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,