"I'm sure he won't. He says corruption is the curse of this country, and he won't have anything to do with either of the parties."
"That's very honourable and British, but it won't pay.... Have those robbers been caught yet?"
"They have not. D'you know, I believe our man Pardo had a hand with them; the pater gave him the sack yesterday. He resigned, but only to avoid a sacking. I'm not sorry.... Well, you'll come over on Monday, then. It's a holiday, so we'll make a day of it."
Tim had ridden only a few miles on his homeward way when he was brought to a sudden check. The path was blocked by a tree which had apparently fallen since he passed a couple of hours before. He dismounted, resting his bicycle against the trunk. The tree was obviously too heavy to be lifted, and he was looking for a way round it when a number of men rushed at him from the bushes on each side of the track, and in a few seconds he was a prisoner. Among his captors he saw one of the brigands who had snapped up the gobernador.
"You will not get away this time, Señor Inglés," said the man, laughing. "You will please to come with us."
Tim was helpless. He could only put the best face on it. The men led him along the track northward, in the direction of Durand's house, two following with the bicycle. As they neared the house, they struck into the woods on the left, not returning to the track until they were some distance beyond, at a wooden bridge over a ravine. The district to the north had a bad name. It was the immemorial haunt of outlaws, whether revolutionist or criminal. The outlawed criminal was invariably a revolutionist; though among the revolutionists there were many, like their leader, Mollendo himself, who were quite respectable members of society.
After a few miles the country became very wild and rugged. The men in charge of the bicycle grumbled at their laborious task; they were not used to wheeling so heavy and cumbersome an object, and in the rougher places it was difficult to balance. Every minute Tim expected to see the machine escape from their hands, topple over, and dash itself to pieces on the rocky declivity.
The track became steeper and steeper. It wound this way and that, a rough wall of rock rising high on the left hand; on the right long slopes and sheer descents, crossed by yawning gullies, stretching downwards for hundreds of feet. Now and then white gull-like mountain birds flew screaming in front of the party; hundreds of squirrels were disporting on the rocky ramparts, darting among the trees that clothed the ravines when they saw the intruders upon their solitudes. They marched on for hours, covering, perhaps, a mile and a half an hour, until night threw its purple shade upon the hills. Then they halted in a narrow glen. The leader of the party gave Tim the option of being tied up or passing his word not to attempt escape.
"You are Inglés," he said. "I can trust your word."
Tim did not appreciate the compliment; but since it was quite clear that he could not escape with his bicycle, he gave his word, looking as pleasant as he could. The men bivouacked, making a supper of parched maize, which they took from their wallets, and weak spirits from their flasks. They offered Tim a share of their provisions; he accepted the maize, but declined the spirits, longing for a draught of water.