The two things that troubled me most were José's fate and my mother's unhappiness. At first I had ventured to hope that my friend still lived; but as the weeks and months passed without any tidings, I began to look upon him as dead. The Indians thought it certain I should never see him again.
As to my mother, she would be in no particular uneasiness until the time came for the return of the Aguila; but I dreaded what would happen when Mr. Maxwell had to confess the schooner was overdue, and that nothing had been heard of her. Many miserable hours I spent wandering about the valley, and thinking how my mother would watch and wait, hoping against hope for some tidings of the missing ship.
One night—it was in the December of 1819—I had gone to bed early, when an unusual commotion in the valley caused me to get up. My Indian host had already gone out, so, putting on my things, I followed.
Naturally my first thought was of the Spaniards; but the natives, though flocking towards the entrance to the valley, did not appear alarmed. Several of them carried torches, and a strange picture was revealed by the lurid flames.
On the ground lay a horse so weak and exhausted that it could barely struggle for breath. Close by, supported in the arms of two Indians, was the rider, a short, rather stout man of brown complexion. His eyes were glazed as if in death. Blood gushed from his ears and nostrils, his head hung limply down: it was hard to believe that he lived.
The natives gabbled to each other, and I heard the words frequently repeated, "Sorillo's messenger!" Then an old, old woman—the mother of the village—tottered feebly down the path. In one hand she carried a small pitcher, and in the other a funnel, whose slender stem they inserted between the man's teeth. In this way a little liquid was forced into his mouth, and presently his bared breast heaved slightly—so slightly that the motion was almost imperceptible.
However, the old woman appeared satisfied, and at a sign from her the stricken man was carried slowly up the path. One native attended to the horse, and the rest returned to their huts, talking excitedly of what had happened.
"Is that a messenger from Raymon Sorillo, Quilca?" I asked my host.
"Yes," said he, "and he has had a very narrow escape. He has been caught in a sandstorm. Perhaps he lost the track. Perhaps the soldiers gave chase, and he went further round to baffle them. Who knows? But we shall hear to-morrow."
"Then he is likely to recover?"