LITMIR.BIZ

AT THE POINT OF THE SWORD.

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CHAPTER I.

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A BIRTHDAY EVE.

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      In spite of my English name—Jack Crawford—and my English blood, I have never set foot on that famous little island in the North Sea, and now it is quite unlikely that I ever shall do so.

      I was born in Peru, on the outskirts of beautiful Lima, where, until the year 1819, on the very eve of my fourteenth birthday, the days of my childhood were passed.

      I expect you know that in ancient days Peru was called the "Land of the Sun," because the sun was worshipped by the natives. Their great city was Cuzco, built, it is said, in 1043 A.D., by Manco Capac, the first of the Incas, or Emperors of Peru.

      The natives believed Manco to be a child of the sun; but I have heard an old story that his father was a shipwrecked Englishman, who married the daughter of a Peruvian chief. I do not think this tale correct, but it is full of interest.

      Most of the Incas ruled very wisely, and the remains of palaces, temples, and aqueducts show that the people were highly civilized; but in 1534 the Spaniards, under Pizarro, invaded the country, and swept away the glorious empire of the Incas.

      After that Peru became a part of Spanish America, and Pizarro founded the city of Lima, which he made the capital.

      My father, who settled in the country when quite a young man, married a Peruvian lady of wealthy and influential family. The estate near Lima formed part of her marriage portion, and a beautiful place it was, with a fine park, and a lake which served me both for boating and bathing. I had several friends, chiefly Spaniards, but two English boys, whose fathers were merchants in Callao, often visited me, and many a pleasant game we had together.

      At this time Peru was a Spanish colony, but some people, among whom was my father, wanted to make it an independent country, having its own ruler. Being still a boy, I did not hear much of these things, though, from certain talk, I understood that the country was in a most unsettled state, and that the Spanish governor had thrown many good men into prison for urging the people to free themselves.

      One evening, in March 1819, I was busy in my workshop painting a small boat. My father had been absent for nearly a week, but he had promised to return for my birthday, and every moment I expected to see him crossing the courtyard.

      Presently, hearing old Antonio unfasten the wicket-gate, I put down my brush, wiped my hands, and ran out joyously.

      The happy welcome died on my lips. It was not my father who had entered, but Rosa Montilla, the young daughter of a famous Spanish officer. She was nearly a year younger than myself, and a frequent visitor at our house. Often we had gone together for a row on the lake, or for a gallop on our ponies round the park.

      She was very pretty, with deep blue eyes and fair hair, quite unlike most Spanish girls, and generally full of fun and good spirits. Now, however, she was very pale and looked frightened. I noticed, too, that she had no covering on her head or shoulders, and that she had not changed the thin slippers worn in the house.

      These things made me curious and uneasy. I feared some evil had befallen her father, and knew not how to act. On seeing me she made a little run forward, and, bursting into tears, cried, "O Juan, Juan!" using, as also did my mother, the Spanish form of my name.

      Now, being only a boy, and being brought up for the most part among boys, I was but a clumsy comforter, though I would have done anything to lessen her grief.

      "What is it, Rosa?" I asked; "what has happened?" But for answer she could only wring her hands and cry, "O Juan, Juan!"

      "Do not cry, Rosa!" I said, and then doing what I should have done in the first place, led her toward the drawing-room, where my mother was. "Mother will comfort you. Tell her all about it," I said confidently, for it was to my mother I always turned when things went wrong.

      On this her tears fell faster, but she came with me, and together we entered the room.

      "Juan!" cried my mother.—"Rosa! what is the matter? Why are you crying? But come to me, darling;" and in another moment she was pressing the girl to her bosom.

      At a sign from her I left the room, but did not go far away. Rosa's action was so odd that I waited with impatience to hear the reason. She must have left her home hurriedly and unobserved, since it was an unheard-of thing that the daughter of Don Felipe Montilla should be out on foot and unattended. I was sure that should her father discover it he would be greatly annoyed. The whole affair was so mysterious that I could make nothing of it. The girl's sobs were more under control now, and she began to speak. As she might not wish me to hear her story, I walked away, meaning to chat with Antonio at the gate, and to await my father's return.

      He might not come for hours yet, as it was still early evening, but I hoped he would, and the more so now on Rosa's account. She might need help which I was not old enough to give; while, as it chanced, Joseph Craig, my father's trusty English servant, had gone that afternoon into Callao. However, he also might be back at any moment now, and would not, in any case, be late.

      Half an hour had perhaps passed, and I was turning from the gate, when two horsemen dashed up at full speed. One was Joseph Craig, or José as the Spaniards called him, and my feeling of uneasiness returned as I noticed that his face, too, wore a strange and startled look.

      José, as I have said, was my father's servant; but we all regarded him more as a friend, and treated him as one of ourselves. He was a well-built man of medium height, with good features and keen gray eyes. He spoke English and Spanish fluently, and could make himself understood in several Indian dialects. He kept the accounts of the estate, and might easily have obtained a more lucrative situation in any counting-house in Callao. He excelled, too, in outdoor sports, and had taught me to fence, to shoot, and to ride straight.

      The second man I did not know. He seemed to be an Indian of the mountains, and was of gigantic stature. His dress was altogether different from that of the Spaniards, and in his cap he wore a plume of feathers. His face was scarred by more than one sword-cut, his brows were lowering, and his massive jaw told of great animal strength.

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