"What sort of ground tackle have you?" Stephen asked the captain.

"I have two good anchors, senor lieutenant, but the cables are rather old."

"I should advise you to have them brought up on deck and overhauled, and if you find any specially bad places we can cut them out and splice the ends again."

The cables were brought up, but it needed a very short examination only to show Stephen that they were old and worn from end to end. "It will go hard with us if we have to rely upon these," he said. "They would not hold a bluff-bowed craft like this two minutes; the very first roller that struck her would snap them like pack-threads. The worst of it is, captain, that if we escape being drowned we have but the inside of a prison to look to, for we are off the Peruvian coast now, and any of us who get to shore will be seized at once."

"With such a sea as this, senor, there is little chance of any of us being saved if we once strike. We are now somewhere off the mouth of the San Carlos river. In calm weather there would be water enough on the bar for us to run in, but not now; we should strike and go to pieces to a certainty."

"Well, that would depend; we might bump over it. But even if we did break up on the bar, we should have a much better chance than we should if we went ashore anywhere else. Instead of being dashed on the beach by the waves, and then being swept out again, we should be likely to be carried on into the still water behind the bar, and so of making our way to shore. There are eight of the crew and ourselves. You had better get up ten small casks—those wine barrels would do very well—let the liquor run off, then bung them up again, and fasten life-lines round them; with their help we should have a fair chance."

"It is worth trying at any rate," the captain agreed. "The surf on the bar will be tremendous, but if we could stick to the casks we might get through it."

"Do you think that you are north or south of it now, captain?"

"North, perhaps two or three miles."

"Well, we will go on fighting as long as we can, captain; it is of no use throwing away a chance, and the wind may possibly drop or shift so as to enable us to make off shore; but if we do not see the land before three o'clock I would turn and run in towards it, and then when we get near enough to see objects plainer, head for the south until you see the entrance. When you do we will go straight for it. It is better at any rate to do it while there is daylight to help us."

The barrels were got up and prepared to serve as life-buoys. They had just finished when Stephen made his way a short distance up the rigging. "I can see the line of surf, captain; it is not more than three miles away. You had better take a look at it—you may be able to tell where we are. I think I can make out a place of some size a short distance along."

The captain joined him. "Just as I thought," he said; "that is San Carlos, and the mouth of the river is about a mile beyond it."

"Then you may as well bear away for it at once—the sooner we get it over the better."

"Make your casks fast to something, men," the captain ordered, as he stepped on deck. "The surf will get higher as we get inshore, and will, I have no doubt, sweep our decks. When the time comes let each man go to his barrel with his knife in his hand ready to cut the lashings just before we strike."

In half an hour the captain made out the entrance to the river and headed the ship for it.

"There is a heavy sea indeed on the bar," Stephen said as they neared the line of breakers. "You see, I have changed my togs since the gale began, for I saw that unless the wind changed we should find ourselves in difficulties. We have not much mercy to expect as Chilian sailors. I should have none if it were known that I am a naval officer. Will you tell the men that if we get ashore and I too am saved, they had best hold their tongue about my rank. In the first place it would do me harm, and in the next it would damage you all were it known you had one of Cochrane's officers on board, for it would show at once that you were on your way to our fleet; whereas if it is supposed that you are merely an ordinary coaster you may be let off unharmed."

"There is not much chance for us either way," the captain said. "If we fall into the hands of the Spaniards they will probably hang us at once, while the country people may cut our throats so as to save themselves the trouble of handing us over to the Spaniards. We are no more than a hundred miles from the frontier, and if we do get to shore our best chance will be to try and make our way down the coast, travelling at night and lying up in the daytime. But anyhow I will tell the men what you say."

"Get all the sail upon her you can, captain—the faster she is travelling the more chance she has of getting over the bar."

"I will shake out the mainsail," the captain said. "Then all hands had better gather aft—the masts are sure to fall over her bows as soon as she strikes."

In a few minutes the ship was nearing the breakers at a high rate of speed. The men were all gathered aft, each with his barrel. Stephen held his breath as they mounted the last great wave outside the surf. Borne along by the great wind and the impetus of the waves, the vessel plunged head-foremost into the surf, which poured in cataracts on to her deck. There was a slight shock, which caused the vessel to tremble, but she was swept along by the fury of the surf. Another wave lifted her high into the air, and as it passed from under her she struck again. This time the shock was tremendous. Every man was thrown off his feet, the masts went over with a crash, and most of the hands were swept overboard by the torrent that poured in over the stern. Stephen had grasped one of the back-stays, and though it seemed to him for a moment that his arms were being pulled from their sockets, he still maintained his grasp. Another and even greater sea than those that had preceded it thundered down upon them. There was a forward move and then another crash, and Stephen felt himself floating in the water, holding on to the keg. Glancing round he saw that the ship had gone altogether. She had broken up completely, and the sea was covered with floating timbers.

The danger from this was greater than from the waves, and he let go his hold of the barrel and dived, swimming under water at right angles to the run of the waves as long as he could hold his breath. When he came up he looked round. He was beyond the wreckage, and was also inside the line of surf. Had the wave carried the ship her own length farther she would have been out of danger. The river bank was but a couple of hundred yards away. The water was still rough, but it was a long heavy swell rather than a stormy sea, and Stephen, who had kicked off his shoes before the ship struck, at once swam for the shore, and was not long in reaching it. After resting for a minute or two he walked along the bank, and soon made out four barrels that had men still clinging to them. Gradually, too, these made their way ashore; the swimmers were all men who had been carried away by the first wave that had swept over the boat. Of the others he could see no signs. He thought he could make out two or three barrels in the middle of the wreckage, but of this he was not sure, and had little doubt that those who were with him at the time the ship went to pieces had all been killed by the floating timber.

"Now, men," he said, when the four survivors had joined him, "shall we keep together or try to make our way separately?"

The men consulted together, and then said that they thought they would have more chance of making their way south were they to separate. Stephen was glad of this decision, which, he had no doubt was arrived at from the fear that if they were taken, and he was recognized to be an Englishman, it would make their treatment worse than it would otherwise be. He himself much preferred to go alone; he had no authority over these men, and five men together were more likely to attract attention than one alone. Looking across the river they saw a number of people on the opposite bank. They were evidently inhabitants of the town, who, having seen the ship running for shore, had come down to watch her fate, and to give any assistance in their power. Stephen saw that they were waving their hands for them to make up the bank, where there might be a ferry-boat to take them over. He pointed this out to the men, and said, "I am afraid we shall be pursued ere long. Of course, at present they take us for their own people; but when they see that we do not cross, they will suspect the truth, and will send over to see whether we have taken shelter in some village there may be on this side. When they hear that we have not done so, they will guess that we are Chilians, and there will be a hot pursuit for us. We will walk together for a little way along the bank as if going in the direction that they point to. They are not likely to stay long where they are; some will go back to the town now that there is nothing to see, others will no doubt remain on the bank to collect wreckage that may be washed ashore, a few may go on to the ferry and wait there for us. If there are any boats in the river you may be sure they will soon put out to collect floating casks and bales."

The little crowd was indeed just beginning to break up, and after going a short distance Stephen and his companions left the river and started south. After going two or three hundred yards they shook hands and separated, the sailors striking more inland, while Stephen took for the present a course that ran parallel with the sea-coast. It was already growing dark, and Stephen was worn out with the excitement of the day, so that after going on for an hour, he lay down in a clump of trees and went to sleep. It was broad daylight when he awoke, and on walking to the edge of the trees he saw a village a few hundred yards in front of him. He made a long detour to pass it, and was proceeding along a well-beaten path when he heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind, and looking round saw four Spanish troopers riding towards him. Escape was out of the question, and he walked quietly on in the faint hope that they might pass without stopping him. This, however, was improbable; his hair was matted with sea water, his clothes still wet—his whole appearance too evidently that of a shipwrecked man. They stopped when they reached him.

"You are one of the men who were cast ashore last night?" a sergeant said.

"I am," Stephen replied frankly.

"My orders are to take you back to San Carlos. Where are your companions?"

"I do not know," Stephen replied. "We separated at once; I went my way and they went theirs."

"You are a Chilian," the man said; "anyone can tell it by your speech."

Stephen by this time spoke the language so fluently indeed that he could have passed as a native. There was, however, sufficient difference between the dialects of Peru and Chili for it to be seen at once that he was not a Peruvian. He did not reply directly to the question.

"We were on a trader," he said. "The captain and four of the men were lost; five of us gained the shore. We were not on an armed ship, and cannot be considered enemies."

"The whole race of you are enemies," the sergeant said. "You are rebels and traitors every one of you. Gomez, do you and Martinez take this man back to San Carlos, and hand him over to the governor. I will ride on with Sancho and see if we can come up with the other fellows; as there are half a dozen parties out in search we are pretty sure to lay hands on them before nightfall."

On the way back Stephen, as he walked between the two horsemen, debated whether it would be better to allow them to remain under the impression that he was a Chilian, or declare himself an English officer. In the former case he would most likely be shot without ceremony, in the latter he might probably be sent up to Callao or Lima. It might make no difference in his fate, but at least might delay it; and if he could but manage to communicate his position to Lord Cochrane, the latter would certainly take instant steps to offer one or more of the many Spanish officers who were prisoners in his hands in exchange for him, or would threaten that if any harm came to him he would give no quarter to Spanish officers in future. At any rate the latter seemed to promise him the better chance, and accordingly when on his arrival at San Carlos he was taken before the governor, he replied boldly to the question, "Who are you?"

"I am Lieutenant Stephen Embleton, flag officer to Admiral Cochrane."

The words created a sensation among the officers standing behind the governor.

"You dare to say this!" the governor exclaimed furiously.

"I am giving a simple answer to your question, senor," Stephen said quietly. "When we ask the Spanish officers who fall into our hands what their names are, they reply as I have done, truthfully, and they are treated as I expect to be treated, honourably; especially as I have not been captured by you when in arms, but have simply had the misfortune to be shipwrecked on your coast."

The quiet tone of the reply had its effect. The officers spoke a few words together in a low tone, and the governor said more calmly than he had before spoken:

"How am I to know that this story is true?"

"I have no means of proving it now," Stephen replied; "but if I am taken to Callao, a message sent to Lord Cochrane under a flag of truce would speedily bring back a letter verifying my story."

"But how did you come to be on board that craft that was wrecked?"

"I was wounded, senor, at the action in the port of Callao. A splinter caused by a shot from one of your batteries struck me when on the deck of the Esmeralda. I was sent down to Valparaiso. Your surgeon can examine me and will find that the wound has but lately healed. Being anxious to rejoin my ship as soon as possible, I did not wait for a ship of war going up, but took passage in a Chilian trader."



"Doubtless conveying stores to the Chilian fleet," the governor remarked.

"She may have had stores of that kind on board," Stephen said, "but that was no affair of mine. I simply took a passage in her, and paid for it. The admiral is expecting me, and will, I am sure, be ready to exchange an officer of superior rank for me."

By the governor's orders Stephen was now taken into another room. In a quarter of an hour he was brought back again. The governor had left the room, but a Spanish colonel said to him:

"It has been decided to send you to Callao, where, no doubt, inquiries will be made into the truth of your story, and his excellency the Viceroy will himself decide upon your fate."

Stephen bowed.

"I can have no doubt, senor, that his excellency will treat me with the same courtesy with which some score of Spanish officers are at present treated by Lord Cochrane; especially as he will know that were I,—which I cannot for a moment believe,—badly treated, it is in the power of our admiral to carry out wholesale reprisals."

The colonel made no reply, but ordered the guards to remove the prisoner. An hour later a young Spanish officer entered.

"I have been ordered to accompany you to Callao," he said courteously. "I take four men with me, and I am told that I am to be responsible for your safety. It would be painful indeed for me to have to take any stringent measures to prevent you from escaping on the road, and if you will give me your parole not to attempt evasion it will be far more pleasant for us both."

"If you will give me a little time to think it over," Stephen replied, "I will give you an answer. It is too serious a matter for me to decide at once. However, whether I accept or refuse I thank you greatly for your courtesy in making me the offer."

"We shall start in an hour's time," the Spaniard said. "A meal, of which you are doubtless much in need, will be brought to you at once, and when you have concluded it I will return for your reply."

He then left the room, and in two or three minutes a soldier entered with a substantial meal. As he ate it Stephen thought the matter over. It did not seem to him that with four soldiers and an officer watching him he could have much chance of making his escape, and, even did he succeed in doing so, he would almost certainly be retaken, as he could have but a short start, and his dress and Chilian Speech would attract instant attention. If overtaken he might be shot at once, and he therefore decided that his chances would be better as a prisoner at Callao than as a fugitive in a hostile country. Accordingly when the officer returned he at once gave him his parole not to attempt to escape upon the journey.

"I am very glad that you have so decided," the Spaniard said. "I will send you at once a suit of clothes to ride in. Your attire would at once attract attention and might lead to unpleasantness. We have a long journey before us, and may as well make it as agreeable as we can under the circumstances."

Stephen thanked him heartily for the offer, which he gladly accepted, for he felt ashamed of his appearance in his rough clothes, now shrunk and water-stained. The servant who brought the suit of clothes brought also a large basin of water, soap, and a towel, and Stephen was therefore able to make his toilet in comfort. The suit was an undress uniform—white breeches, jacket of the same material, with white braid, a pair of high riding-boots, and a broad-brimmed hat. As soon as he dressed himself, his guard conducted him downstairs. The officer and the four troopers were already mounted, and a horse stood ready for Stephen. Without a word he mounted, the officer took his place beside him, and the troopers falling in behind, he rode out through the gate.

"I thank you heartily for your thoughtfulness in providing me with the means of making myself respectable."

"You certainly look better," the young officer said. "Now permit me to introduce myself. My name is Filippo Conchas; my uncle is the governor here, and it is to that I owe the pleasure of this excursion with you."

"I should not have thought that a ride of five or six hundred miles was a pleasure, Don Filippo."

"Oh, yes, it is, when one can go one's own pace, and travel only in the morning and evening. Moreover, one gets terribly tired of a small provincial town, especially in times like these, when things are not going quite so pleasantly as one might wish, and one knows that half the inhabitants are bitterly hostile to one. Besides, senor, I have an attraction at Callao, and in fact am betrothed to a fair cousin, the daughter of another uncle who is the chief naval authority at the port. My uncle, that is the one here, is a strict disciplinarian, and as all leave is stopped owing to the doings of your admiral's ships, I am kept here; so, of course, directly I heard that you were to be sent to Callao I applied to him to appoint me to command the escort, and as I was the first applicant he had no excuse for refusing, although he was not in the most pleasant of humours. However, that I did not care about as long as I got my leave. He has gone down to the river with several of his officers to inspect the goods, of which a large quantity has been cast ashore. If he had been here I should not have ventured to effect this transformation in your appearance until to-morrow. Are you a good rider, senor?"

"No, indeed," Stephen replied, "I have had no opportunities for practice."

"It does not matter much," Don Filippo said; "I daresay you will be a good rider at the end of our journey, and your not being so at present will afford me an excuse for not making fatiguing journeys; so all is for the best, you see."



CHAPTER XV.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

Don Filippo did all in his power to make the journey a pleasant one for Stephen. They travelled on an average about twenty-four miles a day, twelve in the morning soon after sunrise and as much in the cool of the evening. During the heat of the day they halted, sometimes in the shade of a grove, sometimes at the hacienda where they breakfasted. The young officer chatted freely to Stephen about himself and his life, and as they lay in the shade during the long hours of the heat, Stephen related his own adventures on his first cruise, and in reply to questions of the Spaniard, repeated to him what he had heard from his father of Cochrane's exploits. Don Filippo treated him in every way as a friend and an equal, and no one who saw them together would have dreamt that he was a prisoner. Even at night no guard was placed at the door of his chamber, the Spaniard having absolute faith in the honour of an English officer. The journey occupied nearly three weeks, by the end of which time Stephen was perfectly at home on horseback. As they approached Callao Don Filippo's gaiety deserted him.

"I do not conceal from you, Don Estevan, that I am anxious about you, very anxious. You can hardly understand the deep and bitter hostility that has been excited in the minds of my countrymen by the doings of your admiral. Our hold on Peru when you arrived here was absolute, and it was morally certain that, with the aid of the ships and men on their way out, we should have very soon recaptured Chili again. All that has changed. Our armies have been defeated, our ships captured by inferior forces, our prestige destroyed; we find ourselves insulted in our ports, our ships cut out from under our guns, the Peruvians ready at any moment to revolt, our flag almost swept from the Pacific, and with every prospect that the broad dominions won for Spain by Pizarro and Cortez will be wrested from us. You can hardly imagine the wrath and humiliation of every Spaniard at the misfortunes that have fallen upon us, the more so that these misfortunes have been inflicted by a naval force that we deemed absolutely contemptible.

"All this is due to Admiral Cochrane and his English officers. In the next place, in addition to the political hate there is the religious one. It is by heretics that we have been defeated, as we were defeated centuries ago by your people and the Dutch. You know how great is the power that the priests wield. We have still the Inquisition among us, and though its power in Spain is comparatively slight, the institution still flourishes on this side of the Atlantic. All this makes me anxious for you. No doubt your admiral would exchange some of his prisoners for you, or might, did he learn it, retaliate upon them for any ill-treatment dealt to you, but you see he may never get to know in time. He may hear that the ship in which you sailed was lost, but he may suppose that all hands were lost with it, for the four Chilian sailors were captured an hour or two after you were, and were at once shot. I am sorry now that I undertook this journey. We have been friends and comrades since we started, and I cannot bear the thought that any evil should befall you. You have an absolute right to good treatment, for your admiral has always treated his prisoners with the greatest kindness and consideration, but I regret to say that in the present state of the feelings of the Spaniards I am not certain that such treatment will be meted out to you."

"We must hope for the best, Don Filippo," Stephen replied. "I do not blind myself to the fact that my position is not free from danger, but I confide in the honour of your countrymen."

"Unhappily," the young officer said gloomily, "the ideas of honour on this side of the Atlantic differ materially from those in the old country. It has been so ever since we set foot in this country. Acts of treachery have been performed by men who at home would shrink from any deed that savoured of dishonour; and although even here one Spaniard would not transgress the code towards another, there are too many who feel no scruples whatever as to any course that they may pursue towards one of another race and another religion."

Stephen nodded.

"I understand that, Don Filippo, and I own that, while I have no great fear of ill-treatment on the part of the military and civil authorities, I feel that should I fall into the hands of the Inquisition my chance would be a slight one. From what I have heard I know that its power is so great that even the most powerful of the civil authorities have to give way to it. Of course, being a British subject, they have no shadow of right to meddle with me, and if they do so and it becomes known in England, it will be a very serious matter; but my fate might never be known, and even did it come to the admiral's ears that I had been brought a prisoner here, any application on his part might be met by a statement that I had been shot while attempting to escape, or that I died of fever in prison, and he would never be able to obtain any proof to the contrary."

"I am but too well aware of it," the young Spaniard replied. "Men are constantly missing—not military men, but merchants, land-owners, and others who have been known to entertain liberal opinions. No one knows what has become of them. No one dares to make inquiry. I tell you, senor, that I, a Spaniard, acknowledge that the state of affairs here is detestable, and I am not surprised at the efforts of the colonies to break away from us. Even in the middle ages in Spain priestly tyranny was never carried to a greater point than still prevails here. We have been here for centuries, and what have we done for the countries under our sway? So far from enriching, we have impoverished them. The great proportion of the population are little more than slaves, and we are hated as bitterly as Cortez was hated by the Mexicans when he overthrew the empire of Montezuma. It is three years since I came out here full of enthusiasm, and eager to bear a part in putting down the rebellion of Chili. Now I feel that Chili was more than justified, and that ere long we shall lose all the possessions that the swords of our ancestors won for us, and which were regarded with so much natural pride by Spaniards; and the worst of it is, that it is the outcome of our own work, our own oppression and misgovernment. Were I to speak like this in public, not even the influence of my two uncles could save me. I too should disappear and be heard of no more. I have been thinking," he went on after a few minutes' silence, "for the last two or three days whether it would not be better for me to give you back your parole and to suffer you to escape. Of course I should be blamed, but the offence would not be a tithe of the gravity of that of speaking as I have just spoken to you."

"I would not think of such a thing, Don Filippo," Stephen replied warmly. "I would not take my freedom at the cost of involving in my trouble one who has behaved so kindly to me. I have still a great hope that everything will turn out well, and that I shall be exchanged for some officer in the admiral's hands. He is sure to hear of my being at Callao, for his last letter said that many deserters were coming in, and from some of these he is likely to learn that I am a prisoner; and in that case he would not, I am sure, lose a day in sending in a flag of truce with a request for my exchange, and a notice that if this was refused he would quickly follow it by retributive measures if any harm befell me."

The Spaniard did not reply. He felt sure that every pains would be taken by the authorities to prevent the news of his companion's capture becoming public; and his uncle, on appointing him Stephen's escort, had laid strict injunctions on him to say nothing of the matter on his arrival at Callao until he had delivered his prisoner over to the authorities, and had received permission from them to speak of it. On the following day they entered the town. As they rode to the house of the military governor no one paid any heed to their passage; it was but two young officers returning perhaps from Lima or from some other station. On reaching the governor Filippo went up alone to make his report, leaving Stephen in charge of the soldiers. He was absent half an hour.

"I have said all I could for you," he said gloomily on his return. "The governor is one of the old type, obstinate, bigoted, and arrogant. I have not been all this time with him; in fact only a few minutes. He dismissed all I had to say with a wave of the hand:

"'You will take the prisoner, Lieutenant Conchas, to the military prison, and hand him over to the governor there. Until you hear further you will maintain an absolute silence as to his arrival here, and will simply state that you are here on a short leave.'

"I had nothing to do but to bow and retire, but if possible I will send a message to your admiral that you are here. At present, however, that is out of the question; for while I was waiting in the anteroom I learned that the blockading fleet has sailed away, and that there is no news whatever as to the direction which it has taken. It is very unfortunate, but you may be assured that, as soon as it returns, I will somehow or other communicate with the admiral."

Remounting they rode to the prison. They said good-bye to each other before they reached its door, for, as Filippo said, it would be better that he should part ceremoniously.

"We must not show any affection for each other," he said, "or, should the English admiral learn that you are here, or should you manage to make your escape, suspicion would at once light upon me. Believe me, Don Estevan, I shall do all in my power to aid you."

The parting inside was therefore brief. Don Filippo handed Stephen over to the chief official of the prison, saying that the orders of the governor were, that he was to be kept apart from all other prisoners and allowed no communication with anyone.

"Adieu, senor. I trust that you have had no cause to complain of your treatment during your journey hither."

"None whatever," Stephen said gravely. "You have treated me with the courtesy that an officer has a right to expect at the hands of his captors."

The young Spaniard bowed, saluted the prison officer, and left without another word. The governor struck a bell, and on an assistant entering he gave Stephen into his charge. "Place him in the end cell of the long corridor," he said. "If it is occupied at present, remove whoever is there to another cell. This prisoner is to hold no communication with others, and an extra strict watch must be kept on him. He is one of the heretic officers of the Chilian fleet, and will want looking after closely."

The cell happened to be untenanted, and Stephen was at once conducted there. It was apparently intended as a place of confinement for officers who had fallen into disgrace. It was some twelve feet square, and contained a table and a chair. From the window, which was very closely barred, a view of the bay could be obtained, and Stephen felt that his quarters were better than he had expected. As soon as he was alone he examined the apartment more closely. Looking down as well as he could between the bars he could see the top of a wall some twenty yards away, and decided that a courtyard surrounded the building, so that even could he find any means of descending from his window it would be necessary afterwards for him to climb this wall. At present, however, he had no idea of trying to escape. To do so would, were he caught, greatly prejudice his case, and might be used as an excuse for his instant execution. However, he concluded that if he could loosen the bars it would be as well to do so without loss of time, as it might be necessary to make the attempt at very short notice.

Upon examining the bars he found that they were so strongly built into the wall that it would be a task demanding a very long time to execute. Turning from this he examined the door. The framework was massive, and he had noticed as he had entered that it was fastened outside by two heavy iron bolts. "There is not much to be done that way," he said. "Now I must wait to see how my meals are brought in. The only possible way that I can think of is that of overpowering the warder and getting out in his clothes. I don't suppose that there is much order or discipline in a Spanish prison, and if I could once get down into the yard after dark, I might walk quietly out if there is a gate open, or climb that wall if there isn't."

That evening his supper was brought in by the warder into whose charge he had been given. He was accompanied by another armed with sword and musket.

"Two of them," Stephen said to himself, as, after retiring without having spoken a word, his guards closed and bolted the door behind them. "I think I could manage them at a pinch. It seems to me that an escape is possible, but the question is what should I do with myself when I got out. If the fleet had been still off the town I might have made along the shore, stolen a boat, and rowed out; but as it has gone there is nothing to be done that way. A journey on foot from here to the frontier and down through Chili would be a tremendous affair. I should be pursued, and as it would be guessed that I had gone that way, orders would be sent to every town and village to look after me, and a man in the dress of a Spanish officer on foot would be remarked by every soul I met."

Three days passed without incident, but at dinner-time on the fourth he thought that the warder, as he placed the hunch of bread on the table, gave him a significant glance. As soon as the door was closed he seized the bread and pulled it to pieces. Inside was a tiny pellet of paper. He opened and smoothed it out. In a female hand was written in tiny characters: "The Inquisition has demanded you. You will be handed over to-morrow. If it be possible, make an escape to-night. If you can do so, turn to your right from the front of the prison, take the second street on the left, and knock three times on the fifth door on the right-hand side. A friend will be awaiting you. If you cannot escape, hope still. We will try other means. Destroy this when read."

Stephen read it through three or four times to be sure that he had his instructions by heart, then he put the paper into his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed it.

"It must be done when they bring in my supper," he said to himself. "I know that I am the last to be served in this corridor, for I can hear them stop at the door next to me before they come here. That is an advantage, as they would go straight down the corridor on leaving me. The first thing is to tear up these two rugs into strips, and make ropes for binding them. Of course I shall have to tackle the soldier first. The warder has evidently been bribed and he will make no resistance. When I have once overpowered the soldier, I may get some hints from the other as to which is my best way of getting out of this. Of course this is Filippo's doing. What a good fellow he is to run such a risk! There is one thing, if I once get fairly out of the cell I will be killed rather than be taken and handed over to the Inquisition."

Although he had not once been visited between meals, he thought it prudent not to begin the work of making his rope until the sun was getting low. When it did so he tore up the blankets, twisted and knotted together the strips, and then sat down to await the coming of the jailers. He had already tried to wrench off one of the legs of the table, but it was too heavy and strongly made for him to succeed. He then thought of using the chair, but he could not feel certain of stunning the soldier with the first blow, and the latter might fire off his musket, or shout so loudly as to give the alarm; he therefore determined to trust to his hands alone. He knew that he was greatly superior in strength to any of the little Spanish soldiers, and that with the advantage of surprise he ought to be able to succeed without noise.

About an hour after it became dark he heard the footsteps come to the next cell, then he took his place close against the wall by the side of his door and waited.

As the bolts were drawn back he took a deep breath. The warder as usual came in first, followed closely by the armed guard. As the latter entered, Stephen sprang upon him, and his hands closed upon the man's throat with so fierce a grip that the musket fell instantly from the fellow's hands. Without losing his grasp in the slightest Stephen whirled him round and threw him against the warder, whom the shock brought to the ground, Stephen hurling the already almost insensible soldier upon him. Seizing the musket he brought the butt end down upon the soldier's head with a force amply sufficient to stun him; then he rolled him off the warder's body and helped the latter to his feet.

"I was obliged to be rough with you," he said, "in order that that fellow when he comes to his senses may confirm your story that you were at once knocked down. Of course I shall tie and gag you both."

"Yes, and before you go you had better give me a tap with that musket. You need not hit me quite so hard as you did him, but it must be hard enough to make a good bump. You needn't be afraid of hurting me. I am well paid for anything that may happen, though indeed I did not expect it to come like this."

"In the first place I am going to take your clothes," Stephen said. "You can say that you were insensible when I stripped you; but first I want you to tell me how I can get out."

"You won't have much difficulty about that," the man replied. "When we have taken round supper our work is done for the night, and half of us are free to go out and spend the evening. You turn down the first staircase you come to, follow it to the bottom, then take the corridor to the right and go on until you come to an open door. Two soldiers will be standing there on sentry, but they ask no questions of the warders. You had better wait when you get in sight of the door till you see that no one else is going out, or it might be noticed that you were a stranger and questions might be asked you. Now you had better lose no time, or the others may be out before you get there, and the door be shut."



As he spoke he was taking off his uniform, which consisted of a dark jacket, trousers, and cap, and a brown belt from which hung a sword. Stephen put them on, then tightly bound the insensible man, whose lungs were now playing, stuffed a portion of the rug into his mouth and fastened it there with a strip tied at the back of the head. Then he similarly bound and gagged the warder, and then gave him a heavy blow on the head, feeling that it was best for the man himself that it should be a severe one. Then he took the sentry's musket and hid it under the bed, so that, if by any chance he managed to free himself of his bonds, he could not fire it to give the alarm. Then putting the cap on his head Stephen went out, bolted the door, and proceeded down the corridor. Following the instructions that had been given him he made his way towards the door. Just as he neared it he saw a group of three or four warders going out together, and waiting for a moment till they had disappeared boldly followed them, and passed between the sentries into the open air. So rapidly and easily had the escape been managed that he could scarcely believe that he had escaped from the hands of the military authorities, still less from the fate that would have awaited him had he fallen into the hands of the Inquisition. Not knowing which was the front of the building, he followed the lane, upon which the side door opened, to its end, and then finding that he was now at the rear of the prison he returned; and gaining the street in which was the main entrance, followed out his instructions and tapped three times at the door of the house indicated. There was a little pause and then it was opened a short distance.

"Is it you, senor?" a female voice asked.

"It is the man whom you are, I believe, expecting, and who received your message."

With an exclamation of gladness the woman opened the door and, as he entered, closed it behind him.

"Follow me, senor," she said; "there is nothing in the passage to run against."

A few steps further Stephen heard a door open, a flood of light poured into the passage, and his guide said "Quick!" He entered and she closed the door behind him.

"Thanks to the saints that you have escaped, senor!" a voice said. "It seemed to us well-nigh impossible that you could do so; but, knowing how brave and enterprising you English are, Filippo said that he had great faith that you might manage it."

Stephen now saw that the speaker was a young and very pretty girl.

"I am speaking to the Senorita Inez Conchas," he said respectfully. "How can I thank you and Don Filippo sufficiently for your action in my behalf. You have saved my life, for assuredly had I not known that I should be handed over to the Inquisition no thought of making my escape to-night would have entered my mind."

"It is all Filippo's doing," she said. "He made me write the letter, and got me to come here because he could not come himself,—I and my old nurse with me. She is sitting in the front room on watch; it was she who opened the door to you. You see, we could not be sure whether the note would reach you; the man whom we bribed might have turned traitor and given it to the governor. My nurse arranged it; for it would never have done for Filippo to have appeared in the matter, and I am so well known in the place that it would have been very dangerous. However, we hoped that all would be well, for half the man's bribe was not to be paid to him until you were free. However, we placed her at the corner of the street this afternoon in order to watch if anyone came to this house or stopped to look at it earnestly. The people are away in the country, and my nurse, who knew the woman who is left in charge here, got her to lend her the key until to-morrow morning, on some excuse or other. Filippo brought me round just before dark; there is an entertainment to-night at the Viceroy's, and he had to be there. Indeed, it was the best place he could be, as no suspicion can now fall upon him of having aided in your escape. How did you manage it, senor?"

Stephen briefly related how it had been brought about.

"That was well done indeed!" the girl said, clapping her hands merrily. "I scarce thought that it could be your knock when you came, for we had agreed that if you did manage to make your escape it would not be until very late, and it seemed impossible that you could have got out so early. However, that is all the better, as you will now have a long start. Now, senor, the first thing for you to do will be to put on the disguise Filippo has prepared for you in that bag on the table. Here is a piece of burnt cork for darkening your eyebrows and eyelashes, and a false moustache that will quite change your appearance. I will go into the next room with nurse; when you are dressed you can call, and I will come back."

As soon as he was alone Stephen opened the bag and drew out an attire such as would be worn by a respectable Peruvian merchant. This he put on, darkened his eyebrows, and stuck on the moustache, and acknowledged when he viewed himself in a small mirror that he should not have known himself. On his opening the door the girl came in from the other room again.

"We have talked over, Filippo and I, the way you had best go, and we both agree that the journey south would be altogether too dangerous. It will naturally be supposed that you have gone that way, and the news will be sent down by horsemen, so that the troops and the authorities will be on the look-out for you everywhere. We both think that, although the journey is very long and toilsome, your best plan will be to ride straight inland, cross the Andes, and come down into Brazil. You are not likely to be questioned on that line, which no one would imagine that you would be likely to take. You may meet with adventures on the way, but you English people are fond of adventures. At any rate that plan will be safer for you, and indeed for us."

"Why for you, senorita?"

"If you were to be captured," she said, "you would be questioned as to who aided you, and there are means in these prisons by which they can wring the truth from the strongest and bravest. There are tortures, senor, that flesh and blood could not withstand."

"You are right, Donna Inez," Stephen said gravely. "For myself I should be ready to run the risk of getting through to the south, but what you have said decides me. I would die rather than say a word that could betray you and your cousin. But no one can say what one would do under fiendish tortures; therefore I at once accept your plan."

"That is right," the girl said. "Filippo said that he was sure that for our sake you would consent to it. Now for your instructions. Nurse will, in the first place, take me home; then she will return here; she will be back in half an hour. She will take away with her the things that you have worn, and will to-night cut them up and burn them, so that no trace may remain of your visit here. When she returns she will guide you through the town. At a cottage a quarter of a mile outside a muleteer with two animals is awaiting you; he does not know who you are, but believes you to be a Brazilian who has been on this side of the continent for some years, chiefly in Chili, and so speak that language, and now, being afraid to proceed by water, are about to return by the passes. How far you will be able to get him to accompany you I cannot say, but at present he has promised to take you over the Andes. The best course to take then you can talk over with the muleteer. You will find many details of the various routes in a letter Filippo has given him for you. And now adieu, senor. We shall think of you often, and I shall pray for your safe return to your friends. Possibly we may meet again some day, for Filippo has a powerful relation who, it is expected, may some day be the Spanish ambassador in London, and he says that he shall try and get him to take him on his staff."

"I should indeed be glad if it could be so, senorita. I shall to the end of my life entertain the liveliest feelings of gratitude to you and Don Filippo for your kindness. Have you a pencil and paper?"

The girl pointed to the table, on which stood writing materials. Stephen wrote his father's address upon it and handed it to her.

"That is my address in England," he said. "I pray you, when you return to Spain, to beg Don Filippo to write to me there, and I am sure to get it sooner or later. Directly I receive his letter I shall make a point of taking a passage for Spain in order to thank you more fully and heartily than I can now do. It would be dangerous were I to write to you here."

She nodded. "Adieu, senor."

"Adieu, senorita. May your life with Don Filippo be as happy as you both deserve!"

He put the hand she gave him to his lips. A minute later she and her nurse left the house, and Stephen remained wondering over the events that had happened.

"It is certainly the best plan," he said to himself. "I daresay there will be lots of hardships to go through, but it will be a glorious trip. Fancy going down the Amazon from almost its source to the sea! The senorita said nothing about money, but Filippo has shown himself so thoughtful in every other way that I have no doubt he has not forgotten that for such a journey some money at least will be required. Happily I am now in a position to pay anything he may advance me, so I need not scruple to take it. He told me that his father was very rich, but that money was very little good to him in Peru, and that he had a very handsome allowance, but no means whatever of spending it, especially in such a place as San Carlos. I will write him a line or two now, and will give it to the old woman after I have read his letter."

He sat down and wrote a note expressive of his warmest gratitude to Filippo, and concluded: "In other matters too I am deeply your debtor, but this fortunately I can, as I told you, discharge far more easily than I can my debt of gratitude. As soon as I reach England I will pay in the amount to a house having connections in Spain, and order them to have it placed to your account with some good firm there, with instructions to write to you saying that they hold it payable to your order. My name will not be mentioned, so that in case of any accident the money will not be traceable to me. My other and greater debt must for ever remain unpaid, but to the end of my life I shall remain the debtor of you and Donna Inez. Wishing you both a long life and every happiness together, I remain always your grateful friend."

He folded the letter up and put it into his pocket, and then waited until he heard the three knocks on the door. Stephen blew out the candle, went along the passage to the front door, opened it, and went out. Without a word the old woman turned and walked along the street. He followed at a short distance, and was presently in a busy thoroughfare. Twenty minutes walking took them beyond the town, and they presently stopped at a cottage where a candle was burning in the window.

"This is the house, senor," she said, speaking for the first time.

She went up to the door and tapped at it. It was opened by a man in the attire of a muleteer.

"This is the senor who will accompany you, Gomez," she said. "Now, senor, my work is done." And she turned to go.

"Wait a moment," he said. "Gomez has a letter for me, and I want to read it before I give you a note that I wish you to take back and to hand to Donna Inez."

"Here is the letter, senor," the muleteer said.

Stephen took it to the light and opened it. It was a long one, but he skipped the first part, which was full of directions and hints for the journey. Running his eye down it fell upon some figures, and he read: "Gomez will hand you a bag containing eight hundred dollars. This, I have no doubt, will be sufficient for your journey down the Amazon and to pay your passage-money home. You are heartily welcome to it. Some day, if it please you, you can pay me back; but if aught befalls you on your way down do not let the thought of this paltry debt trouble you in any way. I know not whether this will ever reach your hands, but pray that it may do so, and that I may have the satisfaction of knowing that Inez and I have had some part in saving the life of a brave English gentleman." Then with a few more words of adieu the letter closed.

Stephen had already felt that there was some money in the pockets of his trousers, and he now handed his letter to the old woman and pulled out some gold.

"No," she said, drawing back; "I would die to please my young mistress, but not one penny would I touch from the hand of a foreign heretic."

A minute later and she was gone. The muleteer laughed at her outbreak. "Well, well," he said, "how people differ; now, for my part, when I receive payment for the work of my mules I care not in the least whether it comes from a heretic's pockets or those of a good Catholic. But I did not know that you Brazilians were heretics, senor."

"As a rule we are not," Stephen said, "but my case is an exception; I will tell you more about it on the journey. Callao is not the town where it is safe to be a heretic."

"No, indeed," the muleteer said with a laugh; "however, it is no business of mine, senor. A gentleman whose name I know not, but to whom I was recommended by a cousin of mine, who is a relation of the old woman who has just left us, made a bargain with me to take you to the Amazon or a river running into it. He agreed to give me my own terms. He paid me a third of the money in advance, and said that you would pay me the remainder at the end of the journey. He said that you were a Brazilian, and spoke Chilian better than our tongue; though, indeed, they are so much alike that one passes as well as the other, or did till this war began. That account of you may be true or it may not, it is no business whatever of mine. A man says to me, I want you to carry a bag of salt to such a place. I agree as to the terms, and it is no matter to me whether the sack contains salt or sand as long as the weight is the same. Your things all came up here to-day, senor—your wallet, and your sword, and a brace of pistols, a rifle and a bird gun. You will find everything right. I understood that it was your wish, for some reason which was again no business of mine, to start as soon as you arrived, and I have three mules standing saddled in the stable if you are ready to start."

"I should certainly be glad to do so, Gomez. I have, as you say, my reasons for wanting to be off as soon as possible."

Accordingly the three mules were at once brought round, the baggage divided between them, and five minutes later, after blowing out the candle and locking the door behind him, the muleteer mounted and rode off with Stephen.



CHAPTER XVI.

AN INDIAN GUIDE.

"Of course we must go through Lima," Stephen said as they started.

"Assuredly, senor, the roads over the passes all start from there, and it would take us a long circuit to avoid the town."

"Oh, there is no occasion to avoid it," Stephen said. "It is about five miles, is it not?"

"That is the distance; but, as the road ascends a good deal, we generally count it as six. It is a fine city Lima, and I hope that it will not be very long before we shall be able to enjoy it without the presence of the Spaniards; we think they cannot remain here much longer. If the Chilian army would but move from the sea-coast the whole country would be up in arms. We would rather have done without the Chilians if we could, for there has never been any great friendship between them and the Peruvians. I do not say between them and us, for I am almost as much Chilian as Peruvian, seeing that I was born within half a mile of the frontier and high up in the hills. But there is more money to be made here. In the first place, the Peruvians have more towns beyond the passes, and there is more traffic; and in the next place, in Chili most men are ready to work if there is money to be made, whereas most of the Peruvians are too lazy to pick up gold if it lay at their feet. Most men in our business come from the hills."

"And why don't the Peruvians and Chilians like each other?"

"Who can tell. The Chilians have a colder climate, and the people for the most part came from the north of Spain; they are hardier and more active; then, too, they are not so strict in church matters, and here they call them heretics, and a Peruvian hates a heretic a great deal worse than he does the father of all evil. We muleteers pray to the saints for protection on our journeys, and before we start on a long expedition burn a few candles at the shrine of our patron saint, and we never pass a shrine or a wayside cross without making a prayer; but we don't concern ourselves with other people's religion; that is their business, not ours. But that is not so with the Spaniards, and the Peruvians are just as bad. You may kill a man in a knife fight and no one cares much about it. But if you were to pass a village shrine without raising your sombrero they would be ready to tear you in pieces as a heretic."

"What is the country like when you once get over the mountains?"

"It is a tree country and generally flat. Here you see the hillsides are mostly bare; but on the other side of the ranges of mountains—for there are two chains—the forest grows almost to the top, and, as I have heard, they extend thousands of miles over the country beyond. In these great forests there are swamps and rivers, great rivers. Very few white men know where they rise or how they go, but they all run into the largest of them all, which, when it gets near the sea, is called the Amazon, but which has many names at different points of its course. They say that some of these rivers have many rapids and falls, and on almost all of them there are Indians who are more dangerous still; some of them they say eat men who fall into their hands.

"It is a terrible journey that you are undertaking, senor. One thing is certain, you must take with you some man of courage and resolution, one who at least knows something of the country. No man knows much, but there are men, Indians, who make it their business either to trade or to guide traders. Of course they never go very far, but they have gone far enough to know much of the nature of the dangers and difficulties."

"Do you think that you would be able to find me such a man?"

"There are many," the muleteer said; "but it is not everyone that can be trusted. I know of one man who, if he happened to be at home and disengaged, would suit you well if he would undertake such a journey. He would go if anyone would, for no dangers terrify him, and he has made, before now, perilous expeditions with officers and others who have sought to discover the sources of the rivers. He lives in a village but a few miles from the summit of the pass, and if you have not as yet decided on your route, he will at any rate, if he cannot go himself, give you better advice than you can obtain from anyone else I know of."

They passed through the city of Lima unnoticed. There were still numbers of people in the streets, and the sound of musical instruments came from the open windows. Parties of ladies stood on the balconies and were enjoying the coolness of the night air, and it was evident that Lima had no thoughts of going to bed for a long time yet.

"You would hardly see a soul in the streets while the sun is high," the muleteer said upon Stephen remarking on the number of people still about. "The whole town goes to sleep from eleven to four or five, the shops are all closed, and save on a business of life or death no one would think of going out. About six the day really begins, and goes on until one in the morning; then people sleep till five or six, and for a time the streets are busy; the marketing is done then, the ladies all go to early mass, the troops do their exercises; by nine the streets begin to thin, and by ten they are deserted."

Stephen was much struck with the appearance of the town, which had been laid out with great care, the streets running at right angles to each other, and being all precisely the same width, dividing the town into regular blocks. It contained at that time some 70,000 inhabitants. He was surprised at the want of height in the houses, comparatively few of which had more than one story. On remarking on this to the muleteer, the latter said:

"It is because of the earthquakes; nowhere are there such bad earthquakes as here. If it were not for that Lima would be perfect. The country round is very fertile, there is an abundance of pure water, the climate is healthy, and it lies 600 feet above the sea. But the earthquakes are terrible, there has not been a bad one lately, but it might come at any time. Every twenty or thirty years there is a very bad one. The worst were those of 1687 and 1746; the first destroyed every house in Lima, and the second was almost as bad, but was much worse at Callao. There they not only had the earthquake but a tumult of waves such as never was before seen. The sea went right over the town, and almost every soul there, and at other towns along the coast, perished. There were twenty-three ships in the harbour at Callao, nineteen of these were sunk and the other four carried half a mile inland. Since then there has been nothing like that, but the Indians say that we may expect another before long. I don't know what they go by, but people say that they predicted the others long before they came. Have you ever felt an earthquake, senor?"

"No, there was a very slight shock when I was at Valparaiso, but it was not much more than the rumble a heavy wagon makes in the street, and did no damage whatever."

"I have never felt a great earthquake," the muleteer said, "but I have felt little ones. The animals always know when they are coming, and when I see the mules uneasy and apprehensive, I always choose some level spot where there is no fear of rocks coming rolling down on us, and halt there. The first shock may be so slight that one hardly feels it, but the mules know all about it. They straddle their legs and brace themselves up or else lie down on the ground. When I see them do that I know that the next shock is going to be a smart one, and I lie down too. It is nothing when you are out in the country, but in the towns it is terrible. People rush out into the streets screaming with fear, If they are near a church they make for that; if not, they kneel down in the streets, where they are pretty safe, the houses being so low and mostly thatched. I have never seen one severe enough to bring the houses down, but I have seen them crack, and parapets tumble down, and great pieces peel off the walls. What with the dust, and the screams of the women and children, and the ringing of all the church bells, it is enough to shake a man's courage I can tell you."

After proceeding some ten miles farther, by a road always ascending and often steep, a halt was made. The muleteer removed the valises and packs, gave a double handful of corn to each animal, and then, hobbling them, allowed them to wander about to pick up what they could. He and Stephen partook of some of the food they had brought with them, and then wrapping themselves in their cloaks lay down for a few hours' sleep. At daylight the journey was renewed. So they travelled on, halting for five or six hours in the heat of the day, and riding in the morning early, and late on into the evening. The climate, however, scarcely necessitated the mid-day halt, and at night they were glad to wrap themselves in a blanket in addition to the cloak. At last the summit of the pass was reached. In front of them rose another chain of mountains almost as lofty as that which they had climbed. Between these great ranges lay a plain varying in width. Several towns and small villages were visible.

"That is Jauja to the right," the muleteer said, "and that is Pasco to the left; they are both large towns. They do not look so very far apart from here. But the air of the mountains is so clear it is difficult to judge distances. You would not take them to be much more than twenty miles from us; they are nearly three times as far, and are fully eighty miles apart."

"Where does the guide of whom you spoke live?"

"It is some twenty miles down; it is where the roads from the two towns fall into this pass. It is convenient for him, because he is in the track of merchants going either north or south."

No stay was made on the top of the pass, for the wind was strong and piercing. There were snow-covered peaks on either hand, and so they hurried onwards, although they had already done a long morning's march. Five miles farther they halted in a wood, and although they had already made a descent of some thousand feet they were glad to light a fire. On the following day they halted early at a solitary hut standing at the junction of two roads.

"Bravo!" the muleteer said as the door opened and a man came out at the sound of the mules' feet, "here is Pita himself. I thought we should find him, for, since the war began, trade has gone off greatly, and he was likely to be out of employment. Well met, Pita; I was in hopes that I should find you here, for the senor has need of the services of a bold fellow like yourself."

"Enter, senor," the Indian said gravely, lifting his sombrero, for he was dressed in Peruvian fashion. "It is long since I have seen you, Gomez."

"Yes, a full year," the muleteer replied; "it was at Cuzco, and you were just starting with a party of traders."

The hut contained little furniture, but there was a pile of skins, the proceeds of the Indian's hunting since his return from his last expedition. He took off three or four of them, threw them on the ground, and motioned Stephen to take a seat while he busied himself in preparing a meal. Nothing was said of business until this was served. When it was finished the Indian rolled three cigars, and when these were lighted, and three cups of excellent coffee made, Pita said:

"Now, senor, in what way can I serve you?"

"I want to go down the Amazon to the coast."

"It is a long journey, long and difficult; I have never been so far. The farthest point that I have reached has been Barra, where the Madeira falls into the Solimoes."

"That is the Amazon," Gomez explained. "It is called the Maranon here in Peru, but from the frontier it is known as the Solimoes."

"As far as the frontier," Pita went on, "there are no great difficulties, and there are many towns on the banks; beyond that to Barra there are but one or two villages. The Mozon begins at Llata, some two hundred miles north of this. The road is a good one, for we pass through Pasco and Huanuco; there you can take boat, which will carry you as far as the frontier, and beyond that you will have to take another, for no Peruvians will venture so far from here."

"The senor wishes to escape towns," Gomez said. "He has no papers, and wishes to escape questioning. You know what Spanish authorities are, and how suspiciously they view the passage of a stranger. Could you not take him down the Madeira?"

"It is a terrible journey," the Indian said. "Very few white men have ever descended the river. There are bad falls and bad Indians. I myself have never gone down it more than a few hundred miles. It would need much courage, senor, and even then things might turn out badly. I would not undertake such a journey single-handed, though with a good comrade I might adventure it. You could not get a boat unless you bought one, and, as a rule, men travel on light rafts, as these are safer on the rapids than boats. That way has the advantage of being a good deal shorter than going round by the Maranon, but the difficulties and dangers are very much greater."

"Do you love the Spaniards?" Stephen asked.

The Indian's face darkened.

"They have been the destroyers of our race," he said; "the oppressors of our country. I hate them with all my heart."

"Then I may tell you at once," Stephen said, "that I am an Englishman. I am one of the officers of the English admiral who commands the fleet that has destroyed their war-ships and is blockading their towns. I was wrecked on the Peruvian coast and thrown into prison. They were about to hand me over to the Inquisition as a heretic when I escaped, so you can understand the danger that I should run in passing through any of their towns. I speak, as you hear, the Chilian dialect, therefore I would be detected as a stranger at once, and as I could give no satisfactory reply to questions, and have no papers, I should at once be seized and sent back again to Callao."

The Indian nodded gravely. He had heard of the misfortunes that had befallen the Spaniards, and knew that the fleet that had inflicted such damage upon them was commanded by an Englishman.

"The senor is provided with money," Gomez said. "I did not myself know that he was an Englishman, though I suspected from the manner in which I was hired that he had trouble with the Spaniards."

"I would have told you so, Gomez," Stephen said, "but I thought it better that you should not know, so that if I were seized by the Spaniards you could declare that you were wholly ignorant of my being an Englishman, and believed that I was only a trader travelling on business."

"They would not have believed me," Gomez laughed. "You had no goods with you, and your speech showed that you were not a Peruvian. I have often wondered on the way to what nation you belonged, and how it was that one so young could be ready to undertake so desperate an enterprise as you proposed; but now that I know you are an officer under the terrible English admiral I can well understand it."

"I would do much," Pita said, "for any enemy of the Spaniards; and more for this reason than for the sake of money. I am ready to undertake to do my best to take you in safety to Barra; beyond that I would not go. The river below that is, as I hear, quite open, and you could journey down without difficulty save such as you would meet with from the Portuguese authorities; but the distance would be too great for me to return. Even from Barra it would be a journey fully two thousand miles home again."

"What would be your terms for taking me to Barra?"

"I do not say that I would take you there, senor, I only say that I would try and do so. As I tell you, I have never journeyed far down the Madeira myself, and know not what the difficulties may be. For that reason I shall want half the money paid to me when we reach Cuzco, near which live my wife and family, and I must leave this with them in case I never return. I will think over what pay I shall require for myself and my comrade. It is not a matter upon which one can decide at a word."

"I can quite understand that, Pita. I must of course keep sufficient in hand to pay my expenses down to Para, where I can doubtless obtain a passage by an English ship. But I am ready to pay any sum you may ask that is within my means. Now, Gomez, we had better go out and look to the mules, and leave Pita to himself to think the matter over."

"The Indian will not overcharge you," Gomez said when they were outside the hut; "the pay of these men is small. They value their lives lightly, and when, like Pita, they once take to the life of a guide, either to those who are searching for mines or to traders, they never settle down. They are proud of the confidence placed in them, and of their own skill as guides, and so long as they can earn enough to keep their families during their absence—and a very little suffices for that—they are contented."

"I suppose there are mines to be discovered yet, Gomez?"

"Assuredly there are," the muleteer said confidently. "The Spaniards have worked rich mines ever since they came here, but great as is the treasure that they have taken away, it is still insignificant compared with the store of gold among the Incas when they came here. Every Peruvian on this side of the Andes dreams of gold, and there are thousands of men who, as soon as they earn enough money to buy tools and provisions, set off to search for gold-mines or buried treasure. It is certain that the Incas buried a vast quantity of their treasure rather than see it fall into the hands of the Spaniards, and it has never been discovered. It is generally believed that the secret of the hiding-place is known to Indians, who have handed down the secret from father to son. This may be true or it may not. So many thousands of Indians have either been killed by the Spaniards or have died in their mines, that it may well be that all who knew the secret died centuries ago. But I do not say that it may not be known to some of them now; if so, it is more likely that these may be among the tribes beyond the boundaries of Peru. There are vast tracts there where neither Spaniards nor Portuguese have penetrated. The whole country is one great forest, or, in some places, one great desert.

"The Indians of Peru have become, for the most part, an idle, shiftless race. Centuries of slavery have broken their spirit altogether, and had the secret been known to many of them, it would have been wrung from them long since, especially as all are now Catholics and go to confession, and would never be able to keep such a secret from leaking out. It is true that there are little Indian villages among the mountains where the people are still almost independent, and here the secret may still be handed down; but I doubt if it will ever be known. Doubtless it is guarded by such terrible oaths that those who know it will never dare to reveal it. Pita has gone, in his time, with a score of expeditions in search of the treasure; most of these thought that they had obtained some clue to it, but nothing was ever discovered, and I doubt whether Pita himself was ever earnest in the search.

"In some respects he is like ourselves, in others he is still an Indian, and has a full share of Indian superstitions, so that his Christianity is no deeper than his skin. He would do his best to guide those who employed him to the neighbourhood where they thought that the treasure was hidden, but I doubt whether he would do anything to assist in their search, or would really try to gather from the Indians any clue as to its whereabouts."

"But, at any rate, the natives could not very well have carried away their gold-mines."

"Not carried them away, senor,—no; and that the Spaniards had such rich mines at first shows that they did learn from the natives—by torture, I daresay—where most of these were situated; but they got more silver than gold, and even now there is gold to be found in the sands of most of the rivers in South America, so that I think it was from washings more than mines that the Spaniards got their gold. Still, we all think that there must have been rich gold-mines in the times before the Spaniards, and that when the natives saw how villainously their monarch and all his chief men were treated, and how the Spaniards thought of nothing but gold and silver, they may have blocked up the entrances to all their richest mines, and in a few years all signs of the sites would be covered by thick vegetation. You see, senor, these things are talked over whenever a few of us get together, and though there are not many other things that we do know, you will scarcely meet a Peruvian who could not talk with you for hours about the lost treasure and the lost gold-mines of the Incas.

"There are many places that I know of where the sand is rich enough to pay well for washing, but they are all far away from habitations. A man would have to carry his stores and provisions and tools with him; and then, it is hard work, and a Peruvian does not care for hard work. As to the natives, there would be no keeping them at it, they would desert and run away at once; for not only do they hate work, but, above all things, they hate to work for gold. They look upon gold as an accursed thing, which brought about the conquest of the country by the Spaniards, and the centuries of oppression that have befallen their race; and even should a native alight upon a rich spot he would go away and never say a word about it, fearing that if he did, all sorts of trouble would fall upon him."

"Pita is a fine-looking Indian, Gomez."

"Yes, senor; he is a mixture, that is, he is of pure Indian blood, but he belongs to two tribes. His father was a native of one of the villages highest up among the hills. He too was a hunter and guide. In one of his journeys down in the plain country he married the daughter of one of the chiefs of the wild Indians, and Pita was their son. I don't know which tribe it was that his mother belonged to, but I know that they lived in the forests on one of the greater rivers. Pita is not one who talks much of himself, or who talks much at all, but I know that he has the reputation of being one of the most daring hunters and guides in the country, and that he has gone through many adventures while travelling with traders. He has always been trustworthy and faithful to his employers. As he says, he cannot promise to take you safely down the Madeira, but if any man can do it, he will."

Half an hour later they returned to the hut, where the Indian was sitting in precisely the same attitude in which they had left him.

"Well, Pita, have you arrived at a conclusion?" Gomez asked.

"I have thought it over," he said, "and I calculate that it may be a year before I return, and the risk is great. Can the senor afford to pay three hundred and sixty-five dollars? That is for the services of myself and my comrade. He has no wife or family, and will therefore need less pay than I, who will have to leave money behind for mine. The senor will be at no other expense until he arrives at Barra, except for such things as tea and sugar, and any liquor he may wish to put on board at starting. If the senor cannot afford that, I will guide him down along by the foot of the mountains until we can cross over into Chili. It will be an arduous journey, but without perils, and we shall pass through few villages."

"How long will that take, Pita?"

"It would be a long journey, senor. As a bird flies it would be seven or eight hundred miles; but winding round the foot of the hills it would be two thousand."

"I would rather try the other, Pita," Stephen replied; for the thought of the passage by water through unknown forests, and then down the Amazon, exercised a strong fascination over him, and the idea of a toilsome journey of two thousand miles was the reverse of attractive. The war was, he was sure, nearly over. He might arrive in Chili only to find that the admiral had gone away; and even when he reached the frontier he had another journey to make before he reached Valparaiso, whereas when he arrived at Para he could sail direct for England.

"I could afford to pay you the terms you ask," he went on, "and shall still have enough left to take me from Barra home."

"Then, so be it," the Indian said; "to-morrow we will start for Paucartambo, which lies but a few miles from the Mayutata. We shall pass through Cuzco on our way. You have arms, I see, senor?"

"Yes, and some ammunition, but I shall want a larger supply before we start."

At daybreak next morning they set out, the Indian walking ahead. Once or twice Stephen pushed his mule forward to endeavour to enter into conversation, but he could get but few words from him, and had to drop back to Gomez, who was willing enough to talk.

"It is no use trying to get anything out of Pita, senor. If you can get him in the mood by a camp fire, he may tell you some of his adventures; but the natives are not given to talking overmuch, and Pita, when he is once on his way as guide, will go on without saying a word for hours. I have made several journeys with him, and it is always the same. Of course there is nothing for him to look after here, but it is a sort of habit. I have no doubt that he could tell you how many birds have crossed the road to-day. He has noticed every lizard, could tell you where a mule belonging to the last party has made a false step, how many there were travelling together, and all about them. He takes it all in; and though here it might just as well be left alone, this watchfulness might save your life afterwards."

Day after day they journeyed on. Stephen did not enter Cuzco. As the capital of the Incas he felt an interest in it, but cared little for it as a great Spanish town whose glory had almost departed; and it was not worth running any risk when nothing was to be gained by visiting it. He therefore remained at Pita's Indian hut a few miles away, while Gomez went into the town with the guide to get the stores they required. Pita's comrade returned with them. Stephen was greatly surprised at the man's appearance. Pita himself was, for an Indian, tall; he was spare in frame, but very sinewy; his muscles stood up beneath the brown skin like cords. Hurka was so short that he was almost a dwarf, and, save for his face, he might have been taken for a boy of fourteen. He possessed none of Pita's gravity, but was soon laughing and chatting with the Indian's wife and children, and was evidently a special favourite with them. His face was bright and intelligent.

"You would not think, senor," Gomez said as, after telling him what they had purchased in the city, he stood watching Hurka, who was running backwards and forwards between the hut and the mules, carrying in packages, "that that little chap is one of the best guides on this side of the Andes. He and Pita are, I should say, the two best; and whenever they can, they work together. He is a wonderful shot—better than Pita. He can swim like a fish; and he does not seem to know what fatigue is. He and Pita are like brothers, although they are so different in their ways; and it is wonderful to see how they get on together. I would not mind where I went with them, for they can find their way through the thickest forest, and are up to every device that can be useful to travellers. I have never heard of their losing anyone under their charge, except, of course, from disease and heat, and perhaps a few shot by Indians. That is a thing that may always happen, there is no guarding against it—especially when you have got men with you who will go their own way, and make light of any idea of taking precautions. Sometimes they have had to fall back altogether when they have been with gold or treasure seekers, but never when they were with trading parties.

"In the forest country the natives are generally ready enough to trade, but there are parts where they never allow a white party to penetrate. Whether it is that there is really a treasure, or an extraordinary rich gold-mine, or whether it is only that in some sections the tribes are more hostile than in others, no one knows for certain, but there is no doubt that when any party approaches certain localities troubles begin directly. As they go through the forest, arrows come flying thick through the tangle of creepers, and poisoned darts from blow-pipes. The foes are invisible, but they make themselves felt, and it soon breaks down the courage of the bravest to be shot at when you never get a chance of shooting back in return. Both Pita and Hurka have been with parties that have been attacked and forced to fall back; but it has not been their fault, for they always warn those who employ them that the dangers are too great to be overcome. Still, men who think that they have got a clue to hidden wealth always seem to consider that their guides are interested in preventing their getting it, and will listen to no advice till they find out for themselves that the danger has not been exaggerated, and that it is certain death to push on further."

"I wonder that neither of them has been killed," Stephen said.

"It is a wonder, senor, and some have even declared that they must be in league with the Indians; but it is due to their understanding the native way of fighting. While white men stand up and fire away into the bush, they quickly throw themselves down behind the trunk of a tree, and then crawl into the forest and fight in the same way as the Indians do; and they say that more than once those two alone have made the natives fall back, and so enabled the whites to retreat. You will see that they will both take bows and arrows with them; and though they would use their rifles if openly attacked, in these battles in the forests, or when hunting in dangerous neighbourhoods, they use their bows in preference to the rifles."

The next day the journey was continued, and in ten days they reached a stream which, as the Indians told Stephen, ran into the Beni, one of the principal feeders of the Madeira. Here was a village occupied wholly by Indians and half-castes. A large canoe was purchased, and the loads of the two mules stowed in it, a store of bread and fruit was obtained from the natives, together with ten skins sewn up as bags, and intended to be inflated and used for the construction of a raft. Two days were spent in making their preparations, and then Stephen took leave of Gomez, to whom he gave a handsome present, in addition to the sum that had been agreed upon. By this time Stephen had come to appreciate the good qualities of Hurka, whose unfailingly good temper and gaiety had lightened the journey, and whose humorous stories of his adventures, and of the obstinacy and folly of his employers, raised a smile even on the impassive face of Pita.

Stephen was delighted when the canoe pushed out into the stream, and they began their journey down the thousands of miles of river that had to be traversed before they reached the eastern sea-coast. Pita sat in the stern of the canoe, Hurka in the bow, while Stephen had a comfortable seat in the middle, separated from them by two piles of stores and provisions. Over him was a roof of green boughs, supported by four poles, connected by others, to which a thin curtain of cotton-stuff was attached. It was all made in one piece, and was rolled up in the daytime to allow the passage of air, but at night could be dropped all round so as to form a protection against insects and the vapours from the water. The tent was large enough for the three men to sleep in comfortably; and in the centre was a small stove, in which fire was kept burning for cooking purposes in the daytime, and to counteract the dampness of the air at night. As soon as it was dark, and the insects became troublesome, the Indians threw on the fire branches that they cut fresh every day from shrubs growing on the banks. This caused a pungent odour which effectually prevented insects from making their way in through the leafy roof.

During the daytime the canoe was generally kept close to one shore or the other, so as to be under the shade of the overhanging forest trees; at night they sometimes tied up to a tree, but more often one or other of the Indians sat in the stern of the boat giving an occasional stroke with his paddle to keep her drifting down in the centre of the current. While it was light they always had their guns close at hand, and sometimes brought down a bird from the trees overhead. Baited hooks on a long line were towed astern. They seldom caught anything during the day, but at night they frequently captured a few fish. This, however, was more often done by spearing them, the Indians having bought spears for the purpose at the village. On these occasions Stephen took his place in the bow with two lighted torches of resinous wood; the light attracted the fish, which were speared by the Indians, who seldom missed striking them, however far beneath the surface, though Stephen failed even to catch sight of them.

The fish formed the main staple of their food, helped out by the birds, which were, for the most part, of the pigeon tribe, though larger and differing much in plumage from the English species. They had brought from Cuzco a hundred pounds of flour, which was sewed up in two skins, so that in case of a misfortune to the canoe it would be uninjured by water. From this the Indians made flat cakes, which were an excellent substitute for bread.

For the first ten days Hurka while paddling generally sung Spanish songs that he had picked up, but gradually he ceased doing so, and became as taciturn as Pita himself.

"The Indians on this part of the river," he told Stephen, "are generally of a peaceful nature, and are quite willing to trade, but, as we have no merchandise, they would look upon us with some suspicion; and, moreover, the tribes are often at war with each other, and in that case it is always better that travellers should avoid them. Consequently it is better to travel silently."

For the same reason they generally timed themselves so as to pass the Indian villages at night, the fire on such occasions being kept very low, and ashes being drawn up over the embers so as to completely extinguish the light until the village was well behind them. Shooting was, for the time, entirely given up.



CHAPTER XVII.

DOWN THE RIVER.

The time passed pleasantly to Stephen as he reclined on a heap of skins and blankets watching the forests that bordered the stream, or looking up through the overhanging canopy at the birds and monkeys, the latter of which afforded him great amusement by the way in which they chattered and gesticulated. The mothers with the little ones climbed to the top of the trees, while the males came boldly out on the lower branches to bid defiance to those in the boat. Often he slept, for the heat, and the almost noiseless fall of the paddles, and the tranquil easy motion of the canoe made him exceptionally drowsy. One day his eye fell upon something on a large branch of a tree that bent down to within twelve feet of the water. It was only some ten yards ahead when he noticed it. It was partly hidden by foliage, and for a moment it seemed to him to be a thickening of the branch. He would have passed it without a thought had it not been for a slight movement; then a glance showed him that it was an animal of some kind lying almost flattened upon the tree.

He caught up his rifle just as it rose to a crouching attitude, and was upon the point of springing upon Pita. The gun was loaded with shot only, but as he threw up the muzzle and fired almost instantly, the beast gave a terrible roar. Its spring was arrested, and it fell headlong into the water within a foot of the side of the boat. A tawny head, with two rows of big white teeth, arose from the water almost abreast of him, and a great paw was raised to strike at the boat, but Hurka's rifle cracked out, and the animal sank again below the water.

"You have saved my life, senor," Pita said gravely. "It was a jaguar, and had you not fired it would have struck me down and crushed in my skull with a blow of its paw. I wonder I did not see it, but I was thinking at the time that we had best tie up for an hour or two so as to pass the next village, which is a large one, after dark."

"It was almost hidden among those leaves," Stephen said, "and had it not moved I should not have noticed it."



"I think you blinded it, senor," Hurka said. "I saw it rise to spring, and snatched at my rifle just as you fired. I think the charge struck it between the eyes, for I saw a sort of blur there just as it fell. I should have been too late; for though I might have hit it as it was in the air, it would assuredly have come down on Pita.

"It was not like you, Pita. This comes of thinking while you are paddling instead of keeping your eyes on everything."

"I was wrong," the Indian replied. "I should have known that an attack by a jaguar was always possible; but this is the first that we have seen since starting, and I had no thought of danger in my mind. I will be more careful in the future. It must have been well hidden, for you did not see it yourself, Hurka, until it moved for its spring."

"That is true," the little Indian replied. "The Englishman's eyes must be quick indeed, and his nerve steady. It was seeing him catch up his gun that first called my attention to it. You have laid us both under a great obligation, senor, for Pita is my best friend, and were aught to befall him I should feel that I had lost part of myself. Perhaps before the journey comes to an end we may be able to show you how grateful we are."

"It is nothing worth talking about," Stephen said. "In a journey like this, comrades may well save each other's lives more than once."

"That is true, senor; but it is our duty to save your life if need be, and it is turning the tables upon us for you to be the means of saving ours. However, you will not find us lacking when the time comes. Already we have agreed that this time of all others we must carry our business through successfully. You are not like those Spaniards. To them we are Indian dogs, mere dust under their feet, a people whose services they buy as they buy those of our mules; but you have treated us as if we had been comrades of the same colour as you yourself, have insisted upon our eating with you, and have talked with us as if we were friends together; and you will find that it is so if danger arises. We Indians are not accustomed to kindness or consideration from our Spanish masters. Could they do without us they would not suffer an Indian to exist in the land; but they need our labour, and so bear with us. But we, on our part, never forget that our ancestors were lords of this country, that they received these white strangers with kindness, and were repaid by the grossest treachery and ingratitude, and that, not contented with seizing our land and our possessions, they murdered all our princes and leaders, and reduced all whom they did not slay to slavery, keeping us only that we might work the mines and till the fields for them.

"Centuries have passed since then, but there has been no change; they are still our masters, we their beasts of burden. They may pay us for our services, but they have no thought or consideration for us. We may risk our lives for them, but they value ours no more than if we were dogs. Save among the muleteers, like Gomez, who long ago ceased to be Spaniards, and are now Peruvians, they look upon us as a conquered race, and as to friendship or a kindly thought for an Indian, they think more of their dogs than they do of us. Therefore, senor, you may guess that Pita and I do not feel towards you only as a master who pays us, but as one who has treated us as if we were the same colour as himself, and even the service you have rendered Pita binds us less to you than the kindness that you have shown us. If all Englishmen are like you it would be a blessing indeed to this country if, after your famous admiral had driven out the Spaniards, he would himself reign over the land and bring some of his people here to govern us.

"The white Peruvians are no better than the Spaniards. They are the same blood, and have the same ideas, and save that they are cowards, while the Spaniards, to do them justice, are often brave, there is little to choose between them. They are as proud of their white blood, and they despise us as heartily; they are as greedy of gold, but too indolent to work for it; and when the Spaniards have gone they will be despots as hard and as tyrannical as our present governors. We hope for the change, though we know well that it will do but little for us; while, if the people of your race came as masters of the land, we might have some share of freedom and happiness. Tales have reached even us that across the western ocean you rule over a people dark like ourselves, but infinitely more numerous than we were when the Spaniards first set foot here; and that your rule is a good and just one, and that the natives are happy and contented, and that there are the same laws for them as for us. Do you think, senor, that there is any chance of your admiral and your people coming here?"