"Yes! 'The chief of the Silver Key'—that is what the black-browed ruffian called himself. Fancy my father, a Spanish gentleman, the prisoner of a band of half-dressed savages—your friends, Juan Crawford!"
"But I know nothing about it," I cried. "These men take no orders from me. The key was given me by the chief when I myself stood in need of protection."
"Nevertheless they are your friends, and they have dragged my father from his home."
"But why? Surely there must be a reason! Tell me what they said. Try to be calm, Rosa; your father's life may depend on your words."
"I know nothing. How should I? I was in bed. My father sat there writing when they broke into the house. The servants fled, and hid themselves like frightened sheep. The cowards! I dressed and ran here. My father had killed one ruffian, but—but he could not struggle against so many."
"I'll wager that he showed himself a brave man."
"He did; but they overcame him," she continued, speaking more calmly. "They bound him with cords: he was helpless. I begged the big bandit to release him; I would have gone on my knees—I, a daughter of the Montillas!" and she drew herself up proudly.
"But the chief, Rosa—what did he say?"
"That my father was charged with a serious offence, and that he must be tried by the officers of the Silver Key. Think of that, Juan Crawford!—my father tried for his life by those dirty bandits! Oh, how I wish I was a man! Then they took him away. I was alone and friendless; I thought of you, and told the coachman to drive me to Lima. Then I remembered you were one of these people, and would have turned back. But my father's life is precious; I would beg it even of an enemy. O Juan, Juan, save him for me!"
She broke down utterly. I tried to comfort her, and failed. She did nothing but cry, "Save him, Juan, save him!"