to the river; while the crowd fell back behind them. I had
observed a number of Indians collecting on the opposite bank of the
river, who now came down close to its edge, watching anxiously the
proceedings of the soldiers. They appeared, however, not to be remarked
by the people in the town. As they were partly concealed by the trees
and the walls dividing the fields, their numbers might not have been
perceived by the people in the square. The bell of the nearest church
began to toll; the crowd looked eagerly towards the prison; the massive
gates were thrown open, and we saw issuing forth a posse of priests and
monks, bearing crucifixes and lighted tapers, who were followed by the
unhappy Indians intended for execution, chained two and two, and each
couple guarded by a soldier with his musket presented at their heads.

I watched them file out with aching eyes, for every moment I expected to
see Manco led forth. I had a painful presentiment that he was among the
victims. The last of the Indians had passed on, and I began to breathe
more freely; but still the crowd began to look towards the gates of the
prison. Alas! I was not mistaken. The mob raised a shout of
exultation, and I saw a man I could too clearly recognise, between two
soldiers, with a priest advancing before him, and reciting the prayers
for the dead. It was the kind, the brave Manco himself. He walked on
with a proud and dignified air, undaunted by the revengeful shouts of
his enemies, thirsting for his blood. His step was firm, and his brow
was unclouded, and his lips were firmly set; but I observed that his
bright dark eyes were every now and then ranging anxiously among the
crowd, as if in search of a friendly glance. His fellow-beings who
formed the mob, looked at him with eager and savage curiosity; but no
one appeared to offer him any sign of recognition. He was closely
followed by a company of soldiers, with arms presented. They formed, I
discovered, the fatal firing party. As they advanced, the other
soldiers formed in the rear, and the mob followed close behind. The
sailor, I observed, went with the rest for a short distance, but when he
found that their attention was entirely occupied with the prisoners, he
disengaged himself from among them, and rolled back with his unconcerned
air towards our window.

"Shipmate, ahoy," he exclaimed in a suppressed tone as he passed.

"Who are you?" I asked eagerly.

"A friend in need," he a