Chapter XXI: Rough Justice

I did not take much rousing in the morning, and even before remembering the exact circumstances, felt oppressed by the weight of coming sorrow. I breakfasted alone, Sorillo sending a profuse apology for not being able to join me, though I was rather glad than otherwise at his absence.

Leaving the hut, I went into the ravine. There were perhaps a hundred men in sight, all armed, and apparently waiting for some signal. Their comrades, no doubt, had been dispatched on an errand, or were guarding the neighbouring passes. In front of Don Felipe's hut stood a sentry, and, somewhat to my surprise, I now noticed a second hut, slightly lower down and similarly guarded.

"Two prisoners!" I thought. "I wonder who the other is? Sorillo did not mention him."

Nearer the head of the ravine some soldiers were at work, and going towards them I beheld a strange and significant sight. In the side of the hill was a natural platform, broad and spacious, while round it stretched in a semicircle a wide stone seat, which the men were covering with bright red cloth. Below the platform stood a ring of soldiers with impassive faces.

I was still wondering what this might mean, when Sorillo, touching my arm, led me to the centre of the stone seat, saying, "Sit there; you shall be a witness that the people of the Silver Key treat their enemies justly."

Rather reluctantly I took the seat indicated. Sorillo sat next me, and six officers, ascending the platform, took their places, three on either side of us. That portion of the seat occupied by the chief was slightly raised; but this, of course, makes no difference to the story.

At a signal from Sorillo the door of Don Felipe's hut was opened, and the prisoner came out escorted by two armed men. The soldiers, opening to right and left, made way for him, and by means of the boulders, which served as steps, he climbed to the platform.

In spite of my prejudice against the man, I rejoiced to see how boldly he held himself. He appeared to have summoned to his aid all the pride of his dead-and-gone ancestors. He glanced contemptuously at the gigantic Sorillo, and meeting my eyes, smiled defiantly. As to the officers, he did not give them even a look.

"Thank goodness," said I to myself, "no one can call Rosa's father a coward!"

Then Sorillo began to speak, clearly and distinctly, but with no note of anger in his voice.

"Don Felipe Montilla," he said, "you are brought here by order of the Society of the Silver Key." Don Felipe's lips curled as if in amusement. "It is charged against you that you, having taken the oath of loyalty to the government, have since been in traitorous communication with the Royalist leaders. Do you deny or admit the charge?"

Don Felipe shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, "A truce to your mummery! Do you think I would plead for my life to a band of cut-throats? What care I for your society?"

I thought this outburst would provoke his captors beyond measure, but, as far as I could judge, it produced no effect at all. They sat quite still, as if the remarks had been addressed to others.

"It is our custom," continued Sorillo, "to give those brought before us every chance to defend themselves. We are not lawyers; we do not juggle with words; our one desire is to get at the truth."

"By St. Philip," muttered Montilla, "this is the last place I should have thought to find it in!"

"For this reason," continued the chief, ignoring the sarcastic interruption, "the story shall be told plainly, and then you will understand exactly what you are charged with. Three nights ago we stopped a man returning from Lima. Many times he had gone to and fro unmolested, protected by a pass from Riva-Aguero. At last he was recognized by one of our men as Pardo Lureña, an utterly worthless man, who had already changed sides several times during the war."

"He would have made a good recruit for you," remarked Montilla.

"Suspecting this man, we had him watched," continued the chief, again passing over the interruption, "and found that always he went to your house, señor, returning under the cover of night. We knew you to be an excellent Patriot, yet the circumstance made us uneasy. At length we decided to ignore the president's passport. Lureña was stopped and searched, with this result," and he flourished a letter before the prisoner.

Don Felipe must have known by now how helpless his case was; but he only smiled. In truth, at this crisis of his life he showed no want of pluck.

"There is much in this letter," said the chief mercilessly. "It contains a full list of the troops just dispatched to the south, and of those still remaining in Lima, with an exact statement as to the quantity of their stores and ammunition. It describes their position, and advises General Canterac how he can best enter Lima and seize Callao. It provides also a list of those who will join him, and stipulates that the writer shall keep not only his own estates, but shall be given those of which he has lately been deprived."

At this last revelation Don Felipe changed colour somewhat, and withdrew his eyes from my face.

"This letter," said Sorillo, "came from your house; it is signed F. M., and I charge you with having written it. Can you deny that it is in your handwriting?"

The prisoner seemed to have regained self-possession, for looking steadily at Sorillo, he exclaimed, "A gentleman of Spain does not answer the questions of a mountain robber."

Passing the letter to me, Sorillo said, "You know this man's handwriting; perhaps you will satisfy yourself that he wrote this letter?"

"No," said I coldly, thrusting the paper away; "I will be neither judge nor witness in this case."

"Very well," answered the chief; "let the second prisoner be brought forward." And two men immediately fetched Pardo Lureña from his hut.

He was still a young man, but looked old. His eyes were shifty and cunning, his lips full and thick; he did not seem to be at all the kind of man to play so daring a game. Don Felipe looked at him so scornfully that he turned away his face in confusion. He gave his answers clearly, however, and told the story from beginning to end without a tremor.

It was as Sorillo had said. The fellow admitted being a Royalist spy employed in carrying messages between General Canterac and Montilla. The Don, he declared, had procured him the pass signed by Riva-Aguero, and had given him the letter now in the guerilla chief's possession.

Don Felipe never once interrupted him either by word or gesture; to look at him, one would have thought he was merely a spectator, with no interest in the matter one way or another. But when at last the tale ended, and Sorillo called upon him to speak, his attitude changed.

"Do your murders your own way," he cried defiantly. "If the farce pleases you, play it. What has it to do with me? When I am accused of crime by the government of my country, I will answer."

"Don Felipe is right, Sorillo," I interrupted. "If he has done wrong, let him be brought before a proper tribunal. Whether he be innocent or guilty, if you kill him you commit murder. You and your followers have no right to punish him."

"In the case of a traitor we take the right," answered Sorillo drily.--"But there is a further charge, Don Felipe Montilla, more serious still. You have been proved false to your country; I accuse you also of being false to your friend."

Hitherto, I am bound to admit, the guerilla chief had acted like a perfectly impartial judge; now there was a ring of anger in his voice and a dangerous glitter in his eyes. As to Montilla, I could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise at the change in his appearance. No longer boldly erect, he stood with drooping head, pale cheeks, and downcast eyes. In the first act he had behaved like a man of spirit; the second he began like a craven.

"Listen!" exclaimed Sorillo sternly, and his first words told me what would follow. "For many years there has lived in Lima a man who loves the Indians. He saw that they were treated as dogs, and because of his great pity he resolved to help them. To this end he worked day and night, making many enemies among the rulers of the country. They tried to turn him from his purpose, now with threats, again with offers of heavy bribes: he would not be moved. So badly were the Indians treated that it mattered little whether they lived or died. They banded together, procured arms and ammunition, and determined to fight for their liberty. Their friend sent them word that the attempt was hopeless; but they were very angry, and would not listen. Then he left his home to speak to them himself, and endeavour to dissuade them from their purpose."

Montilla had not once raised his head, and now his limbs quivered. As for me, I sat listening with fascinated interest.

"Side by side with this friend of the Indians," the chief continued, "there lived a Spanish gentleman, who told the viceroy falsely that his neighbour was going to the mountains to raise the standard of rebellion. The viceroy, who was frightened, sent soldiers to seize him. Second in command of the party was a lieutenant, young in years but old in crime. To him this Spaniard went secretly. 'If this man should be killed in the scuffle,' said he, 'you can come to me for five thousand dollars.'

"The lieutenant did his best to earn the money, and thought he had succeeded. As it chanced, however, his victim did not die, but his estates were confiscated and given to the man who had betrayed him."

The speaker stopped. All was still; save for the leaping waters of the torrent, no sound was to be heard. I glanced at Montilla: he was deathly pale, and on his forehead stood great beads of perspiration, which, with his bound hands, he was unable to wipe away.

"Shall I tell you who these men were?" asked Sorillo. "One is Don Eduardo Crawford; the others stand here," and he pointed to the prisoners. "Listen to your accomplice, Felipe Montilla, if you care to hear the story repeated."

Again Lureña gave his evidence glibly. I think he had no sense of shame, but only a strong desire to save his life. He might not have committed the deed for the sake of the money alone, he said, but he hated my father for having cast him into prison.

It was poor evidence on which to try a man for his life, yet no one doubted Montilla's guilt. There he stood with trembling limbs and ashen face--truly a wretched figure for a cavalier of Spain! His courage had broken down completely, and to all the questions put by his self-appointed judge he answered no word.

At length Sorillo asked his officers for their verdict, and with one consent they pronounced him "Guilty!"

"It is a true verdict," exclaimed Sorillo; "any other would be a lie.--And now, Felipe Montilla, listen to me for the last time. You have been proved a traitor to your country, and that alone merits death; but this other crime touches the members of the Silver Key more closely. When the great men of Peru called the Indians dogs, Don Eduardo was our friend. He took our side openly, encouraged us, sympathized with us, pitied us. And you tried to slay him! not in fair fight, mind you, and only because you coveted his possessions. For that you die within forty-eight hours, as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow!" And all his hearers applauded.

The condemned man still made no reply, uttered no appeal for mercy, but stood as one dazed. But I thought of the daughter who loved him so well, and sprang to my feet.

"Hear me!" I cried excitedly. "If Don Felipe has done wrong, it is against my father. Do you think he will thank you for killing his enemy? Is that his teaching? You know it is not; you know that he would forgive him freely--would beg his life from you on his bended knees. If you really love my father, if you feel that he deserves your gratitude, spare this man's life. If he has sinned he will repent. I have come here for him. Do not let me go back alone. Am I to say to my father, 'You are foolish in thinking the Indians care for you; they care nothing! I asked of them a boon in your name, and they refused it'? Raymon Sorillo, I appeal to you, give me this man's life for my father's sake!"

I looked at him earnestly, hoping to find a spark of mercy in his eyes. Alas, there was none! He was hard as iron, cold as ice; on that day, at least, there was no pity in him.

"You are foolish," said he; "you are like a child who cries for the moon. Set this man free and he will immediately begin his old games of deceit and trickery. He cannot help himself. It is his nature, as it is a spider's to weave its web. Your father's happiness depends on this traitor's death."

I heard him patiently, and then renewed my appeal. It was quite useless.

"Remove the prisoners," said he; and at a sign the troops marched off, the officers dispersed, and none save we two remained on the platform. For a long time neither spoke. I was thinking of Rosa anxiously awaiting my return. I had bidden her hope, and there was no longer any hope. I made no attempt to deceive myself in this respect. Sorillo would do much for me, but this one thing he would not do. I dreaded the thought of returning to Lima. What would Rosa say and do when she heard of her father's shameful death? Perhaps that part might be spared her; she need not learn the whole truth. I must invent some story which would save her the knowledge of his double treachery.

At last I turned to the chief, saying, "Will you allow me to speak with Don Felipe in private? He has a daughter at home; he may wish to send her a last message."

"He is not worth your kindness; but do as you please."

I thanked him, and walked toward the hut in which Don Felipe was confined. The sentry let me pass without protest, and opening the door I entered.

The sight before me was a pitiful one. The wretched prisoner sat on a wooden bench in the dreary hovel. His arms were bound, but he was free to walk about if he so wished. At the click of the latch he raised his head, but seeing me dropped it again quickly, as if ashamed to meet my gaze.

"Don Felipe," I began, "have you any message for your daughter?"

Instead of answering my question, he himself asked one.

"Will that brigand really put me to death?" he said.

"I am afraid so. I have begged hard for your life, but in vain."

Looking at me curiously, he exclaimed, "I cannot understand why you should wish to save me!"

"For Rosa's sake! When you were carried off, she came to me, and I promised if it were possible to bring you back with me."

"Then you do not believe the story you heard to-day, about--about--"

"My father? Yes, I believe it; but that is no reason why I should be unkind to Rosa. Poor girl! 'twill be hard enough for her to lose you."

"Is there no way of escape?"

I shook my head. "An armed sentry stands outside; a hundred soldiers are in the ravine; the path is closely watched. I would help you if it were possible."

"It will be dark to-night."

"That would help us little. Even if you escaped from the hut, you would be challenged at every dozen yards. No, I can see no way out."

I think that at this time he began to fully realize the danger he was in. He had a hunted look in his eyes, and again the perspiration stood on his forehead. Fear was fast killing shame, and he seemed to care nothing that I was the son of the man whom he had tried to murder.

"Juan," said he, "can't you make an excuse to visit me after dark?"

"I should think so," I replied.

"And will you cut these cords?"

"If you think it will help you at all."

"Leave that to me," said he, speaking almost hopefully. "By St. Philip, I shall escape the ruffian yet!"

What his plan was he did not tell me, but it seemed to please him greatly. He even laughed when I again mentioned Rosa, and said he would carry his message himself. And with hope there came back to him something of the old cunning and smoothness of speech for which he was so noted.

"I am sorry you were misled by that preposterous tale," said he softly. "Pardo Lureña is a villain, but we will unmask him. Of course, there was a little truth in his story, but so twisted and distorted that it could not be recognized. Your father will understand, however, and even you will come to see that I am not greatly to blame. A little thoughtlessness, Juan, and a desire to help a friend--no more; but that can wait. You will be sure to come, Juan; you will not fail me?"

"I will do my very best, Don Felipe, for your daughter's sake."

Wishing him farewell, I returned to the chief's hut. He was not there, so I lay down to think out the situation; but my head was in a hopeless muddle. I went into the ravine again, and, watching the soldiers, wondered how the unhappy prisoner hoped to escape them.

As it chanced, his plan was doomed to disappointment. Toward the end of the afternoon I stood chatting with Sorillo and some of his officers, when a messenger rode up the ravine. His horse had travelled far and fast, while he looked worn out with fatigue.

Springing to the ground, he saluted, while the chief cried, "What news, Sanchez? it should be worth hearing!"

"I think it is," replied the man, with a significant smile. "General Canterac is marching on Lima at the head of a Spanish army."

"How many men has he?"

"Nine thousand, perhaps ten--horse, foot, and guns. The advance-guard is not far off."

"Thanks, Sanchez.--Let the men assemble, Barros: a dozen to stay here, the rest to follow me. Has Cerdeña sent word to Lima? Good. He knows his business.--Juan, you will just have time to ride clear, and not much to spare. No doubt Canterac has sent some of his troops by the near cut."

All was bustle and activity in the ravine. Officers issued commands, troopers saddled their horses, muskets were seen to, an extra supply of ammunition was served out, and in a very short time everybody save the few men left to guard the ravine was ready to march.

"What can your handful of men do against Canterac's army?" I asked Sorillo as we rode away.

"Not much beyond cutting off a few stragglers," he replied, smiling; "but we shall obtain information of which our leaders in Lima seem to stand badly in need."