Immediately a man emerged from a neighboring alley, and came directly to the Indians. This man was the Sambo.
"The Spaniard has returned," said he to them; "you know him now; he is one of the representatives of the race which crushes us—wo to him!"
"And when shall we strike?"
"When five o'clock sounds, and the tocsin from the mountain gives the signal of vengeance."
Then the Sambo marched with hasty steps to the chingana, and rejoined the chief of the revolt.
Meanwhile the sun had begun to sink beneath the horizon; it was the hour in which the Limanian aristocracy went in its turn to the Amancaës; the richest toilets shone in the equipages which defiled to the right and left beneath the trees along the road; there was an inextricable mêlée of foot-passengers, carriages, horses; a confusion of cries, songs, instruments, and vociferations.
The clock on the tower of the cathedral suddenly struck five! and a shrill funereal sound vibrated through the air; the tocsin thundered over the crowd, frozen in its delirium.
An immense cry resounded in the city. From every square, every street, every house issued the Indians, with arms in their hands, and fury in their eyes. The principal places of the city were thronged with these men, some of whom shook above their heads burning torches!
"Death to the Spaniards! death to the oppressors!" such was the watch-word of the rebels.
Those who attempted to return to Lima must have recoiled before these masses; but the summits of the hills were quickly covered with other enemies, and all retreat was impossible; the zambos precipitated themselves like a thunderbolt on this crowd, exhausted with the fatigues of the festival, while the mountain Indians cleared for themselves a bloody path to rejoin their brethren of the city.