"I grieve for poor José," 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.
This expedition was followed by others, and from the talk in the valley I gathered that Sorillo had started the Indians on the war-trail. Already the Spaniards were safe only in large numbers, for on every weak and isolated detachment the fierce mountaineers swept down like hawks on their prey.