The last Jack saw of his team it was still standing just over the brow of the height, the patient oxen chewing their cuds as unconcerned as if the fortunes and the lives of their owners were not in the least endangered.
“What is going to be the end of this?” asked Plum, as they were marched along side by side.
“It is impossible to tell. I do not think it will be best for us to have much to say to each other if we wish to keep together. We must keep our eyes open for a chance to escape.”
Plum taking the hint, the friends walked along in silence until the journey seemed without end.
The soldiers kept up a continual run of conversation, Jack catching enough to know that the Chilian forces were gaining successes wherever they met the Peruvians. He also learned that the army of Bolivia was now their greatest concern, and that the latter was then on a march over the Andes to meet them.
At nightfall a halt was made under a spur of the mountains, but before the sun had tipped with gold the crest of the distant Andes the weary journey was resumed.
That day about noon they came in sight of a little up-country town, which the prisoners soon learned was known as Santa Rosilla. Its long, narrow streets bore a deserted appearance, save for the motley-coated soldiers passing to and fro, as if on guard.
The town bore every sign of a recent siege, while the indications were as strong that the inhabitants had been completely routed and killed or driven back into the mountains by their conquerors.
Straight down the grand plaza marched the soldiers with their captives, making their way toward the casa consistorial, or town house, above which flapped in the sleepy breeze the flag of Chili.
The door of the town house, which bore the marks of many bullets, was off its hinges, but the rooms within were secure enough for all prisoners of war that might fall into their hands in that isolated district, and thither our twain were marched.