"Aren't you coming, Juan?"
Two days had passed since my interview with Rosa Montilla, and I was sitting in my room at the barracks, feeling at enmity with all the world.
"It's a pity we've nothing better to do than to make fools of ourselves," said I savagely, when young Alzura burst in on me excitedly.
He was dressed to represent some hideous monster that never was known on sea or land, and in his hand he carried a grotesque mask.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed; "some one been rubbing you down the wrong way? Caramba, you are in a towering rage! Pray what has offended your Royal Highness?"
"Why, all this tomfoolery! Fancy a masked ball with Canterac in the mountains ready to swoop down on us at any moment!"
"The more reason why we should enjoy ourselves while we can. Besides, you are as bad as the rest: you promised to go!"
"I have forgotten it, then."
"Well, you did; so make haste—the carriage is waiting."
"I have no dress ready," said I coldly.
"That doesn't matter in the least. Go in your uniform; you look very well in it."
"Thanks, I prefer to stay here."
"You forget the ball is given in our honour! Colonel Miller won't be too pleased at finding you absent. 'Twill be a slight on our host and hostess."
"Very well, if you put it that way, I'll join you in the messroom shortly," said I indifferently.
"That's right. Slip your things on sharp; the animals will get restive."
Alzura was in high spirits. He loved fun of all kinds, and this ball was just to his taste. Plaza and Cordova shared our carriage, and both of them rallied me on my glum looks.
"Crawford's a bloodthirsty fellow," cried Alzura banteringly—"never happy unless he's fighting!"
"That's a libel!" said I warmly; "I'm sick of the whole thing. When this war's over, I hope never to hear a shot fired again."
"Be easy," laughed Cordova; "you'll be an old man by then, and too deaf to hear even the report of a pistol."
"There may be more truth in that than you think," I observed, bitterly.
"Never mind, my boy," said Plaza; "you won't hear any shots fired to-night. There's no great harm in enjoying ourselves for an hour or two. Here we are! What a crowd outside!—Put on your mask, Alzura; the people will like the fun."
There was a roar of laughter from the spectators as Alzura, appeared, and we went into the hall amidst a round of cheering. Most of the guests wore some fanciful costume, but several officers, Miller and O'Brien among them, were in uniform.
The magnificentsalonswere illuminated by thousands of lights; the guests were numerous, and represented most of the beauty and wealth of Lima. My father and mother had not come, neither did I see Montilla. Rosa, of course, would have scorned to attend a ball given to the Patriots.
Despite the lights and the music and the striking gaiety of the scene, I could not banish my feeling of dread. I felt, as people say, that "something was going to happen," and moved listlessly among the brilliant assembly, wondering what it would be.
"You look bored, Crawford," remarked O'Brien, coming across to me. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, thanks; I'm a bit off colour—that's all."
"Would you rather be in the mountains?" asked Colonel Miller, who had joined us.
"It depends on circumstances, colonel," I replied, trying to smile.
When they had left me, I fell back on my occupation of gazing indifferently at the brilliant scene. I could take no interest in it, nor in the chaff and nonsense of my friends, who tried hard to make me more like myself. It seemed that in some mysterious way I was waiting for something, though what I could not imagine. When the summons actually came, I was not in the least surprised.
Alzura, who brought it me, had no idea he was assisting at a tragedy, but, with a merry laugh, exclaimed, "Crawford, there is a lady outside waiting to see you; she will not leave her carriage."
"Who is it?" I asked.
"I don't know; I haven't seen her. A servant gave me the message, and I set off to find you."
"Thanks," said I quietly, and crossing the brilliantly-litsalon, took my cap and went into the vast hall.
Who had come for me—my mother? That was my first thought, but a moment's reflection showed that it was unlikely. Had there been anything wrong at home, she would have sent José on a swift horse. The answer to my question came as I stood on the flight of steps leading to the hall. The crowd of people had dispersed, and only a solitary carriage with its attendants stood at the door. Recognizing the Montilla livery in an instant, I ran down the steps with a beating heart.
The carriage door was open, and the light from the hall fell full on the white face of Rosa.
"What has happened?" I cried. "Why do you look so frightened? Tell me, quick!"
Her only answer was to bid me step inside. The footman sprang to his place, the coachman gathered up the reins, the carriage turned with a swing, and almost before I realized it we were off at a gallop. The girl's face was hidden now in darkness, but I had seen it for a moment, and could not forget it. She was white and scared; her cheeks were tear-stained, and her eyes full of apprehension and grief.
Some terrible disaster had happened, but I could not learn what it was. To all my questions she replied, "Home! home!" and ordered the coachman to drive faster. Then she burst into a fit of crying, uttering incoherent words, of which I could make nothing.
"Is it your father, Rosa?" I asked. "Has anything happened to him?" At which she cried still more, upbraiding me for I knew not what.
The gates of the hacienda were wide open. We passed through at a gallop, and the trembling, foam-covered horses drew up at the front door. As soon as the carriage came to a standstill, I jumped out and assisted Rosa to alight. All the servants seemed to have gathered in the hall. Their faces were white, their eyes wild with dread; some of them still shivered. Evidently a great calamity had occurred. What was it?
Looking around, I noted the absence of Don Felipe. That gave me a clue to the nature of the disaster. Perhaps he lay dead in his room; perhaps the government, suspecting him of treachery, had torn him away. I did not hit on the exact truth, but my conjectures went very near it.
Rosa's wild fit had passed; she was no longer a weeping girl, but an imperious mistress. Her tears were dried; she had banished her fear. There was a light of scorn and command in her eyes.
"Away, cowards!" she cried. "Do you call yourselves men, and would not try to save your master? Begone!" and she stamped her foot in passion.
The servants slunk off abashed, and she led me along the corridor. The door of her father's room was closed, but she opened it, and said, "Come in, Juan; see your friends' handiwork!"
The apartment was in total disorder. Chairs were overthrown; the table was stripped of its contents; all kinds of articles lay strewn about the floor: there were very evident signs of a fierce and prolonged struggle. On one wall was the mark of a bullet, and a corner of the apartment was splashed with blood. I gazed round eagerly for Montilla's body, but it was not there.
"See," said the girl, "he was sitting there when the ruffians burst in upon him. He fought for his life like a cavalier of old Spain, but the cowards were too many. They flung themselves upon him like a pack of wolves, and bore him to the ground."
"But who were they?" I asked in amazement. "Who did it? Tell me plainly what happened."
"Need you ask?" she said coldly. "The ruffians were your friends—your servants, for all I know."
"Rosa, you are speaking wildly. I do not wonder at it: this terrible affair has upset your nerves."
Then she turned upon me, her eyes blazing with angry scorn.
"What is it that you wear beneath your tunic, Juan Crawford?" she cried. "Are you ashamed that it should be seen?"
At first I did not understand her meaning; then a glimmer of the truth began to dawn on me, and slowly I drew out the silver key.
"Do you mean this?"
"Yes! 'The chief of the Silver Key'—that is what the black-browed ruffian called himself. Fancy my father, a Spanish gentleman, the prisoner of a band of half-dressed savages—your friends, Juan Crawford!"
"But I know nothing about it," I cried. "These men take no orders from me. The key was given me by the chief when I myself stood in need of protection."
"Nevertheless they are your friends, and they have dragged my father from his home."
"But why? Surely there must be a reason! Tell me what they said. Try to be calm, Rosa; your father's life may depend on your words."
"I know nothing. How should I? I was in bed. My father sat there writing when they broke into the house. The servants fled, and hid themselves like frightened sheep. The cowards! I dressed and ran here. My father had killed one ruffian, but—but he could not struggle against so many."
"I'll wager that he showed himself a brave man."
"He did; but they overcame him," she continued, speaking more calmly. "They bound him with cords: he was helpless. I begged the big bandit to release him; I would have gone on my knees—I, a daughter of the Montillas!" and she drew herself up proudly.
"But the chief, Rosa—what did he say?"
"That my father was charged with a serious offence, and that he must be tried by the officers of the Silver Key. Think of that, Juan Crawford!—my father tried for his life by those dirty bandits! Oh, how I wish I was a man! Then they took him away. I was alone and friendless; I thought of you, and told the coachman to drive me to Lima. Then I remembered you were one of these people, and would have turned back. But my father's life is precious; I would beg it even of an enemy. O Juan, Juan, save him for me!"
She broke down utterly. I tried to comfort her, and failed. She did nothing but cry, "Save him, Juan, save him!"
"Save him, Juan, save him!""Save him, Juan, save him!"
"Save him, Juan, save him!""Save him, Juan, save him!"
I had no faith in my power to help her, but I could not tell her so. Why Raymon Sorillo had done this I knew no more than she—unless, indeed, he had discovered Don Felipe conspiring with the Royalists. In that case, perhaps, I might prevail on him to spare the prisoner's life, and to restore him to liberty when the war was over. It was only a tiny spark of hope, but I made the most of it.
"Listen, Rosa," I said cheerfully. "I do not belong to this society of which you speak, but its chief will do much for me. I will go to him now and use all my influence. I will beg him earnestly to spare your father's life, and I think he may grant it me. Cheer up, Rosa! In a few days I shall return and bring your father with me, most likely."
"O Juan, how shall I ever thank you! Forget the wild words I said to you. I was distracted with fear and anger; I did not mean them, Juan!"
"No, no," I answered soothingly; "I have forgotten them already. Now go to bed; I must start at once. I shall take a horse from your stables."
"You have no sword!"
"I shall not need one. There is no danger for me in the mountains. The Indians will do me no harm."
As soon as she had promised to go to her room I returned to the hall, and calling the servants, sent one to explain matters briefly to my father, and asking that my mother would come and stay with Rosa for a while. Then going to the stables, I selected two good horses, and ordered a groom to help me to saddle them. Sorillo might or might not listen to my request, but it would be as well to waste no time on the journey.
The thought of taking José occurred to me, but I put it aside. There was really no danger in the journey, while if Sorillo would not listen to an appeal made in my father's name, he was not likely to listen at all.
Leading the spare horse, I rode through the grounds, cantered down the narrow lane, struck the highroad, and turned in the direction of the mountains. Just where Sorillo might be I could not tell, but I determined first of all to try the ravine where I had once spent several days.
I have said that I had little faith in the success of my mission. Why the Indians had committed this outrage was a mystery, and I could think of nothing which would help me to solve it. That Don Felipe had acted treacherously I could well believe; but why, in that case, did not Sorillo hand him over to the government? Why should the officers of the Silver Key take it upon themselves to try him?
I rode on gloomily till the sun was high in the heavens, halting at a solitary hut, where the woman gave me food and drink for myself and the animals. She was kind enough in this matter, but to my questions she would return no answers. She knew nothing about the war, except that the soldiers had slain her only son, and her husband had been absent for over a year. He might be Royalist or Patriot, she did not know, only she wished people were allowed to live in peace, and to cultivate their little plots of land.
Giving her some money, I mounted and rode on, feeling refreshed by the brief halt. The district was for the most part bare and uninhabited. Here and there were the remains of a ruined hut, and on the route I passed the deserted hacienda which had once afforded me a night's shelter. I met no people, except occasionally a few women and little children; the men and growing boys were in the mountains or in the ranks of the army.
It was evening when I reached the foot of the mountains. My horses were tired out, and the worst part of the journey still lay before me. However, the light had not altogether faded, so I began the ascent, hoping to meet with some of Sorillo's men. As it chanced, I had not long to wait.
A sudden "Halt! who are you?" brought me to a stand, and I answered at random, "A friend of the Silver Key."
"Are you alone?" asked the voice, with just a tinge of suspicion.
"Yes," I replied. "I am Juan Crawford, and am looking for Raymon Sorillo. Can you take me to him?"
A man stepped from behind a rock, and eyeing me suspiciously, exclaimed, "Wait, señor. I cannot leave my post, but I will call for a guide;" and putting his hand to his mouth, he whistled softly.
The sound was answered by one from higher up, and presently a second Indian, armed to the teeth, came running down. The two talked together in whispers, and at last the second man said, "Come this way, señor; I will lead you to the chief. He will be pleased to see the son of Don Eduardo."
Under the circumstances I thought this rather doubtful, but I followed him up the path.
"Are you staying in the ravine?" I asked.
"Yes, señor, for the present."
"Did you go with the chief to Lima?"
"Ah, the señor knows of that! The old crocodile showed fight, and killed a good man; but he is safe enough now."
"He has not been put to death?" I asked, my forehead clammy with perspiration.
"Not yet, señor; he must first be tried."
"But what have you discovered?" I asked, thinking the fellow might be able to give me some information as to the cause of Don Felipe's abduction.
In this I was mistaken. The man knew, or pretended to know, nothing about it. The chief had given orders, but not reasons, and had, as usual, been obeyed unquestioningly. At a word from him his men would have ridden into Lima and dragged the president from his palace.
It almost seemed as if Sorillo expected his stronghold to be attacked. The path was guarded by sentries, and a score of men were stationed at the entrance to the ravine, They passed us through without trouble, and before long I found myself in the presence of the chief.
"You are surprised to see me?" I said briskly.
"Yes; I thought you were in Lima."
"I was there last night."
"You have made a wonderfully quick journey. You must be tired and in need of refreshment. Come; I can at least offer you a good supper."
"Not yet, thank you. I want to ask you a question first. What have you done with Don Felipe Montilla?"
"The dog is in the hut yonder."
He spoke with both anger and contempt; his face underwent a sudden change; for the first time I saw how cruel it could look. My heart sank as I realized the uselessness of any appeal to him for mercy. Then I thought of Rosa, and said,—
"It is on Don Felipe's account I am here. What has he done? Why has he been brought here?"
"If another dared question me like this, I would answer him with a pistol shot," he cried fiercely; "but I do not forget that you are the son of Don Eduardo Crawford. Come, let us eat and forget this business."
"Will you tell me afterwards?"
"I will tell you nothing, but you shall hear for yourself. To-morrow the man will be tried, and if he is found guilty, not all South America shall save him. But we will try him fairly, and you shall bear witness to our justice."
"I want mercy!" said I.
"You do not know what you ask yet. Wait till the morning. And now come; you must not be able to accuse me of inhospitality."
The guerillas led away my horses, and I followed Sorillo to his own hut, where in a short time a plentiful meal was laid. I was both hungry and thirsty, yet I had to force myself to eat and drink. Sorillo made no attempt at conversation, and I did not care to talk.
When the things were removed, he had a bed made on the floor, and suggested I should lie down.
"I am busy," said he. "Most likely I shall be up all night, but that is no reason why you should not rest. I will have you wakened in good time in the morning."
"Thank you," I answered; and as he left the hut I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
Though tired out, hours passed before I was able to sleep. In the darkness I could see Rosa's white face, and hear her pitiful cry, "Save him, Juan, save him for me!"
What had he done to make Sorillo so angry? Surely he was not so bitter against every traitor? He had hinted that even I would not beg for mercy when I knew the truth. It would have to be something very dreadful, I thought, to make me forget my promise to Rosa.
And what of Don Felipe? How was he passing the night? Did he know the charge to be brought against him in this most irregular court? and would he be able to clear himself? I wondered.
So thinking and dreaming, between sleep and wakefulness, I lay on the chief's bed, while the long hours rolled slowly away.
I did not take much rousing in the morning, and even before remembering the exact circumstances, felt oppressed by the weight of coming sorrow. I breakfasted alone, Sorillo sending a profuse apology for not being able to join me, though I was rather glad than otherwise at his absence.
Leaving the hut, I went into the ravine. There were perhaps a hundred men in sight, all armed, and apparently waiting for some signal. Their comrades, no doubt, had been dispatched on an errand, or were guarding the neighbouring passes. In front of Don Felipe's hut stood a sentry, and, somewhat to my surprise, I now noticed a second hut, slightly lower down and similarly guarded.
"Two prisoners!" I thought. "I wonder who the other is? Sorillo did not mention him."
Nearer the head of the ravine some soldiers were at work, and going towards them I beheld a strange and significant sight. In the side of the hill was a natural platform, broad and spacious, while round it stretched in a semicircle a wide stone seat, which the men were covering with bright red cloth. Below the platform stood a ring of soldiers with impassive faces.
I was still wondering what this might mean, when Sorillo, touching my arm, led me to the centre of the stone seat, saying, "Sit there; you shall be a witness that the people of the Silver Key treat their enemies justly."
Rather reluctantly I took the seat indicated. Sorillo sat next me, and six officers, ascending the platform, took their places, three on either side of us. That portion of the seat occupied by the chief was slightly raised; but this, of course, makes no difference to the story.
At a signal from Sorillo the door of Don Felipe's hut was opened, and the prisoner came out escorted by two armed men. The soldiers, opening to right and left, made way for him, and by means of the boulders, which served as steps, he climbed to the platform.
In spite of my prejudice against the man, I rejoiced to see how boldly he held himself. He appeared to have summoned to his aid all the pride of his dead-and-gone ancestors. He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo, and meeting my eyes, smiled defiantly. As to the officers, he did not give them even a look.
He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo.He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo.
He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo.He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo.
"Thank goodness," said I to myself, "no one can call Rosa's father a coward!"
Then Sorillo began to speak, clearly and distinctly, but with no note of anger in his voice.
"Don Felipe Montilla," he said, "you are brought here by order of the Society of the Silver Key." Don Felipe's lips curled as if in amusement. "It is charged against you that you, having taken the oath of loyalty to the government, have since been in traitorous communication with the Royalist leaders. Do you deny or admit the charge?"
Don Felipe shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, "A truce to your mummery! Do you think I would plead for my life to a band of cut-throats? What care I for your society?"
I thought this outburst would provoke his captors beyond measure, but, as far as I could judge, it produced no effect at all. They sat quite still, as if the remarks had been addressed to others.
"It is our custom," continued Sorillo, "to give those brought before us every chance to defend themselves. We are not lawyers; we do not juggle with words; our one desire is to get at the truth."
"By St. Philip," muttered Montilla, "this is the last place I should have thought to find it in!"
"For this reason," continued the chief, ignoring the sarcastic interruption, "the story shall be told plainly, and then you will understand exactly what you are charged with. Three nights ago we stopped a man returning from Lima. Many times he had gone to and fro unmolested, protected by a pass from Riva-Aguero. At last he was recognized by one of our men as Pardo Lureña, an utterly worthless man, who had already changed sides several times during the war."
"He would have made a good recruit for you," remarked Montilla.
"Suspecting this man, we had him watched," continued the chief, again passing over the interruption, "and found that always he went to your house, señor, returning under the cover of night. We knew you to be an excellent Patriot, yet the circumstance made us uneasy. At length we decided to ignore the president's passport. Lureña was stopped and searched, with this result," and he flourished a letter before the prisoner.
Don Felipe must have known by now how helpless his case was; but he only smiled. In truth, at this crisis of his life he showed no want of pluck.
"There is much in this letter," said the chief mercilessly. "It contains a full list of the troops just dispatched to the south, and of those still remaining in Lima, with an exact statement as to the quantity of their stores and ammunition. It describes their position, and advises General Canterac how he can best enter Lima and seize Callao. It provides also a list of those who will join him, and stipulates that the writer shall keep not only his own estates, but shall be given those of which he has lately been deprived."
At this last revelation Don Felipe changed colour somewhat, and withdrew his eyes from my face.
"This letter," said Sorillo, "came from your house; it is signed F. M., and I charge you with having written it. Can you deny that it is in your handwriting?"
The prisoner seemed to have regained self-possession, for looking steadily at Sorillo, he exclaimed, "A gentleman of Spain does not answer the questions of a mountain robber."
Passing the letter to me, Sorillo said, "You know this man's handwriting; perhaps you will satisfy yourself that he wrote this letter?"
"No," said I coldly, thrusting the paper away; "I will be neither judge nor witness in this case."
"Very well," answered the chief; "let the second prisoner be brought forward." And two men immediately fetched Pardo Lureña from his hut.
He was still a young man, but looked old. His eyes were shifty and cunning, his lips full and thick; he did not seem to be at all the kind of man to play so daring a game. Don Felipe looked at him so scornfully that he turned away his face in confusion. He gave his answers clearly, however, and told the story from beginning to end without a tremor.
It was as Sorillo had said. The fellow admitted being a Royalist spy employed in carrying messages between General Canterac and Montilla. The Don, he declared, had procured him the pass signed by Riva-Aguero, and had given him the letter now in the guerilla chief's possession.
Don Felipe never once interrupted him either by word or gesture; to look at him, one would have thought he was merely a spectator, with no interest in the matter one way or another. But when at last the tale ended, and Sorillo called upon him to speak, his attitude changed.
"Do your murders your own way," he cried defiantly. "If the farce pleases you, play it. What has it to do with me? When I am accused of crime by the government of my country, I will answer."
"Don Felipe is right, Sorillo," I interrupted. "If he has done wrong, let him be brought before a proper tribunal. Whether he be innocent or guilty, if you kill him you commit murder. You and your followers have no right to punish him."
"In the case of a traitor we take the right," answered Sorillo drily.—"But there is a further charge, Don Felipe Montilla, more serious still. You have been proved false to your country; I accuse you also of being false to your friend."
Hitherto, I am bound to admit, the guerilla chief had acted like a perfectly impartial judge; now there was a ring of anger in his voice and a dangerous glitter in his eyes. As to Montilla, I could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise at the change in his appearance. No longer boldly erect, he stood with drooping head, pale cheeks, and downcast eyes. In the first act he had behaved like a man of spirit; the second he began like a craven.
"Listen!" exclaimed Sorillo sternly, and his first words told me what would follow. "For many years there has lived in Lima a man who loves the Indians. He saw that they were treated as dogs, and because of his great pity he resolved to help them. To this end he worked day and night, making many enemies among the rulers of the country. They tried to turn him from his purpose, now with threats, again with offers of heavy bribes: he would not be moved. So badly were the Indians treated that it mattered little whether they lived or died. They banded together, procured arms and ammunition, and determined to fight for their liberty. Their friend sent them word that the attempt was hopeless; but they were very angry, and would not listen. Then he left his home to speak to them himself, and endeavour to dissuade them from their purpose."
Montilla had not once raised his head, and now his limbs quivered. As for me, I sat listening with fascinated interest.
"Side by side with this friend of the Indians," the chief continued, "there lived a Spanish gentleman, who told the viceroy falsely that his neighbour was going to the mountains to raise the standard of rebellion. The viceroy, who was frightened, sent soldiers to seize him. Second in command of the party was a lieutenant, young in years but old in crime. To him this Spaniard went secretly. 'If this man should be killed in the scuffle,' said he, 'you can come to me for five thousand dollars.'
"The lieutenant did his best to earn the money, and thought he had succeeded. As it chanced, however, his victim did not die, but his estates were confiscated and given to the man who had betrayed him."
The speaker stopped. All was still; save for the leaping waters of the torrent, no sound was to be heard. I glanced at Montilla: he was deathly pale, and on his forehead stood great beads of perspiration, which, with his bound hands, he was unable to wipe away.
"Shall I tell you who these men were?" asked Sorillo. "One is Don Eduardo Crawford; the others stand here," and he pointed to the prisoners. "Listen to your accomplice, Felipe Montilla, if you care to hear the story repeated."
Again Lureña gave his evidence glibly. I think he had no sense of shame, but only a strong desire to save his life. He might not have committed the deed for the sake of the money alone, he said, but he hated my father for having cast him into prison.
It was poor evidence on which to try a man for his life, yet no one doubted Montilla's guilt. There he stood with trembling limbs and ashen face—truly a wretched figure for a cavalier of Spain! His courage had broken down completely, and to all the questions put by his self-appointed judge he answered no word.
At length Sorillo asked his officers for their verdict, and with one consent they pronounced him "Guilty!"
"It is a true verdict," exclaimed Sorillo; "any other would be a lie.—And now, Felipe Montilla, listen to me for the last time. You have been proved a traitor to your country, and that alone merits death; but this other crime touches the members of the Silver Key more closely. When the great men of Peru called the Indians dogs, Don Eduardo was our friend. He took our side openly, encouraged us, sympathized with us, pitied us. And you tried to slay him! not in fair fight, mind you, and only because you coveted his possessions. For that you die within forty-eight hours, as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow!" And all his hearers applauded.
The condemned man still made no reply, uttered no appeal for mercy, but stood as one dazed. But I thought of the daughter who loved him so well, and sprang to my feet.
"Hear me!" I cried excitedly. "If Don Felipe has done wrong, it is against my father. Do you think he will thank you for killing his enemy? Is that his teaching? You know it is not; you know that he would forgive him freely—would beg his life from you on his bended knees. If you really love my father, if you feel that he deserves your gratitude, spare this man's life. If he has sinned he will repent. I have come here for him. Do not let me go back alone. Am I to say to my father, 'You are foolish in thinking the Indians care for you; they care nothing! I asked of them a boon in your name, and they refused it'? Raymon Sorillo, I appeal to you, give me this man's life for my father's sake!"
I looked at him earnestly, hoping to find a spark of mercy in his eyes. Alas, there was none! He was hard as iron, cold as ice; on that day, at least, there was no pity in him.
"You are foolish," said he; "you are like a child who cries for the moon. Set this man free and he will immediately begin his old games of deceit and trickery. He cannot help himself. It is his nature, as it is a spider's to weave its web. Your father's happiness depends on this traitor's death."
I heard him patiently, and then renewed my appeal. It was quite useless.
"Remove the prisoners," said he; and at a sign the troops marched off, the officers dispersed, and none save we two remained on the platform. For a long time neither spoke. I was thinking of Rosa anxiously awaiting my return. I had bidden her hope, and there was no longer any hope. I made no attempt to deceive myself in this respect. Sorillo would do much for me, but this one thing he would not do. I dreaded the thought of returning to Lima. What would Rosa say and do when she heard of her father's shameful death? Perhaps that part might be spared her; she need not learn the whole truth. I must invent some story which would save her the knowledge of his double treachery.
At last I turned to the chief, saying, "Will you allow me to speak with Don Felipe in private? He has a daughter at home; he may wish to send her a last message."
"He is not worth your kindness; but do as you please."
I thanked him, and walked toward the hut in which Don Felipe was confined. The sentry let me pass without protest, and opening the door I entered.
The sight before me was a pitiful one. The wretched prisoner sat on a wooden bench in the dreary hovel. His arms were bound, but he was free to walk about if he so wished. At the click of the latch he raised his head, but seeing me dropped it again quickly, as if ashamed to meet my gaze.
"Don Felipe," I began, "have you any message for your daughter?"
Instead of answering my question, he himself asked one.
"Will that brigand really put me to death?" he said.
"I am afraid so. I have begged hard for your life, but in vain."
Looking at me curiously, he exclaimed, "I cannot understand why you should wish to save me!"
"For Rosa's sake! When you were carried off, she came to me, and I promised if it were possible to bring you back with me."
"Then you do not believe the story you heard to-day, about—about—"
"My father? Yes, I believe it; but that is no reason why I should be unkind to Rosa. Poor girl! 'twill be hard enough for her to lose you."
"Is there no way of escape?"
I shook my head. "An armed sentry stands outside; a hundred soldiers are in the ravine; the path is closely watched. I would help you if it were possible."
"It will be dark to-night."
"That would help us little. Even if you escaped from the hut, you would be challenged at every dozen yards. No, I can see no way out."
I think that at this time he began to fully realize the danger he was in. He had a hunted look in his eyes, and again the perspiration stood on his forehead. Fear was fast killing shame, and he seemed to care nothing that I was the son of the man whom he had tried to murder.
"Juan," said he, "can't you make an excuse to visit me after dark?"
"I should think so," I replied.
"And will you cut these cords?"
"If you think it will help you at all."
"Leave that to me," said he, speaking almost hopefully. "By St. Philip, I shall escape the ruffian yet!"
What his plan was he did not tell me, but it seemed to please him greatly. He even laughed when I again mentioned Rosa, and said he would carry his message himself. And with hope there came back to him something of the old cunning and smoothness of speech for which he was so noted.
"I am sorry you were misled by that preposterous tale," said he softly. "Pardo Lureña is a villain, but we will unmask him. Of course, there was a little truth in his story, but so twisted and distorted that it could not be recognized. Your father will understand, however, and even you will come to see that I am not greatly to blame. A little thoughtlessness, Juan, and a desire to help a friend—no more; but that can wait. You will be sure to come, Juan; you will not fail me?"
"I will do my very best, Don Felipe, for your daughter's sake."
Wishing him farewell, I returned to the chief's hut. He was not there, so I lay down to think out the situation; but my head was in a hopeless muddle. I went into the ravine again, and, watching the soldiers, wondered how the unhappy prisoner hoped to escape them.
As it chanced, his plan was doomed to disappointment. Toward the end of the afternoon I stood chatting with Sorillo and some of his officers, when a messenger rode up the ravine. His horse had travelled far and fast, while he looked worn out with fatigue.
Springing to the ground, he saluted, while the chief cried, "What news, Sanchez? it should be worth hearing!"
"I think it is," replied the man, with a significant smile. "General Canterac is marching on Lima at the head of a Spanish army."
"How many men has he?"
"Nine thousand, perhaps ten—horse, foot, and guns. The advance-guard is not far off."
"Thanks, Sanchez.—Let the men assemble, Barros: a dozen to stay here, the rest to follow me. Has Cerdeña sent word to Lima? Good. He knows his business.—Juan, you will just have time to ride clear, and not much to spare. No doubt Canterac has sent some of his troops by the near cut."
All was bustle and activity in the ravine. Officers issued commands, troopers saddled their horses, muskets were seen to, an extra supply of ammunition was served out, and in a very short time everybody save the few men left to guard the ravine was ready to march.
"What can your handful of men do against Canterac's army?" I asked Sorillo as we rode away.
"Not much beyond cutting off a few stragglers," he replied, smiling; "but we shall obtain information of which our leaders in Lima seem to stand badly in need."
Since these events happened I have asked myself many times whether I did right or wrong, and even now I scarcely know how to decide. Those who blamed me said I was Sorillo's guest, and should not have abused his confidence. Others urged that I was bound, if possible, to prevent him putting a man to death unlawfully. All, however, agreed that none but a madman would have embarked on so preposterous an enterprise.
The idea occurred to me suddenly. The guerillas, split up into groups, had gone, some this way, some that, to watch the movements of the Royalist troops. Sorillo had kept me company till we cleared the pass, when he, too, with a word of farewell, rode away. It was now dusk, and, as the chief had truly said, there was no time to waste; yet I did not move. Right in my path, with outstretched arms and pitiful, beseeching face, stood Rosa Montilla. I knew it was but the outcome of a fevered brain; yet the vision seemed intensely real.
The girl's eyes looked at me reproachfully, her lips moved as if in speech. I fancied I could hear again her parting cry, "O Juan, save him!"
I asked myself impatiently what more could be done. I had tried my best and failed, and there was an end of it. Besides, the words of the chief rang in my ears in ominous warning: Don Felipe could not be trusted! To set him free was like giving liberty to a venomous snake; his hatred would now be all the more bitter in that he had struck and failed.
Why should I add to my father's danger? The fellow had tried to slay him once; the next time he would make no mistake. I would make no further effort to help such a traitor; I would ride on. But again the beseeching face of the girl stopped me, and again I was moved to think how I could aid the miserable prisoner. Like a flash of lightning I thought of the silver key.Thatwould unlock his prison door. Although I fully believed in Don Felipe's guilt, I remembered he made no effort to defend himself. He would not admit Sorillo's right to try him. Before a lawful judge he might be able to vindicate his actions in some way; at least he should have the chance to do so. Thus thinking, I turned back in the direction of the ravine.
Half of the sentries, I knew, had been withdrawn to ride with their chief, but the number on guard mattered little; the silver key was an all-powerful talisman. I rode slowly, not wishing to tire the horses, to whose speed and strength we might later be indebted for our lives. I thought, too, it would serve my purpose better to reach the ravine in the dead of night, when the men would be sleepy and less likely to ask inconvenient questions.
I was stopped at the entrance to the pass, but not for long. The Indians who had seen me ride out with their chief had no suspicion of my object.
"Where is the chief?" asked the officer. "Have the Royalists got clear of the mountains?"
"No; they are still in the defiles. But I am in a hurry; I have come for the Spanish prisoner Montilla."
Fortunately this officer had not attended the trial of Don Felipe, and Sorillo was not the man to give reasons for his orders. My main difficulty would lie with the sentry at the door of the hut, but I did not think he would disobey the authority of the Silver Key.
In any case, boldness was my best policy; so I clattered up the ravine, stopping hardly a yard from the astonished sentry.
"Quick, man!" I cried, springing to the ground; "are you asleep? Open the door. I have come back for the prisoner. Is he still bound? Good. Can you tie him to this horse so that he cannot escape?"
"Yes, señor, if the chief wishes it. But, pardon me, señor, I have no orders."
"Orders!" cried I angrily; "what would you? I have but just left the chief; and is not this" (producing the silver key) "sufficient authority? Am I to tell the chief that he must come himself for the prisoner?"
"No, no, señor; but I am only a simple soldier. I must not open the door unless my officer bids me."
"He is below," I said; "we cannot pass without his permission. And I must hurry, or it will be too late. Quick, drag the fellow out and bind him firmly on the horse; then come with me."
The sentry had no inkling of the truth, and, never dreaming that his officer could be deceived, opened the door. Then the prisoner, whether from fear or from cunning I could not tell, acted in such a manner that no one would think I was helping him to escape.
He refused to stir an inch from his bench, and kicked vigorously when the sentry tried to seize him. Then he yelled so loudly that the officer came running up in alarm.
"The bird has no wish to leave his cosy nest," laughed he.—"Give me the rope, Pedro, and get a gag; the chief won't want to hear that music.—Now, señor, if you'll bear a hand we'll hoist him up.—Be still, you villain, or you'll get a knock on the head.—Had not one of my fellows better go with you to guard this wild beast, señor?"
Now, from the officer's point of view this was a very sensible proposal, and one which I dared not oppose for fear of exciting suspicion.
So I answered carelessly, "A good thought, and I am obliged to you; though," with a laugh, "the prisoner won't be able to do much mischief when you have finished with him."
"No, indeed; he'll be pretty clever if he can get these knots undone," replied the officer complacently.—"Now, the gag, Pedro. Quick, or he'll spoil his voice in the night air.—There, my pretty bird! you shall sing later on."
All this occupied time, and I was in dread lest dawn should break before we left the ravine. Then we had to wait till Pedro had saddled his horse; and I watched the sky anxiously. At last we were ready, and bidding Pedro ride in front, I took leave of the unsuspecting officer.
"A safe journey," he cried. "I should like to know what Sorillo means to do with the fellow."
"You'll hear all about it when the troops return," said I, laughing and hurrying after Pedro.
Thus far the venture, with one exception, had succeeded admirably. The prisoner was out of his cage, and would soon be clear of the pass. Then I should only have Pedro to deal with. His company was a nuisance, but it must be borne with for the present; later I should have to find means to get rid of him.
We rode slowly down the narrow path, Pedro in front, Don Felipe and I abreast. The poor fellow was in a hapless plight. The gag hurt his mouth, and the cords cut into his flesh. Had we been alone, I should, of course, have done something to ease his pain; but as long as Pedro was there, this was out of the question.
"Anyhow, it's better than being shot," I thought; "and really the wretch deserves it all."
We passed the sentries without trouble; but at the bottom of the pass my difficulties began again.
"I suppose the chief has gone to San Mateo, señor?" said Pedro questioningly. "That is the best place to watch from."
This was an awkward question, as I had intended making a straight dash for Lima; but it would not do to arouse the man's suspicions. We were too close to the mountains to run any unnecessary risks, and if Pedro showed fight there, our chance of escape was gone.
So I answered, "Yes," and rode along, wondering what would come of it. Every step led us into greater danger. We might run into the arms of the guerillas, in which event Don Felipe's fate was certain; or be stopped by the Royalists, when I should be made prisoner.
Day was now breaking, and with the strengthening light I began to see our position more clearly. It was not promising. We were farther from Lima than we had been when in the ravine, and were making straight for the mountains again. Another half-hour's riding would cut us off from escape completely. What could be done? There was no time to lose, and I must hit on a plan at once. The simplest and perhaps the only one likely to be successful I set aside without a moment's hesitation. Not for a dozen men's lives, my own included, would I harm the unsuspecting man whom chance had thrown into my power. I might, however, frighten him into obedience. As far as I could see, it was that or nothing, and the attempt must be made at once.
So, with beating heart and greatly doubting what would be the issue, I whipped out my pistol, and, levelling it at him, said quietly, "Move your hand to your musket, and you are a dead man! do as I bid you, and no harm will befall you. Leave your gun, get down from the saddle, and hold your hands above your head."
In the circumstances it was a risky experiment, because if the man should guess the truth I was entirely at his mercy. For him there was no more danger than if my pistol were a piece of wood.
"But, señor—" he began, staring at me in surprise.
"Get down!" I repeated sternly. "It is my order. Don't waste time, or I shall be obliged to fire."
Pedro was a brave man; indeed, all the Indians in Sorillo's band held their lives cheap. He did not exactly understand what was happening, yet he seemed to think that all was not right.
"The chief!" he exclaimed. "Does he—"
"Get down!" I cried once more, brandishing my weapon.
With a thundering shout of "The Silver Key! Help for the Silver Key!" he clubbed his musket and dashed straight at me, regardless of the levelled pistol.
One moment's pressure on the trigger and he would have dropped to the ground helpless, but I refrained; instead, I pulled the rein, and my horse swerved sharply, though not in time. The musket descended with a thud; the pistol slipped from my nerveless fingers; I seemed to be plunging down, down beneath a sea of angry waters.
How long I lay thus, or what happened during that time, I do not know; but I awoke to find myself beside a roaring fire, and to hear the hum of many voices. A soldier, hearing me move, came and looked into my face.
"Where am I?" I asked anxiously.
"Not far from Lima," said he. "A few hours since you weren't far from the next world. How did you get that broken head?"
I tried hard to remember, but could not; the past was a total blank.
"Well, well, never mind," exclaimed the man kindly. "Try to sleep; you will be better in the morning."
With the coming of dawn I saw that I was in the midst of a large camp. Thousands of soldiers wrapped in their ponchos lay motionless before smouldering fires. Presently there was a blowing of bugles, and the still figures stirred to life. Officers rode hither and thither issuing orders, the men ate their scanty rations, the cavalry groomed and fed their horses—there were all the sights and sounds connected with an army about to march.
Then the infantry formed in battalions, the horsemen mounted, bugles sounded in numerous places; there was a cracking of whips, the creaking of wheels, and all began to move slowly forward. Soon but a few men remained, and it seemed that I had been forgotten.
At length a man came to me. He was dressed in uniform, but his words and actions proved him to be a surgeon.
"Feel better?" he asked. "Can you eat something? I can only give you army food; but that will fill up the hollows. Now let me look at the damage. Faith, I compliment you on having a thick skull. A thinner one would have cracked like an egg-shell. Don't try to talk till you've had something to eat."
"Just one question," I said faintly. "Who are the soldiers just moved out?"
"Why, General Canterac's troops. I see you belong to the other side. But don't worry; we shan't hurt you."
"Then I am a prisoner?"
"That's always the way—one question leads to a dozen, Yes, I suppose you are a prisoner; but that's nothing very terrible," and he hurried off to procure food and drink for me.
Later in the day he came to have another talk, and I learned something of what had happened.
"We crossed the mountains almost without a check," he began. "The Indians did us some damage; but they were only a handful, and we saw none of your fellows."
"But how came I to be here?"
"Ah! that's a queer story. A party of scouts screening our left flank had just reached the base of the mountains, when they heard a fellow yelling at the top of his voice. By the time they got in sight, the man had evidently knocked you down, and was off at a mad gallop."
"Alone?" I asked.
"No; that's the strange part of it. He was leading a spare horse which carried something on its back. Our men could not get a good view, but it looked like a full sack, or a big bundle of some sort. They followed rapidly, and were wearing the runaway down when the Indians appeared in force on the hills. Of course that stopped the pursuit, and after picking you up, they came on with the army."
My memory returned now, and I understood what had happened. Pedro had escaped, and carried Don Felipe with him to the Indians of the Silver Key.
"Poor Rosa!" I sighed; "it is all over now. She will never see her father again. Sorillo will take care that he doesn't escape a second time."
My thoughts dwelt so much on this that I took little interest in the rest of the doctor's conversation. He was very jubilant, though, I remember, about his party's success, telling me that in a short time General Canterac would be master of Callao, and that the Patriots had nowhere the slightest chance of victory.
"What will be done with me?" I asked.
"I shall send you with our sick to the hospital at Jauja. The air there is bracing, and will help you to recover more quickly."
"Thank you," I said, though really caring very little at that time where I was sent.
Next day I was placed with several Spanish soldiers in an open wagon, one of a number of vehicles guarded by an escort of troopers. My friendly surgeon had gone to Lima; but I must say the Spaniards behaved very well, making no difference between me and their own people.
As to the journey across the mountains, I remember little of it. The worthy Pedro had made such good use of his musket that my head was racked with pain, and I could think of nothing. Most of the sick soldiers were also in grievous plight, and it was a relief to us all when, after several days' travelling, the procession finally halted in Jauja.
Here we were lifted from the carts and carried to a long whitewashed building filled with beds. They were made on the floor, and many of them were already occupied. Accommodation was found for most of us, but several had to wait until some of the beds became vacant.
Two or three doctors examined the fresh patients, and one forced me to swallow a dose of medicine. Why, I could not think, unless he wanted me to know what really vile stuff he was capable of concocting.
I shall pass quickly over this portion of my story. For weeks I lay in that wretched room, where dozens of men struggled night and day against death. Some snatched a victory in this terrible fight, but now and again I noticed a file of soldiers reverently carrying a silent figure from one of the low beds.
By the end of September I was strong enough to get up, and the doctors pronouncing me out of danger, I was taken to another building. This was used as a prison for captured officers of the Patriot forces, and the very first person to greet me as I stepped inside the room was the lively Alzura.
"Juan Crawford," cried he, "by all that's wonderful! From the ballroom to the prison-house! There's a splendid subject for the moralist. Where have you been, Juan? your people think you are dead. Miller is frantic; all your friends in Lima are in despair."
"Do you know anything of Don Felipe Montilla?" I asked.
"Montilla? No; there is a mystery about him too. It is given out that he was abducted by brigands, but some people whisper another story."
"What?"
"That he fled to the Royalists, my boy, as I prophesied he would."
"Then you were a false prophet."
"Then I ask the worthy Don's pardon for suspecting him without cause. But how did you get here?"
"I was brought in a wagon."
"Lucky dog! Always lucky, Juan. I had to walk," and he showed me his feet, naked, and scored with cuts.
After sympathizing with him, I asked him how events were shaping.
"Canterac did not capture Callao, as he hoped, and is now back in the highlands. Many things have happened, however; let me be your chronicle. Where shall I start?"
"From the day that Canterac swooped down on Lima."
"That was nothing. He sat down in the capital; we hugged the guns at Callao and looked at him. When he got tired he took himself off, and we returned to our quarters."
"Nothing very exciting in that."
"You are right, my boy. Your judgment is marvellous. But we had a day of excitement shortly before I came on this trip. You should have been there. Lima went stark mad! The guns at Callao thundered for hours; the capital was decked with flags; the people cheered till they were hoarse; there was a very delirium of joy. It was the greeting of Peru to her saviour—her second saviour, that is."
"Why can't you speak plainly? Do you mean Bolivar has come?"
"Your second question, Juan, shows there was little need for the first. Yes, Bolivar, the protector or emperor, or whatever name the new master of Peru cares to be known by. The hero of South America has arrived; let the Spaniards tremble!"
"For any sake give your tongue a rest. What has Santa Cruz done?"
"What has Santa Cruz done? A very great deal, my boy, I assure you. He has lost his whole army—men and horses, guns and ammunition, wagons and stores. What do you think of that, young man? You will be compelled to swallow Bolivar after all."
"Let us change the subject. Tell me about yourself."
"Ah," said he, "that is indeed a great subject! Your discernment is worthy of praise. I can talk on that topic for hours without tiring. Where shall I begin?"
"Where is the jailer?"
"Why?"
"That I may ask him to send me back to the hospital."
"Juan, you are a fraud! But hark! that is the bell calling us to dinner. Blessed sound! Come with me to the banquet."