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 like the cloak worn by some of our cavalry soldiers. Some time during the month of April Sorillo's messenger returned, bringing me two letters--one from my mother, the other from the chief. I need not say how eagerly I opened the first. It was very long, consisting of several closely-written pages, but it did not contain a word too much. I read it over and over again, until I could almost say it by heart. No word had reached Lima of the wreck of the _Aguila_; but the British merchants, though bidding my mother be of good cheer, had put the schooner down for lost. My message had shown their fears to be well grounded, but at the same time it had carried joy and thankfulness to my mother's breast. "I grieve for poor Jose," she wrote, "but I thank God every hour for your safety." The letter from Sorillo was brief. After saying how glad he was to get my message, he went on,-- "For the present, stay in the Hidden Valley; there is no safer place in Peru. The fruit ripens slowly, and even yet is not ready for plucking. San Martin has not left Valparaiso, and little beyond skirmishing will be done this year." Apparently, however, he had sent definite orders to the tribe, as from this date I noticed a great difference in our hitherto peaceful abode. Every man went armed day and night, scouts were posted on the mountains, and swift riders scoured the desert for miles. Once, too, a band of horsemen, twenty strong, led by Quilca, left the valley at night. I could not learn their business, because Quilca said they were acting under the secret orders of the great chief. They were absent three days, and when, in the gray dawn of the fourth morning, they rode back up the valley, three were missing. The leader had a bloodstained bandage round his head, and several men bore signs of a fierce conflict. "You are hurt?" said I, as Quilca dismounted. "It is nothing," replied he carelessly. "And three of your followers have not returned!" "It cost six lives to kill them," he answered, with fierce satisfaction, passing into the hut.