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!"