“The night is likely to be fine, and our friends will gladly give you up their hut,” said Don José.
“We will wait here till Domingos appears. I have made arrangements that we should have ample notice should any enemies come in pursuit of us. We are surrounded by friends, and I have no doubt we shall be able to escape.”
Don José had secured a fresh supply of food, so that in a short time an ample meal was spread on the ground, round which we collected in picnic fashion. We had just concluded it when we heard footsteps approaching. As we looked out, Domingos appeared before us. His countenance exhibited anxiety, and taking Don José aside, he conversed with him for some minutes.
“We must proceed at early dawn by the road I have mentioned to you,” said our friend, returning to us. “Domingos has had a narrow escape of being made prisoner. He tells me that the soldiers are pursuing the patriots and natives in every direction, and treating them with the greatest cruelty, shooting and hanging them whenever they are found. Although they would not venture probably to ill-treat you, you might be subjected to great inconvenience, and certainly detained and prevented from reaching your parents. However, I trust that we shall be able to avoid them, and to reach the eastern slopes of the Andes without interruption. Your father has ever proved my firmest friend, and I rejoice therefore to have the opportunity of showing my gratitude by being of service to his children. We shall be able to remain here during the night, and will recommence our journey by dawn, so as to reach the most difficult pass by mid-day, and I trust before evening to have gained a place of safety.”
“You will do well, my dear masters, to trust our friend thoroughly,” said Domingos to John and me, while Don José was at a little distance. “I know your father has a great regard for him, and whatever he promises he can perform. You are indeed fortunate in meeting with him. He is a cacique, whose fathers once had great power in the country; and though deprived of his lands, he is still looked up to with respect by the natives in all parts of the country.”
“Then how comes he to be called Don José?” I asked.
“That is the name by which he is known to the whites, and it is the safest by which to speak of him,” answered Domingos. “I know not if I ought to tell his real name; but you will be cautious, or he might be displeased with me.”
“Yes; do tell me,” I said; “I am curious to know more about him.”
Domingos looked around. The person we were speaking of was still out of hearing.
“I will tell you, then,” he replied. “His real name is Pumacagua. His father, who headed the last attempt of the Indians to gain their liberty before the revolution, when numerous tribes gathered to his standard, was defeated, made prisoner, and shot. Young José, our friend, after fighting bravely, escaped, and though sought for, was not discovered. Your father had concealed him at great hazard, and afforded him shelter till better times came round. He and I were the only persons in the secret. José Pumacagua has, therefore, reason to be grateful to your father, besides being connected with him by the ties of blood.”