides, Peru will be the better for my absence."

"No, no!" exclaimed my father earnestly. "The people love you and trust you. They will uphold your authority."

San Martin held out his hand, saying,—

"You are a true friend, Crawford, but you are a true patriot and a shrewd man as well. Now listen to me. Without help it will take two years at least to subdue the Spaniards. That will mean two years of misery. Do you follow me?"

"Perfectly."

"With help the war can be brought to an end in six months. The Chilians can do no more, and we can look only to Bolivar. Now, do you imagine that he and I can run in double harness?"

My father shook his head sorrowfully.

"Of course not. Bolivar is a great man, a remarkable man; but he is ambitious, and will brook no rival. Now, suppose I remain. It will be difficult to avoid strife, and the country will be plunged back into its old condition of slavery. Do you think that San Martin will give a day of delight to the common enemy? No, my friend; if only Peru retains its independence, I care nothing for self. Let men call me what they please. The path of duty lies plain before me; I am going to walk in it. Let Bolivar have the glory; it is but a breath. I shall not say this publicly; neither will you. I am broken in health; let that do for the present. In years to come, perhaps, the world will recognize my good faith; if not, never mind!"

Even after that my father endeavoured to dissuade him from going, but his efforts were useless.

"Let me wish you good-bye, Crawford," said he. "I need hardly counsel you to accept the help which Bolivar offers. The man may not please you, but—country first!—Good-bye, my boy; if you make half as good a man as your father, you will not do amiss."

We grasped his hand for the last time, and leaving Guido with him, went into the road, mounted our horses, and rode slowly homeward.

Next day it became known that San Martin had left Peru for ever, and instantly men's tongues were loosed in a babel of talk. Some few judged him rightly; but for the most part his splendid services were forgotten, and with sickening haste people turned their gaze toward Bolivar, the new sun.

"There is a lesson for you, Jack, worth heeding," remarked my father. "If only these people knew the truth!"

"They wouldn't understand it!" said I hotly. "The idea of a man making such a sacrifice is beyond them. You know I have sometimes thought the general made a big mistake in the conduct of the war, but he atoned for everything last night. He looked simply splendid when he talked about giving up everything for duty."

"Ah!" exclaimed my father thoughtfully, "with all his battles to look back upon, he never won a greater victory than he did last evening. It must almost have broken his heart, Jack, but he did not whimper."

Few spoke in this strain, and I was disappointed that even Jose took sides with the majority. Sentiment, beyond his love for us, did not appeal to him; he looked only on the practical side of things.

"I shouldn't have thought San Martin would have thrown up the sponge," said he. "I gave him credit for more pluck than that. They do say in the town that he was keen on making himself king or emperor."

"A pack of rubbish!" I cried.

"Well," said Jose, "I would have seen the thing through, anyhow. It won't be pleasant for your father, either, when Bolivar gets the whip-hand. San Martin's friends will be in Bolivar's black books. I'll guarantee Montilla has written to him already."

"You aren't in a very good temper this morning, Jose," said I, with a laugh.

"No; because I am looking a long way ahead, and see things. Is your father going to keep in office?"

"I expect so. He may be able to do the country a little good."

"And himself a lot of harm! Shall you resign your commission?"

"How can I? the Spaniards are still in the field."

"And will take a lot of beating yet! 'Twould have answered better if the Peruvians had done the job by themselves."

I might have mentioned that if they found it so difficult with the aid of others, they could hardly have done it alone; but dear old Jose was too angry for argument, so I let the subject drop.

Among the officers opinion was divided, but no one had much to say on the matter. It almost seemed as if they feared to express their real opinion in case of future trouble. Colonel Miller, however, spoke his mind freely, and so did the other Englishmen with him.

"I am sorry San Martin has gone," said he; "but my duty is plain. I am an officer in the army of Peru, and must obey orders from the government. If they give the chief command to Bolivar, why, I shall fight under him, just as I have done under San Martin. That's one good thing about soldiering—you always know where you are."

"Humph!" said Jose, on hearing the remark, "I'm not so sure that the colonel's right. In my opinion there's more than one soldier just at present wondering if he hadn't better join the other party again. Another affair like the one at Ica would send them flying to Canterac in scores. The great thing with some of them is to be on the winning side."

As soon as San Martin had left Peru, Bolivar sent a message, offering the aid of his troops; but the government declined all assistance. A new spirit seemed to enter into the nation: the people declared the country would fight its own battles, and preparations to meet the Spaniards were eagerly pushed on.

What came of them we shall shortly see.



CHAPTER XVIII.

DARK DAYS.

"I have decided to leave you in Lima, Crawford, to help Videla with the second battalion. I have good reasons for doing so," continued the colonel, observing my disappointed look; "and, anyhow, you are well out of this expedition. I don't expect much from it."

The expedition of which Colonel Miller spoke had been planned on a large scale for the purpose of crushing the enemy in the south, and the first battalion of the Peruvian Legion formed part of it. Naturally I had quite looked forward to sailing with it, and was not at all pleased, therefore, to be left behind. I had many friends, some of them not much older than myself, among the officers of the first battalion, and on the morning of the embarkation I went over to Callao to see them off. They were delighted at the thought of active service, and of course chaffed me unmercifully.

"Take care of the town, Juan," said one; "we shall want it when we come back."

"Some day, when you are a man, we will take you with us," laughed Ensign Alzura, a merry, round-faced youngster of sixteen; "but we must have seasoned men for this trip, dear boy."

"Should the Spaniards arrive while we're away, ask them to wait till our return," remarked another.

"I don't wonder you are so excited," said I coolly; "I felt the same before I knew what a battle is really like."

"Bravo, Crawford!" cried the colonel, who had joined us unperceived; "that's a round shot for them. They haven't heard the whistle of the bullets yet, eh? Well, good-bye; it's time you were getting ashore. You'll hear news of us from time to time."

"Good news too, I hope, colonel.—Good-bye, Zuviria, Alzura, and all of you. I hope you've shipped a schoolmaster," and with that parting shot I ran down to the quay.

The Peruvians were on board the O'Higgins; but there were several other vessels, and presently they all stood out of the bay amidst a regular salvo of cheering from the spectators.

I returned to Lima feeling rather gloomy, but Lieutenant-Colonel Videla, who commanded our second battalion, gave me little time for brooding. Fresh recruits were coming in every day, and the work of attending to them kept me employed for weeks. There was still a Patriot army encamped outside Lima, but it did nothing, though who was to blame I could not say.

About the end of the year, vague yet disquieting rumours began to circulate in the city. It was said that our troops in the south had met with defeat, had been cut to pieces and practically swept out of existence. The victorious Spaniards, uniting all their forces, were making ready for a swoop on Lima. Everything was lost!

Don Felipe brought us the news, and it was easy to see, in spite of his talk, that it did not displease him.

"We shall have to call in Bolivar now," said he, "or make peace with the viceroy. Of course you and I will suffer. Our estates will be confiscated; we shall probably be thrown into prison; but we are good patriots, and will not shrink from our duty."

"If the others agree with me," replied my father, "we shall neither call in Bolivar nor make peace. There is still an army left!"

"Just so, but we cannot trust it. The troops are almost in open rebellion, and this news will not quiet them."

"We do not yet know that it is true."

"I am sure of it," said our neighbour hastily. "I have—that is to say, there can be no doubt of it."

A week or two later—January 20, 1823, to be precise—there walked into the quarters of the second battalion a young officer. His face was white and drawn, his eyes were sunken; he looked so pitifully weak and ill that at first I failed to recognize him.

"Well, Crawford," he exclaimed, "am I as changed as all that? Don't you know your old chum Alzura when you see him?"

"Alzura?" I echoed, aghast.

"All that is left of him."

"Where is the first battalion?"

Spreading his hands out dramatically, he said, "Haven't you heard? Don't you know what has happened at Torata and Moquegua?"

"I have heard nothing but some very dark rumours," I replied uneasily.

"They cannot be darker than the truth. The army has been destroyed, and the battalion with it."

"And the colonel?"

"Oh, he was in another district with the light company. But I'll tell you all about it. We had a wretched voyage, and arrived at Arica half dead. After that we sat down for three weeks doing nothing, when Alvarado, who was in chief command, sent the colonel north with the light company. A lucky thing for them, too!"

"Go on!" said I impatiently.

"Well, at last we moved, and marched as far as Torata. Do you know the place at all?"

"Oh yes; it's a few miles from Moquegua, isn't it?"

"That's it. Well, the Spaniards were at Torata, and we tried to turn them out, but failed. Then they attacked, and we were beaten. It was simply awful. The legion fought like a battalion of heroes. Every one praised us; but praise won't bring the dead to life. We broke two cavalry charges, and stood our ground till there wasn't a cartridge left."

"Then you retreated?"

"Some of us did, not many! We left fifteen of our officers there and three-fourths of the battalion, all dead or dangerously wounded. Alvarado took us back to Moquegua; but the Spaniards caught us again. The second defeat was worse than the first, and when the battle was over there was no army left. As to the battalion—! O Juan, isn't it awful? La Rosa, Tarramona, Escobar, Rivero—all gone! I should think," he added, with a bitter laugh, "I must have been senior officer."

It was, indeed, a terrible story. I could hardly realize that of all my high-spirited young friends who had sailed from Callao this was the only one to return.

"How did you get back?" I asked, after a time.

"With General Martinez. We embarked at Ilo, while General Alvarado went on to Iquiqui. The game's up in that part of the country, Juan!"

"Oh, nonsense!" I replied brusquely. "We aren't going to lose heart over a couple of defeats."

Of course the news soon spread, and the people, especially the soldiers, were wild with anger. They said it was the fault of the government, and called for fresh rulers. Some advised sending for Bolivar, while a few prominent citizens even talked of coming to terms with the enemy.

One morning, toward the end of February, Videla called a council of the officers belonging to his battalion. He looked pale, but firm and determined, as if he had resolved on some particular course.

When we had taken our seats, he rose and said, "Senors, I have called you together to discuss an important proposal. Affairs, as you know, are in a bad state; the country is in disorder, and the enemy are triumphing everywhere. Under these circumstances, the chiefs of the army have decided to force the hands of the government. To-morrow the troops will march to Lima and demand that a president shall be appointed with full powers. Now, I will have no part or lot in this matter. I call it treason. If the government choose to resign, well and good; if they resist, my sword, at least, is at their service."

A round of cheering greeted his remarks, and one after another the officers sprang up, pledging themselves to support him.

"Thank you," said he quietly; "I knew you would not fail me. Nothing will be done until the morning. Then, when the order to march is issued, I shall command you to stand still."

"Suppose they use force, colonel?" I suggested.

His face grew paler, but he answered steadily, "I trust they will not be so foolish. Should they be, the battalion, will know how to defend itself."

"Caramba!" exclaimed Alzura, when the meeting broke up, "it seems to me that the second battalion is likely to follow the first. What can we do against an army?"

"There will be no fighting," I answered cheerfully. "They will simply march without us, and the government will agree to their demands."

I spoke as if my opinion were conclusive, but nevertheless I did not sleep comfortably that night. The troops were wakened early, breakfast was hurried over, and then, to the sound of bugles, the various regiments paraded. Presently they began to move, and a mounted officer dashed over to know why our battalion remained still.

"By my orders they remain. I refuse to join in what my officers and I regard as an act of treason," calmly replied Videla. "We will willingly march against the enemy, but not against our own government."

Bending over, the officer whispered something in his ear.

"We have counted the cost," replied our chief, "and are not to be frightened. Let the men who are unwilling to obey me fall out; no harm will happen to them," said he, turning to the troop.

Not a man moved, the brave fellows stood in their ranks, firm as rocks. Again the officer whispered to Videla, and then dashed off at full speed. It was, as Alzura afterwards remarked, a bad quarter of an hour for us. If the chiefs endeavoured to force us into submission, there could be but one result. Videla would not yield, and we could not desert him. Perhaps the firmness of our bearing saved us; perhaps the chiefs feared the people, for the battalion was composed entirely of Peruvians; but whatever the reason, we remained unmolested, and the army marched off without us. Then the men were dismissed, and we gathered in groups to chat over the incident.

"What will happen now?" asked one fellow.

"It is all decided," replied Videla. "I heard last night that the government will yield. Riva-Aguero is to be made president, and Santa Cruz commander-in-chief."

"And what shall we do, colonel?"

"Obey orders," he answered, smiling. "We cannot fight for a government that has resigned its powers."

The evening proved Videla's words true. The troops, having accomplished their object, returned to camp, rejoicing that the country had a new ruler.

"Now," exclaimed Alzura, as we turned in for the night, "I suppose we shall see great things done!"

"New brooms sweep clean," said I, laughing, "but unfortunately they soon become old ones."

However, it really did seem as if the new general intended to push on the war in vigorous style. Preparations were made for another expedition to the south; Bolivar was invited to Peru; and Sucre, his most brilliant general, had already come.

At this time we knew nothing of Colonel Miller; but about the end of March he returned to Lima, having done more with his handful of men than all the southern army. The stories told by officers who served with him filled us with envy.

"Did you hear how we cleared the Royalists out of Arequipa?" asked Captain Plaza. "That was a rich joke," and he laughed even at the recollection of it.

"Let us hear it," said I.

"Well, of course, it loses in the telling, but I'll do my best. First of all, we caught a peasant and shut him up where he could hear all and see nothing. The poor fellow imagined we were going to shoot him as a spy. About every half-hour or so one of us would go to the colonel to report the arrival of fresh troops, and ask where they were to camp. Then we spread our few men about the valley and kindled dozens of blazing fires. As soon as it was dark enough, the colonel ordered the man to be brought out."

"His face was a study," interrupted Cordova. "He certainly expected to be shot."

"The colonel read him a lecture," continued Plaza, "and wound up by offering to spare his life on his promising to take a letter to the governor of Arequipa. 'But,' said the colonel sternly, 'you are not to tell what you have seen here. I want him to think we are very few in number. Do you understand?' The fellow promised readily enough, placed the letter in his hat, mounted his horse, and rode down the valley, counting the fires as he went. Of course he told every Royalist officer the truth as he believed it, and they cleared out of the district in double-quick time. Then we forced the governor to supply us with forage for five hundred horses."

"But you didn't have five hundred!"

"That was the joke. We carted the stuff to some sandhills, where a part of the force was supposed to lie in ambush. When the Royalists returned with large reinforcements, they wasted days, being afraid of falling into a trap. It was very funny watching their manoeuvres."

"Then there was the officer with the flag of truce near Chala," said Cordova. "He carried back a pretty report to his chief!"

"Yes," said Plaza, laughing; "he believed we were just the advance-guard of a large force. He stayed with us the night, but I'm afraid his slumbers were troubled ones. The bustle was tremendous—soldiers coming and going every few minutes. The colonel was giving all kinds of impossible orders; in fact, you would have thought we had quite a big army there. Next morning I escorted the Royalist a mile or so on the road. All our men were spread out, some in fatigue dress, to make him believe there were at least two regiments."

"That was a good trick," laughed Alzura.

"And the officers galloped about, shouting to the men to go to their camps in the rear. Turning to me, the fellow exclaimed seriously, 'It is all very well for Miller to have a couple of battalions; but we have a couple as well as he!'

"'Ah,' said I, trying to keep a straight face, 'you keep your eyes open, I see. I warned the colonel not to let you see so much.'"

"Did you really fool him?" asked half a dozen men in a breath.

"Yes, and kept our position till the colonel was ready to move. If I had my way, Miller should be commander-in-chief. He is now the best man in the country for the post."

"Bravo!" cried Cordova. "As it is, I suppose we shall all be under Bolivar's thumb soon."

"I don't much care who leads," said Alzura, "as long as we win; and it's about time something was done. The Royalists are getting a strong following in the city again."

"Bah!" exclaimed Plaza scornfully, "they're just weather-cocks, twisting about with every wind that blows—first Royalist, then Patriot, then Royalist again! It's enough to take away one's breath. Did you hear about Camba?"

"He was one of us," said Alzura, "went over to the Royalists, and came back again."

"And was appointed second in command of the Legion!"

There was a cry of amazement from every one in the room; but Plaza continued, "It's a fact; only Miller put his foot down. 'My officers are gentlemen,' said he. 'If you appoint this man over them they will break their swords, and I shall be the first to do so.' That stopped the game, and Camba was pushed in somewhere else."

"It's a wonder he hasn't changed again," I said.

"He is only biding his time, like a good many others."

"I know nearly a dozen myself," said Alzura, "and one of them is a neighbour of yours, Crawford."

"Do you mean the fellow with the pretty daughter?" some one asked.

"Yes. I respect the girl. She is an out-and-out Royalist, and makes no attempt to deny it; but the old man is a schemer—he runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds."

"Don't vent your opinion too freely, my boy; Montilla has powerful influence in high quarters."

"Well," said Alzura doggedly, "if he isn't working hard to bring back the Royalists, I am very much mistaken."

The young officer's words made me very uneasy. I knew little of Don Felipe's proceedings, as, although he was an occasional visitor at our house, a certain coolness had sprung up between us. For this feeling it would have been difficult, perhaps, to give any particular reason. To all appearance the man had acted fairly enough; indeed, according to his own account, he had always been my best friend.

Still, I had very little love for him, and no respect at all. I was rather suspicious of a man who changed sides just when it best suited his interests. With Rosa things were different. She was a born Royalist, and though I thought her views mistaken, I admired her pluck in holding so stoutly to them.

But the idea that her father was preparing to turn his coat again worried me. True, he might win a big reward by helping the Spaniards; but in the event of discovery, he could hardly expect to escape death. I told myself the punishment would serve him right, and that the business was none of mine; yet somehow I could not get rid of the uneasy feeling. If Alzura's suspicions were correct, the man might be taken and hanged at any moment. I said again it would serve him right, but the justice of his sentence would not lessen Rosa's suffering.

All that night I lay awake thinking. I could not get the girl out of my head. You see, I had known her so long; we had played together like brother and sister; she was so pretty and winsome that I hated the idea of trouble assailing her.

In the morning I was inclined to laugh at my fears. Every one knew there were many people in Lima willing to welcome the Royalists, and it had been openly stated more than once that Don Felipe Montilla had only changed sides to secure his property. Doubtless Alzura, knowing this, had jumped to the conclusion that he would willingly return to his former allegiance.

"That is about all there is in it," said I, feeling a little more assured. "It is marvellous what stories some men can build up from a word here and there! If Alzura lives till the end of the war, he should be a novelist."

At this time I was a great deal in Lima, being employed by Colonel Miller in connection with the new expedition which Santa Cruz was to lead south. Several nights a week I slept at home, much to mother's satisfaction. My father continued to be busy in public matters, though he had resigned his office as a protest against the invitation to Bolivar.

Now, it chanced, about a fortnight after young Alzura's disquieting talk, that I had occasion to go late at night to Callao, and Jose offered to accompany me. It is likely enough that my mother put the idea into his head, for though brave enough herself, she was always fearful on my account. However, I was glad to avail myself of Jose's offer. The night was fine, the sky was studded with stars, and the moon, nearly at the full, gave forth a splendid light.

"You may go to bed, Antonio," said I to the old janitor, as he opened the gate. "We are not likely to return till morning."

"Do you remember our first night ride to Callao?" asked Jose. "There was no need for any one to sit up for us then."

"Yes, that I do. And the voyage in the schooner," I added gaily. "That was an adventure, if you like! We were as near to death then, Jose, as ever we have been since."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I have often wondered how we managed to escape."

Passing through the outer gates of the park on to the highroad, we cantered our horses about a quarter of a mile, and then turned up a narrow lane which separated our property from that of Don Felipe Montilla.

Suddenly checking his horse, Jose whispered, "See to your pistols, my boy; there are horsemen coming this way."



CHAPTER XIX.

FALSE PLAY, OR NOT?

There was no actual reason why we should feel alarmed; but Lima was an unsafe place in those days, and people who travelled at night generally went well armed.

As yet the bend in the road prevented us from seeing any one, but listening intently, we distinctly heard the sounds of a horse's hoofs.

"There's only one, Jose," I whispered; and he nodded. I do not know that we should have taken any notice of the man, but for his efforts to conceal his identity. We came upon him suddenly, while the moon shone full in his face, and before he had time either to draw his poncho closer or to pull the slouch hat over his eyes. Both these things he did quickly, but meanwhile we had seen, and a look of keen surprise shot across Jose's face. Recovering himself instantly, he said cheerfully,—

"Good-night, senor. Fine night for a ride."

"So you seem to think," replied the other surlily.

"You have come from the town, I see," said Jose, for we lived eastward of Lima; "is all quiet there?"

"Why shouldn't it be? Kindly allow me to pass; I am in a hurry," responded our morose stranger.

"Then 'twas lucky that you knew of this short cut," remarked Jose, nothing daunted by the fellow's manner. "Well, good-night, senor. Pleasant ride!" and he drew his horse aside that the stranger might pass.

"He isn't any too polite!" I remarked, as digging his spurs into his horse the fellow galloped off. "He's a fine horseman, though, and has the air of a military man, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," agreed Jose; "he certainly rides like a soldier."

"But he isn't in uniform."

"No; he has left his uniform at home, I expect."

"He must be pretty familiar with Lima to know this short cut."

"I daresay he is. But didn't you recognize him? Well, I suppose it's hardly likely you would; you were only a little chap at the time, and perhaps never saw him. He's a rascal to the marrow!"

"But who is he?" I asked impatiently.

"Pardo Lurena."

"Lurena? Haven't I heard my father speak of him?"

"Very likely. He was one of the 'young bloods' of Peru, and, being a cadet of a wealthy family, able to do much as he pleased. He was always a thorough ruffian, and the common people hated him like poison. His pranks, however, were hushed up by those in authority, until, for some offence more startling than usual, your father got him clapped in prison. The Dons howled finely, but your father stood firm, and the people backed him up; so young Lurena had a taste of prison life. There was great excitement over it at the time."

"What happened afterwards?"

"Lurena left Lima. He went from bad to worse, and finally joined the ranks. Of course his relatives used their influence, and he was given a commission; but he never rose very high, I believe."

"What could he be doing in Lima to-night?"

"Something rascally, I'll be bound! He may have been to the town, but I believe the last place he stopped at was over there," and Jose pointed toward Don Felipe's house.

"You don't think there's some treachery afoot between them, do you?"

"Why not? Once a traitor, always a traitor! Montilla means to save his property at all costs, and to pick up as much as possible in the general scramble. Should the Spaniards win, your father will say good-bye to his estates."

"Isn't your prejudice making you a little unjust, Jose? Remember that we know nothing against Don Felipe."

"Oh, don't we? He got the estates into his hands once, and by hook or by crook he'll get them again!"

I thought Jose exaggerated the danger, but this meeting with Lurena set me thinking. The fellow was evidently a Royalist soldier, and on a secret errand. If Jose's idea was correct, there could be only one object in his visiting Montilla.

But our neighbour was not the man to compromise himself unless there was a distinct chance of success. Had he learned any news favourable to the Royalist cause? If so, that might account for his action.

Silently we rode through the sleeping town and along the road to Callao, where Jose waited at an inn while I did the business which had brought me to the port. The bay was filled with shipping, and men were hard at work fitting out the transports for the troops ordered south.

"Isn't it rather risky to remove so many troops?" I asked the colonel. "Suppose the enemy should swoop down on the capital?"

"They're quite welcome to do so," he replied, with a laugh. "Lima is of no use to us really; it's Callao that matters."

"Are you going with them, colonel?"

"No; I stay behind with General Sucre."

There was one question I wanted very much to ask, but it was long before I could muster the courage to do so.

"Colonel," I said at length, "I want to ask a rather queer question, but I have reasons for it. Do you think the war will end in favour of the Spaniards?"

"That depends," he answered, looking at me in surprise. "It certainly will do so if our people quarrel among themselves, which is what the enemy reckon on. That is their sheet-anchor, in fact."

"Would a clever man think they had a chance just now?"

"Why, yes," replied the colonel thoughtfully; "he might think they stand an excellent chance."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and the incident of the preceding night loomed up larger and uglier than ever.

Day had fairly broken when I sought Jose for the purpose of returning home. I said nothing to him of my talk with the colonel, though the remembrance of it kept running through my mind. On our return I found my father alone, so I told him my suspicions, and asked his advice.

"It certainly has an ugly look, Jack," said he; "yet it may be easy of explanation. For Rosa's sake, I hope Montilla isn't playing false. He is in our counsels, and knows everything that goes on, so that he could make the Spaniards pay high for his treachery."

"And if he is discovered?"

"He will be shot."

"And you couldn't save him, if you would?"

"I couldn't and wouldn't. A man may be a turncoat in good faith, but a traitor—bah! But after all, my boy, it seems to me we are hunting a fox that hasn't broken cover. This Lurena, whom Jose recognized, is no friend of mine; and though he was an ensign in the Royalist army years ago, it does not follow that he is a Royalist now. Ah, I have it!" said he, in a tone of relief.

"What—an explanation?" I asked curiously.

"Yes; and the right one, I'll wager! It is through Lurena we get our information of the enemy's doings! No doubt Montilla employs him as a spy."

"Then why was he so put out at meeting with us?"

"Well, naturally he would not want his secret known."

My father's idea was feasible enough, but it did not altogether satisfy me; yet what could I do? If Montilla were playing false, I seemed almost as guilty in not denouncing him. But for Rosa's sake I could not bring myself to act; and after all, it was merely a matter of suspicion.

About three days before the sailing of the expedition I rode home to spend the evening. Jose met me at the outer gate, and I saw in a moment that something had happened.

"What is it?" I asked. "Have you come to meet me?"

"Yes. Send your horse on; I want to talk to you."

We walked across the park out of earshot, when Jose said in a whisper, as if still fearful of being overheard,—

"He is here again."

"He!" said I; "who?"

"Lurena. He went into Don Felipe's house half an hour ago."

"Well, what of that? You know what my father said."

I spoke boldly, as if there could be nothing in the business; but Jose smiled grimly.

"Look here, Jack," said he at length, "we can easily settle this affair. If Montilla is innocent, there's no harm done; if he's guilty—well, better for one to suffer than thousands."

"What do you propose?"

"To waylay this Lurena. He is almost certain to have papers on him which will tell all we wish to know."

"I can't do it, Jose. Don Felipe is Rosa's father, and I am reluctant to bring trouble to her."

"Would you rather sacrifice your own father and mother?"

"How dare you ask such a question, Jose?" I cried angrily.

"I dare anything for my master," said he, unmoved. "If the Spaniards win, your father is doomed, and you also, while your mother will be a beggar. See, Jack, I have no right to speak thus, but I can't help it. With or without your help, I intend getting to the bottom of this matter."

I knew Jose of old, and that once his mind was made up, no amount of threats or coaxing would turn him from his purpose.

"If your father is right," he continued, "so much the better—the knowledge will make our minds easy; but I can't and won't stand this suspense any longer."

In a sense I was completely in his power. Whether I went or not he would go, and by himself would most certainly proceed to extreme measures.

"Very well, Jose," I said reluctantly, after weighing the matter in my mind, "have your own way."

"There is no other," he replied. "Come, let us go to the workshop and get a few tools."

I did not know his plan, but it was evident he had thought it all out. First he made a simple but effective gag; then he selected a long piece of thin but tough rope, several strips of hide, a large rug, and a tiny lantern.

"Now," said he with a chuckle, "I think we shan't have much trouble with Mr. Lurena."

On our way to the lane he told me his plan, and gave me full directions as to my share in it. The night was dark, but we moved quietly, speaking only in whispers, and straining our ears for the slightest sound.

At the bend in the narrow lane Jose unrolled the cord, and I, taking one end in my hand, sat down in the darkness, laying the gag and a strip or two of hide on the ground near me. Jose moved to the other side of the lane, and we let the rope lie slack across the road. Then we waited in silence for the coming of Lurena, feeling confident that he would not leave the house till the night was far spent.

This adventure was not to my liking, and I could only hope that in some way my presence might be of use to Montilla. Somehow I had not the slightest hope of my father's idea proving right. My old distrust of the man returned in full force, and I dreaded what an examination of Lurena's pockets would reveal.

Slowly, very slowly, the minutes passed; a whole hour went by, and still there was no sign of our intended victim. Had he left the house by the front? I almost hoped he had. Yet, should he escape us this time, I knew that now Jose had started his quarry he would run it to earth.

A second hour passed. He must come soon now or not at all. My limbs were dreadfully cramped, and I began to get fidgety. Once I coughed slightly, but a sharp pull at the rope warned me to be silent. At last the hoof-beats of a horse could be distinctly heard. From the way he rode, the horseman evidently knew the road well. Nearer and nearer he came, while we, raising the rope, stretched it tight. The figure of horse and man loomed up dimly, came close to us; there was a stumble, a low cry of surprise, and the next moment our man lay on the ground, his head enveloped in Jose's rug.

A spectator might easily have mistaken us for professional thieves, we did the thing so neatly. Almost in less time than it takes to tell, we had thrust the gag into our victim's mouth, and bound both his legs and arms. Then, while I removed his weapons, Jose lit the lantern, and we looked for the incriminating papers. We searched minutely every article of his clothing and the trappings of his horse, but without result, except for a scrap of paper hidden in his girdle.

Jose pounced on this like a hawk, and we examined it together by the light of the lantern. I could have shouted for joy when at last we were able to read it: "To all good friends of Peru. Pass the bearer without question." It was signed by the president, Riva-Aguero, and bore the official seal.

"It seems you were right," whispered Jose sulkily. "Help me to raise the horse, and we will let the fellow go."

Fortunately the animal was unhurt, and very soon we had it on its feet. Then we unbound the man, removed the rug from his head, and slipped out the gag.

"Mount and ride on," said Jose sternly, disguising his voice. "We wish you no harm."

"Give me my pistols, you rascal!" cried Lurena, stamping his foot angrily.

"Mount!" repeated Jose, and the click of his own pistol sounded ominously on the still air.

There was nothing for it but to obey, and fuming with passion, the fellow clambered sullenly to the saddle. Shaking his fist at us and vowing all manner of vengeance, he disappeared in the gloom.

"I'm glad we came," said I, helping Jose to pick up the things; "that bit of paper has removed a load from my mind. I thought my father might be right, but must admit I was rather doubtful."

"I am in no doubt whatever," responded Jose. "Either the fellow was too sharp for us, or we made our venture at an unlucky time. If there was nothing wrong, why did he ride off so quickly?"

"Well," said I, laughing, "the click of a pistol in one's ears is not much of an inducement to stay. I think he acted very wisely."

"If all were square and aboveboard, he would have shouted for help."

"And drawn more attention to himself! That would have been foolish in any case. No, no, Jose; the case is clear, I think. We have misjudged Montilla, and though I don't admire his methods, it is evident he is working on our side. Let us be just, at least."

"I wish it were possible," muttered Jose, leaving me to conjecture what his words exactly meant.

Strangely enough, my distrust of Don Felipe was as strong as ever next day. The incident of the spy should have removed any lingering doubt as to his fidelity, but it did not. Perhaps it was owing to Jose's influence, but whatever the cause, I still found myself speculating keenly on our neighbour's honesty.

Now, mind you, I do not wish to be praised or blamed on false grounds. What I did afterwards may have been right or wrong—and much, perhaps, can be said on both sides—but it was not done through either love or hatred of Don Felipe. True, the man was no friend of mine, but his daughter was, and I could not bear to think of her suffering through his misdeeds.

On the very day that the troops for the south embarked, I met her quite by accident. She had been for a gallop, and was returning home. Her cheeks were flushed with the exercise, her eyes were bright and sparkling; I had never seen her look so beautiful.

"Well, Juan," she cried saucily, "so you have sent away your band of ragamuffins? I wonder how many of this lot will come back! Upon my word, I feel half inclined to pity them."

This, of course, she said to tease me; because, if our men lacked something in discipline, they were at least a match for the Spaniards in bravery.

"You are pleased to be merry," said I, riding with her to the gate, "but I hope you do not seriously think that the Spaniards have any chance of winning."

"Why not? It is you who live in a fool's paradise Juan. Before long the king's flag will be floating over Lima again."

She spoke so confidently that I looked at her uneasily. Was there really a Royalist plot on foot, and did she know of it?

Perhaps I acted foolishly, but what I did was done with a good motive.

"Send your horse on," said I, "and let me walk with you to the house. There is something on which I wish to speak seriously to you."

"Is it a penance for my sins?" she laughed, holding up her riding-habit. "Please don't be too severe, Juan! Now begin, and I will try to be good."

"To begin is not so easy as you think, Rosa; but first let me tell you one thing—the Spaniards will never again be masters of Peru."

"Pouf!" cried she, tossing her head; "that is rubbish, and says little for your understanding, Juan."

"I am sorry you don't believe it; yet it is true, nevertheless. There are Royalists in Lima who hope otherwise, but they will be disappointed. More than that, some of them who are working secretly against us will meet with just punishment."

"What is that to me? I can't work for the king, being only a girl, but no one can accuse me of hiding my opinions."

I could have laughed at that had I been in the mood for merriment. All Lima knew that Peru did not contain a stancher Royalist than Rosa Montilla.

"It is not of you I speak, but of the so-called Patriots, who are sedulously plotting for the enemy. Already names have been mentioned, and before long some of these people will be shot."

I think it was then she first began to suspect my meaning. Her eyes flashed fire, and looking me full in the face, she cried,—

"What is all this to me? What have I to do with your wretched story?"

My face was hot, my forehead clammy with perspiration. I mumbled out my reply like a toothless old woman.

"Don't be angry, Rosa," I said. "I hate to give you pain, but—but—can't you understand?"

"No," replied she calmly; "I understand nothing."

"I wish to warn you," I continued desperately—"to put you on your guard. There is a rumour—I heard it in camp, but I do not vouch for its truth—"

"Come, make an end of this," she said haughtily, "or allow me to proceed to the house. What is this rumour which seems to have tied your tongue so?"

"I will tell you. It is said that the leader of the conspiracy is Don Felipe Montilla! Let me—"

"Thank you, Juan Crawford," said she, making a superb gesture of disdain. "Now go! If our friendship has given you the right to insult me thus, you have that excuse no longer. Go, I say, before I call the servants to whip you from the place."

I tried in vain to offer some explanation.

"Go, senor, go!" she repeated, and at last I turned sorrowfully away.

I had done my best and failed. I had lost my friend, and had effected no good, for I saw by her face that she would think it treason to mention the subject to her father. And as I rode from the gate, I wondered whether, after all, we had been mistaken in our judgment.



CHAPTER XX.

"SAVE HIM, JUAN, SAVE HIM!"

"Aren't you coming, Juan?"

Two days had passed since my interview with Rosa Montilla, and I was sitting in my room at the barracks, feeling at enmity with all the world.

"It's a pity we've nothing better to do than to make fools of ourselves," said I savagely, when young Alzura burst in on me excitedly.

He was dressed to represent some hideous monster that never was known on sea or land, and in his hand he carried a grotesque mask.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed; "some one been rubbing you down the wrong way? Caramba, you are in a towering rage! Pray what has offended your Royal Highness?"

"Why, all this tomfoolery! Fancy a masked ball with Canterac in the mountains ready to swoop down on us at any moment!"

"The more reason why we should enjoy ourselves while we can. Besides, you are as bad as the rest: you promised to go!"

"I have forgotten it, then."

"Well, you did; so make haste—the carriage is waiting."

"I have no dress ready," said I coldly.

"That doesn't matter in the least. Go in your uniform; you look very well in it."

"Thanks, I prefer to stay here."

"You forget the ball is given in our honour! Colonel Miller won't be too pleased at finding you absent. 'Twill be a slight on our host and hostess."

"Very well, if you put it that way, I'll join you in the messroom shortly," said I indifferently.

"That's right. Slip your things on sharp; the animals will get restive."

Alzura was in high spirits. He loved fun of all kinds, and this ball was just to his taste. Plaza and Cordova shared our carriage, and both of them rallied me on my glum looks.

"Crawford's a bloodthirsty fellow," cried Alzura banteringly—"never happy unless he's fighting!"

"That's a libel!" said I warmly; "I'm sick of the whole thing. When this war's over, I hope never to hear a shot fired again."

"Be easy," laughed Cordova; "you'll be an old man by then, and too deaf to hear even the report of a pistol."

"There may be more truth in that than you think," I observed, bitterly.

"Never mind, my boy," said Plaza; "you won't hear any shots fired to-night. There's no great harm in enjoying ourselves for an hour or two. Here we are! What a crowd outside!—Put on your mask, Alzura; the people will like the fun."

There was a roar of laughter from the spectators as Alzura, appeared, and we went into the hall amidst a round of cheering. Most of the guests wore some fanciful costume, but several officers, Miller and O'Brien among them, were in uniform.

The magnificent salons were illuminated by thousands of lights; the guests were numerous, and represented most of the beauty and wealth of Lima. My father and mother had not come, neither did I see Montilla. Rosa, of course, would have scorned to attend a ball given to the Patriots.

Despite the lights and the music and the striking gaiety of the scene, I could not banish my feeling of dread. I felt, as people say, that "something was going to happen," and moved listlessly among the brilliant assembly, wondering what it would be.

"You look bored, Crawford," remarked O'Brien, coming across to me. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, thanks; I'm a bit off colour—that's all."

"Would you rather be in the mountains?" asked Colonel Miller, who had joined us.

"It depends on circumstances, colonel," I replied, trying to smile.

When they had left me, I fell back on my occupation of gazing indifferently at the brilliant scene. I could take no interest in it, nor in the chaff and nonsense of my friends, who tried hard to make me more like myself. It seemed that in some mysterious way I was waiting for something, though what I could not imagine. When the summons actually came, I was not in the least surprised.

Alzura, who brought it me, had no idea he was assisting at a tragedy, but, with a merry laugh, exclaimed, "Crawford, there is a lady outside waiting to see you; she will not leave her carriage."

"Who is it?" I asked.

"I don't know; I haven't seen her. A servant gave me the message, and I set off to find you."

"Thanks," said I quietly, and crossing the brilliantly-lit salon, took my cap and went into the vast hall.

Who had come for me—my mother? That was my first thought, but a moment's reflection showed that it was unlikely. Had there been anything wrong at home, she would have sent Jose on a swift horse. The answer to my question came as I stood on the flight of steps leading to the hall. The crowd of people had dispersed, and only a solitary carriage with its attendants stood at the door. Recognizing the Montilla livery in an instant, I ran down the steps with a beating heart.

The carriage door was open, and the light from the hall fell full on the white face of Rosa.

"What has happened?" I cried. "Why do you look so frightened? Tell me, quick!"

Her only answer was to bid me step inside. The footman sprang to his place, the coachman gathered up the reins, the carriage turned with a swing, and almost before I realized it we were off at a gallop. The girl's face was hidden now in darkness, but I had seen it for a moment, and could not forget it. She was white and scared; her cheeks were tear-stained, and her eyes full of apprehension and grief.

Some terrible disaster had happened, but I could not learn what it was. To all my questions she replied, "Home! home!" and ordered the coachman to drive faster. Then she burst into a fit of crying, uttering incoherent words, of which I could make nothing.

"Is it your father, Rosa?" I asked. "Has anything happened to him?" At which she cried still more, upbraiding me for I knew not what.

The gates of the hacienda were wide open. We passed through at a gallop, and the trembling, foam-covered horses drew up at the front door. As soon as the carriage came to a standstill, I jumped out and assisted Rosa to alight. All the servants seemed to have gathered in the hall. Their faces were white, their eyes wild with dread; some of them still shivered. Evidently a great calamity had occurred. What was it?

Looking around, I noted the absence of Don Felipe. That gave me a clue to the nature of the disaster. Perhaps he lay dead in his room; perhaps the government, suspecting him of treachery, had torn him away. I did not hit on the exact truth, but my conjectures went very near it.

Rosa's wild fit had passed; she was no longer a weeping girl, but an imperious mistress. Her tears were dried; she had banished her fear. There was a light of scorn and command in her eyes.

"Away, cowards!" she cried. "Do you call yourselves men, and would not try to save your master? Begone!" and she stamped her foot in passion.

The servants slunk off abashed, and she led me along the corridor. The door of her father's room was closed, but she opened it, and said, "Come in, Juan; see your friends' handiwork!"

The apartment was in total disorder. Chairs were overthrown; the table was stripped of its contents; all kinds of articles lay strewn about the floor: there were very evident signs of a fierce and prolonged struggle. On one wall was the mark of a bullet, and a corner of the apartment was splashed with blood. I gazed round eagerly for Montilla's body, but it was not there.

"See," said the girl, "he was sitting there when the ruffians burst in upon him. He fought for his life like a cavalier of old Spain, but the cowards were too many. They flung themselves upon him like a pack of wolves, and bore him to the ground."

"But who were they?" I asked in amazement. "Who did it? Tell me plainly what happened."

"Need you ask?" she said coldly. "The ruffians were your friends—your servants, for all I know."

"Rosa, you are speaking wildly. I do not wonder at it: this terrible affair has upset your nerves."

Then she turned upon me, her eyes blazing with angry scorn.

"What is it that you wear beneath your tunic, Juan Crawford?" she cried. "Are you ashamed that it should be seen?"

At first I did not understand her meaning; then a glimmer of the truth began to dawn on me, and slowly I drew out the silver key.

"Do you mean this?"

"Yes! 'The chief of the Silver Key'—that is what the black-browed ruffian called himself. Fancy my father, a Spanish gentleman, the prisoner of a band of half-dressed savages—your friends, Juan Crawford!"

"But I know nothing about it," I cried. "These men take no orders from me. The key was given me by the chief when I myself stood in need of protection."

"Nevertheless they are your friends, and they have dragged my father from his home."

"But why? Surely there must be a reason! Tell me what they said. Try to be calm, Rosa; your father's life may depend on your words."

"I know nothing. How should I? I was in bed. My father sat there writing when they broke into the house. The servants fled, and hid themselves like frightened sheep. The cowards! I dressed and ran here. My father had killed one ruffian, but—but he could not struggle against so many."

"I'll wager that he showed himself a brave man."

"He did; but they overcame him," she continued, speaking more calmly. "They bound him with cords: he was helpless. I begged the big bandit to release him; I would have gone on my knees—I, a daughter of the Montillas!" and she drew herself up proudly.

"But the chief, Rosa—what did he say?"

"That my father was charged with a serious offence, and that he must be tried by the officers of the Silver Key. Think of that, Juan Crawford!—my father tried for his life by those dirty bandits! Oh, how I wish I was a man! Then they took him away. I was alone and friendless; I thought of you, and told the coachman to drive me to Lima. Then I remembered you were one of these people, and would have turned back. But my father's life is precious; I would beg it even of an enemy. O Juan, Juan, save him for me!"

She broke down utterly. I tried to comfort her, and failed. She did nothing but cry, "Save him, Juan, save him!"



I had no faith in my power to help her, but I could not tell her so. Why Raymon Sorillo had done this I knew no more than she—unless, indeed, he had discovered Don Felipe conspiring with the Royalists. In that case, perhaps, I might prevail on him to spare the prisoner's life, and to restore him to liberty when the war was over. It was only a tiny spark of hope, but I made the most of it.

"Listen, Rosa," I said cheerfully. "I do not belong to this society of which you speak, but its chief will do much for me. I will go to him now and use all my influence. I will beg him earnestly to spare your father's life, and I think he may grant it me. Cheer up, Rosa! In a few days I shall return and bring your father with me, most likely."

"O Juan, how shall I ever thank you! Forget the wild words I said to you. I was distracted with fear and anger; I did not mean them, Juan!"

"No, no," I answered soothingly; "I have forgotten them already. Now go to bed; I must start at once. I shall take a horse from your stables."

"You have no sword!"

"I shall not need one. There is no danger for me in the mountains. The Indians will do me no harm."

As soon as she had promised to go to her room I returned to the hall, and calling the servants, sent one to explain matters briefly to my father, and asking that my mother would come and stay with Rosa for a while. Then going to the stables, I selected two good horses, and ordered a groom to help me to saddle them. Sorillo might or might not listen to my request, but it would be as well to waste no time on the journey.

The thought of taking Jose occurred to me, but I put it aside. There was really no danger in the journey, while if Sorillo would not listen to an appeal made in my father's name, he was not likely to listen at all.

Leading the spare horse, I rode through the grounds, cantered down the narrow lane, struck the highroad, and turned in the direction of the mountains. Just where Sorillo might be I could not tell, but I determined first of all to try the ravine where I had once spent several days.

I have said that I had little faith in the success of my mission. Why the Indians had committed this outrage was a mystery, and I could think of nothing which would help me to solve it. That Don Felipe had acted treacherously I could well believe; but why, in that case, did not Sorillo hand him over to the government? Why should the officers of the Silver Key take it upon themselves to try him?

I rode on gloomily till the sun was high in the heavens, halting at a solitary hut, where the woman gave me food and drink for myself and the animals. She was kind enough in this matter, but to my questions she would return no answers. She knew nothing about the war, except that the soldiers had slain her only son, and her husband had been absent for over a year. He might be Royalist or Patriot, she did not know, only she wished people were allowed to live in peace, and to cultivate their little plots of land.

Giving her some money, I mounted and rode on, feeling refreshed by the brief halt. The district was for the most part bare and uninhabited. Here and there were the remains of a ruined hut, and on the route I passed the deserted hacienda which had once afforded me a night's shelter. I met no people, except occasionally a few women and little children; the men and growing boys were in the mountains or in the ranks of the army.

It was evening when I reached the foot of the mountains. My horses were tired out, and the worst part of the journey still lay before me. However, the light had not altogether faded, so I began the ascent, hoping to meet with some of Sorillo's men. As it chanced, I had not long to wait.

A sudden "Halt! who are you?" brought me to a stand, and I answered at random, "A friend of the Silver Key."

"Are you alone?" asked the voice, with just a tinge of suspicion.

"Yes," I replied. "I am Juan Crawford, and am looking for Raymon Sorillo. Can you take me to him?"

A man stepped from behind a rock, and eyeing me suspiciously, exclaimed, "Wait, senor. I cannot leave my post, but I will call for a guide;" and putting his hand to his mouth, he whistled softly.

The sound was answered by one from higher up, and presently a second Indian, armed to the teeth, came running down. The two talked together in whispers, and at last the second man said, "Come this way, senor; I will lead you to the chief. He will be pleased to see the son of Don Eduardo."

Under the circumstances I thought this rather doubtful, but I followed him up the path.

"Are you staying in the ravine?" I asked.

"Yes, senor, for the present."

"Did you go with the chief to Lima?"

"Ah, the senor knows of that! The old crocodile showed fight, and killed a good man; but he is safe enough now."

"He has not been put to death?" I asked, my forehead clammy with perspiration.

"Not yet, senor; he must first be tried."

"But what have you discovered?" I asked, thinking the fellow might be able to give me some information as to the cause of Don Felipe's abduction.

In this I was mistaken. The man knew, or pretended to know, nothing about it. The chief had given orders, but not reasons, and had, as usual, been obeyed unquestioningly. At a word from him his men would have ridden into Lima and dragged the president from his palace.

It almost seemed as if Sorillo expected his stronghold to be attacked. The path was guarded by sentries, and a score of men were stationed at the entrance to the ravine, They passed us through without trouble, and before long I found myself in the presence of the chief.

"You are surprised to see me?" I said briskly.

"Yes; I thought you were in Lima."

"I was there last night."

"You have made a wonderfully quick journey. You must be tired and in need of refreshment. Come; I can at least offer you a good supper."

"Not yet, thank you. I want to ask you a question first. What have you done with Don Felipe Montilla?"

"The dog is in the hut yonder."

He spoke with both anger and contempt; his face underwent a sudden change; for the first time I saw how cruel it could look. My heart sank as I realized the uselessness of any appeal to him for mercy. Then I thought of Rosa, and said,—

"It is on Don Felipe's account I am here. What has he done? Why has he been brought here?"

"If another dared question me like this, I would answer him with a pistol shot," he cried fiercely; "but I do not forget that you are the son of Don Eduardo Crawford. Come, let us eat and forget this business."

"Will you tell me afterwards?"

"I will tell you nothing, but you shall hear for yourself. To-morrow the man will be tried, and if he is found guilty, not all South America shall save him. But we will try him fairly, and you shall bear witness to our justice."

"I want mercy!" said I.

"You do not know what you ask yet. Wait till the morning. And now come; you must not be able to accuse me of inhospitality."

The guerillas led away my horses, and I followed Sorillo to his own hut, where in a short time a plentiful meal was laid. I was both hungry and thirsty, yet I had to force myself to eat and drink. Sorillo made no attempt at conversation, and I did not care to talk.

When the things were removed, he had a bed made on the floor, and suggested I should lie down.

"I am busy," said he. "Most likely I shall be up all night, but that is no reason why you should not rest. I will have you wakened in good time in the morning."

"Thank you," I answered; and as he left the hut I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.

Though tired out, hours passed before I was able to sleep. In the darkness I could see Rosa's white face, and hear her pitiful cry, "Save him, Juan, save him for me!"

What had he done to make Sorillo so angry? Surely he was not so bitter against every traitor? He had hinted that even I would not beg for mercy when I knew the truth. It would have to be something very dreadful, I thought, to make me forget my promise to Rosa.

And what of Don Felipe? How was he passing the night? Did he know the charge to be brought against him in this most irregular court? and would he be able to clear himself? I wondered.

So thinking and dreaming, between sleep and wakefulness, I lay on the chief's bed, while the long hours rolled slowly away.



CHAPTER XXI.

ROUGH JUSTICE.

I did not take much rousing in the morning, and even before remembering the exact circumstances, felt oppressed by the weight of coming sorrow. I breakfasted alone, Sorillo sending a profuse apology for not being able to join me, though I was rather glad than otherwise at his absence.

Leaving the hut, I went into the ravine. There were perhaps a hundred men in sight, all armed, and apparently waiting for some signal. Their comrades, no doubt, had been dispatched on an errand, or were guarding the neighbouring passes. In front of Don Felipe's hut stood a sentry, and, somewhat to my surprise, I now noticed a second hut, slightly lower down and similarly guarded.

"Two prisoners!" I thought. "I wonder who the other is? Sorillo did not mention him."

Nearer the head of the ravine some soldiers were at work, and going towards them I beheld a strange and significant sight. In the side of the hill was a natural platform, broad and spacious, while round it stretched in a semicircle a wide stone seat, which the men were covering with bright red cloth. Below the platform stood a ring of soldiers with impassive faces.

I was still wondering what this might mean, when Sorillo, touching my arm, led me to the centre of the stone seat, saying, "Sit there; you shall be a witness that the people of the Silver Key treat their enemies justly."

Rather reluctantly I took the seat indicated. Sorillo sat next me, and six officers, ascending the platform, took their places, three on either side of us. That portion of the seat occupied by the chief was slightly raised; but this, of course, makes no difference to the story.

At a signal from Sorillo the door of Don Felipe's hut was opened, and the prisoner came out escorted by two armed men. The soldiers, opening to right and left, made way for him, and by means of the boulders, which served as steps, he climbed to the platform.

In spite of my prejudice against the man, I rejoiced to see how boldly he held himself. He appeared to have summoned to his aid all the pride of his dead-and-gone ancestors. He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo, and meeting my eyes, smiled defiantly. As to the officers, he did not give them even a look.



"Thank goodness," said I to myself, "no one can call Rosa's father a coward!"

Then Sorillo began to speak, clearly and distinctly, but with no note of anger in his voice.

"Don Felipe Montilla," he said, "you are brought here by order of the Society of the Silver Key." Don Felipe's lips curled as if in amusement. "It is charged against you that you, having taken the oath of loyalty to the government, have since been in traitorous communication with the Royalist leaders. Do you deny or admit the charge?"

Don Felipe shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, "A truce to your mummery! Do you think I would plead for my life to a band of cut-throats? What care I for your society?"

I thought this outburst would provoke his captors beyond measure, but, as far as I could judge, it produced no effect at all. They sat quite still, as if the remarks had been addressed to others.

"It is our custom," continued Sorillo, "to give those brought before us every chance to defend themselves. We are not lawyers; we do not juggle with words; our one desire is to get at the truth."

"By St. Philip," muttered Montilla, "this is the last place I should have thought to find it in!"

"For this reason," continued the chief, ignoring the sarcastic interruption, "the story shall be told plainly, and then you will understand exactly what you are charged with. Three nights ago we stopped a man returning from Lima. Many times he had gone to and fro unmolested, protected by a pass from Riva-Aguero. At last he was recognized by one of our men as Pardo Lurena, an utterly worthless man, who had already changed sides several times during the war."

"He would have made a good recruit for you," remarked Montilla.

"Suspecting this man, we had him watched," continued the chief, again passing over the interruption, "and found that always he went to your house, senor, returning under the cover of night. We knew you to be an excellent Patriot, yet the circumstance made us uneasy. At length we decided to ignore the president's passport. Lurena was stopped and searched, with this result," and he flourished a letter before the prisoner.

Don Felipe must have known by now how helpless his case was; but he only smiled. In truth, at this crisis of his life he showed no want of pluck.

"There is much in this letter," said the chief mercilessly. "It contains a full list of the troops just dispatched to the south, and of those still remaining in Lima, with an exact statement as to the quantity of their stores and ammunition. It describes their position, and advises General Canterac how he can best enter Lima and seize Callao. It provides also a list of those who will join him, and stipulates that the writer shall keep not only his own estates, but shall be given those of which he has lately been deprived."

At this last revelation Don Felipe changed colour somewhat, and withdrew his eyes from my face.

"This letter," said Sorillo, "came from your house; it is signed F. M., and I charge you with having written it. Can you deny that it is in your handwriting?"

The prisoner seemed to have regained self-possession, for looking steadily at Sorillo, he exclaimed, "A gentleman of Spain does not answer the questions of a mountain robber."

Passing the letter to me, Sorillo said, "You know this man's handwriting; perhaps you will satisfy yourself that he wrote this letter?"

"No," said I coldly, thrusting the paper away; "I will be neither judge nor witness in this case."

"Very well," answered the chief; "let the second prisoner be brought forward." And two men immediately fetched Pardo Lurena from his hut.

He was still a young man, but looked old. His eyes were shifty and cunning, his lips full and thick; he did not seem to be at all the kind of man to play so daring a game. Don Felipe looked at him so scornfully that he turned away his face in confusion. He gave his answers clearly, however, and told the story from beginning to end without a tremor.

It was as Sorillo had said. The fellow admitted being a Royalist spy employed in carrying messages between General Canterac and Montilla. The Don, he declared, had procured him the pass signed by Riva-Aguero, and had given him the letter now in the guerilla chief's possession.

Don Felipe never once interrupted him either by word or gesture; to look at him, one would have thought he was merely a spectator, with no interest in the matter one way or another. But when at last the tale ended, and Sorillo called upon him to speak, his attitude changed.

"Do your murders your own way," he cried defiantly. "If the farce pleases you, play it. What has it to do with me? When I am accused of crime by the government of my country, I will answer."

"Don Felipe is right, Sorillo," I interrupted. "If he has done wrong, let him be brought before a proper tribunal. Whether he be innocent or guilty, if you kill him you commit murder. You and your followers have no right to punish him."

"In the case of a traitor we take the right," answered Sorillo drily.—"But there is a further charge, Don Felipe Montilla, more serious still. You have been proved false to your country; I accuse you also of being false to your friend."

Hitherto, I am bound to admit, the guerilla chief had acted like a perfectly impartial judge; now there was a ring of anger in his voice and a dangerous glitter in his eyes. As to Montilla, I could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise at the change in his appearance. No longer boldly erect, he stood with drooping head, pale cheeks, and downcast eyes. In the first act he had behaved like a man of spirit; the second he began like a craven.

"Listen!" exclaimed Sorillo sternly, and his first words told me what would follow. "For many years there has lived in Lima a man who loves the Indians. He saw that they were treated as dogs, and because of his great pity he resolved to help them. To this end he worked day and night, making many enemies among the rulers of the country. They tried to turn him from his purpose, now with threats, again with offers of heavy bribes: he would not be moved. So badly were the Indians treated that it mattered little whether they lived or died. They banded together, procured arms and ammunition, and determined to fight for their liberty. Their friend sent them word that the attempt was hopeless; but they were very angry, and would not listen. Then he left his home to speak to them himself, and endeavour to dissuade them from their purpose."

Montilla had not once raised his head, and now his limbs quivered. As for me, I sat listening with fascinated interest.

"Side by side with this friend of the Indians," the chief continued, "there lived a Spanish gentleman, who told the viceroy falsely that his neighbour was going to the mountains to raise the standard of rebellion. The viceroy, who was frightened, sent soldiers to seize him. Second in command of the party was a lieutenant, young in years but old in crime. To him this Spaniard went secretly. 'If this man should be killed in the scuffle,' said he, 'you can come to me for five thousand dollars.'

"The lieutenant did his best to earn the money, and thought he had succeeded. As it chanced, however, his victim did not die, but his estates were confiscated and given to the man who had betrayed him."