in the Hidden Valley, although lasting nearly two years, had
little of interest in it. The Indians treated me with every respect.
I was lodged in the best house, and was given the best fare the valley
produced. Within the valley I was master, but I was not allowed to
join any of their expeditions, and without their help it was
impossible, as I have explained, to get away.

Their advice to stay quietly in my hiding-place was indeed the best
they could give. I was quite safe, the Spanish soldiers in the fort
being unable to follow me, and indeed, as we gathered from the spy,
quite at a loss to account for my escape. Away from the valley, too, I
should be utterly helpless. I could not return to Lima, and without
money there was little chance of making my way into Chili.

The two things that troubled me most were Jose's fate and my mother's
unhappiness. At first I had ventured to hope that my friend still
lived; but as the weeks and months passed without any tidings, I began
to look upon him as dead. The Indians thought it certain I should
never see him again.

As to my mother, she would be in no particular uneasiness until the
time came for the return of the _Aguila_; but I dreaded what would
happen when Mr. Maxwell had to confess the schooner was overdue, and
that nothing had been heard of her. Many miserable hours I spent
wandering about the valley, and thinking how my mother would watch and
wait, hoping against hope for some tidings of the missing ship.

One night--it was in the December of 1819--I had gone to bed early,
when an unusual commotion in the valley caused me to get up. My Indian
host had already gone out, so, putting on my things, I followed.

Naturally my first thought was of the Spaniards; but the natives,
though flocking towards the entrance to the valley, did not appear
alarmed. Several of them carried torches, and a strange picture was
revealed by the lurid flames.

On the ground lay a horse so weak and exhausted that it could barely
struggle for breath. Close by, supported in the arms of two Indians,
was the rider, a short, rather stout man of brown complexion. His eyes
were glazed as if in death. Blood gushed from his ears and nostrils,
his head hung limply down: it was hard to believe that he lived.

The natives gabbled to each other, and I heard the words frequently
repeated, "Sorillo's messenger!" Then an old, old woman--the _mother_
of the village--tottered feebly down the pat