u are returning
to your chief. Say to him that Juan Crawford is safe in the Hidden
Valley, and ask him to tell Senora Maria Dolores Crawford at Lima so.
Can you remember that?"

The blood mounted into the man's face as he said, "I will remember."
Then he added in quick, eager tones, "Are you the son of Don Eduardo?"

"He was my father."

At that the man bent again and kissed my hand, saying,--

"Senor, he was our best friend. He loved our people, and when he was
killed there was much weeping in the villages of the Indians."

"He gave his life for you," said I slowly.

"As we will give ours for his son," answered the man; and no one
hearing him could have doubted the sincerity of his words.

At the end of a fortnight he was strong enough to travel, and his last
words as he struck into the narrow pass were, "I shall not forget,
senor."

After his departure I felt much easier. True, there was a terrible
journey before him, which hardly one man in a thousand could hope to
accomplish successfully; but he was a daring and plucky rider, used
alike to desert and mountain. Then, too, any Indian on the route would
give him food and shelter, and warn him of any lurking soldiers.

He would relate my story to Raymon Sorillo, and I knew that the
gigantic chief would carry the news to my mother. I no longer fretted
at being shut up in the valley, but passed my time merrily with the
boys and younger men of the tribe, learning their patois, riding, and
practising shooting with the musket, and with bow and arrow.

On my fifteenth birthday Quilca organized some sports, and though not
gaining a first prize in any event, I performed so creditably that the
Indians were delighted with my prowess.

"The young chief will make a warrior," said they, and I felt proud of
their praise.

Let me try to give you a picture of myself at that time. I was tall
for my age, standing five feet five inches in height. I had curly dark
hair, cut rather short, and brown eyes. My face was tanned through
exposure to the weather and regular exercise had made my muscles hard
as iron. Like my companions, I wore a short woollen jacket, dark in
colour, and breeches open at the knees, and caught up with strips of
coloured cotton. My cap was of wool gorgeously embroidered; dark
woollen stockings without feet covered my legs, and in place of boots I
had a pair of goatskin sandals. Thrown over my left shoulder was a
small poncho, which dangled lik