There is an old saying—“Tell the truth and shame the devil.” Now, although there can be no doubt that there are occasions when concealment is excusable, yet these are very rare exceptions, which occur but seldom in most men’s lives; and as a general rule a strict adherence to the truth is the only just and safe course, even though it may apparently lead one into a difficulty. There is something degrading in a falsehood or prevarication, which must injure the self-respect of a man of proper feeling. It is a sin! There is no disguising it. People often tell falsehoods to conceal what they have done wrong, but that does not make the sin less; it is only adding one sin to another. I say—and I know that am right—Tell truth, and stand the consequences.
I therefore told the officer my true history. How my father’s house had been taken possession of by the Spanish troops; how the Indians had attacked and burned it; and how they had carried me off desperately wounded. Then I described how I had been nursed by an Indian and his wife among the mountains till I had recovered, when the dreadful report reached me of the destruction of my family; and how the Indian had allowed me to set out for the purpose of discovering what had really been their fate, when, in the course of my search, we had been captured by Catari and his followers. The officer seemed much interested by the account I gave him, and to feel real compassion for my loss.
“And the youth with you, who is he?” he asked.
I told him, a Spaniard, who in his childhood had been carried off by the Indians, and educated by the good priest of their village.
“It is a very strange story you tell me,” he remarked. “However, I believe you, for your face assures me that you speak the truth. You both must now accompany me to the place where I am ordered to wait with my men for the return of the rest of the troops. I hear the bugles sounding the recall, and they probably have by this time completely dispersed all the Indians who remained together; but their orders were not to venture beyond the defile, lest the brigands should reassemble and cut them off. We must march at once, for the colonel commanding our force will soon be there.”
I was very well satisfied with his manner of speaking, and felt certain that we should be kindly treated. Fortunately for us, our mules had managed to get out of the way of the troops as they passed by. With much sagacity they had, when we jumped off their backs, crept into a wide crevice in the cliffs, and we found them close to the spot feeding on the leaves of some shrubs which grew among the rocks. On our claiming them as our property, the officer allowed us to mount them; and he invited us to ride by his side at the head of his men. His questions were sometimes very puzzling, for I resolved not to give him any information which might prove injurious to the Indians. I could not, however, deny that I had seen a large Indian force collected very different to that of Catari; and I warned him, that should the Spaniards ever meet it, they would find a victory far more difficult than the one they had just achieved.
“Do you think you could lead us to the place where this army you speak of is encamped?” he asked suddenly, after a considerable silence.
“Señor,” I replied, with a look of indignation, “has anything I have said induced you to believe that I could be capable of so dishonourable and ungrateful an action! The Indians treated me with mercy and kindness. Is such the return you would expect an honest man to make?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Why, no,” he replied; “to confess the truth, I should not expect you to do so willingly, and I would myself rather not be asked to do such a thing; but I am sorry to tell you that there are others, my superiors, who are not so likely to pay respect to your scruples; and I am afraid that they will insist on your acting as our guide if it is thought expedient to march against the new made Inca.”
“But surely I have the power to refuse to do any such thing,” I exclaimed indignantly.