“The pretended Inca, Tupac Amaru, has been taken,” said one man.
“No; that is a mistake,” was the answer. “But another chief has, though he fought like a lion, it is said.”
“Who is he?” asked another.
“A relation of the Inca’s: one of the viper’s brood,” replied the first.
“They say two strangers were made prisoners leading on the rebels,” observed a third. “They are to be shot also, I hope.”
“No doubt of it; but the viceroy has thought it necessary to send to explain the matter to the English consul at Lima; and his answer has not arrived,” remarked a fourth.
“It is known that it cannot arrive for three or four more days; and care will be taken to shoot them before that time,” said the former speaker.
“Can they allude to us?” I asked of Pedro, feeling my heart sink within me.
“There is no doubt about it,” he replied. “We must be prepared for the worst; but I do not think they will dare to kill one of your great nation. They will shoot me though, as I have no friends to help me.”
“Nor have I, Pedro; but I would rather say, Let us hope for the best,” I answered. “They would gain nothing by killing either of us, and it would be very unjust to kill you and let me escape.”