For three days the messenger was too weak to explain his errand; but the medicine worked wonders, and at the end of a week he sent for Quilca and the other leading men of the tribe. What orders he brought I did not learn; only my host told me that the rising to which they looked forward had been put off. The Chilians were not ready, and could not be in Peru for at least another six months. Quilca was dreadfully disappointed; but the chief had spoken, and his word was law. Indeed, it was most extraordinary to see with what reverence his commands were treated. Had it been his pleasure, I am sure his followers would have willingly gone to certain death. On the day following this I visited the messenger, who, on seeing the silver key, bowed low before me. "What are my lord's commands?" asked he humbly. "They are very simple," I replied. "In a short time you 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.