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The governor stood like a man in a dream; the officers gazed alternately at me and the native soldiers, as if doubting the evidence of their senses. "How many of you are followers of the Silver Key, and of Raymon Sorillo?" I asked. "All, all, master!" they cried. "And those outside?" "All, all!" they again shouted. "I can trust you to help me?" "To the death, master!" they cried with one voice.
"No bones broken," said he, after making an examination with as much skill as a surgeon. "We have only to reduce this swelling of the ankle. You can make yourself comfortable for a fortnight, at least. Now you must have some food, and then we'll talk." Now, I have no wish to give you a false impression of Raymon Sorillo.
However, the outline of the story was plain enough, and will take but little telling. My late jailer belonged to the Order of the Silver Key, a powerful Indian society, acting under the leadership of Raymon Sorillo. He had been placed in the fort both as a spy on the garrison and to assist comrades if at any time they endeavoured to capture the stronghold by way of the secret passage.
However, the old woman appeared satisfied, and at a sign from her the stricken man was carried slowly up the path. One native attended to the horse, and the rest returned to their huts, talking excitedly of what had happened. "Is that a messenger from Raymon Sorillo, Quilca?" I asked my host. "Yes," said he, "and he has had a very narrow escape. He has been caught in a sandstorm.
Now this was an awkward question for me to answer. In the first place, the man might or might not be trustworthy; and in the second, the only name I knew was that of the bandit chief. However, I concluded the venture was worth making, and said, "Men call the owner of the key Raymon Sorillo." "Ah!" exclaimed the Indian, with a sigh of satisfaction, "he is a great chief.
He would relate my story to Raymon Sorillo, and I knew that the gigantic chief would carry the news to my mother. I no longer fretted at being shut up in the valley, but passed my time merrily with the boys and younger men of the tribe, learning their patois, riding, and practising shooting with the musket, and with bow and arrow.
Among those who opposed Bolivar's rule in Peru, none was more bitter or reckless than the guerilla chief, Raymon Sorillo. Unfortunately for him, the war had greatly weakened the society of the Silver Key. His bravest men and ablest lieutenants had died fighting, and he was left with only a shadow of his former power. Undaunted by this, he openly defied Bolivar's authority.
"You can trust us, master," he replied, and indeed his talk made it quite clear that the friend of Raymon Sorillo and the holder of the Silver Key might rely on the Indians in Moquegua even against Miller himself.
Lajolle is a very nice girl," and tomorrow they will say: "What a very nice woman Madame Raymon is." She belongs, in a word, to that immense number of girls whom one is glad to have for one's wife, till the moment comes when one discovers that one happens to prefer all other women to that particular woman whom one has married. "Well," you will say to me, "what on earth did you get married for?"
A part of the chain was still there, but it had snapped off, and the key was gone, sunk probably in the dreadful morass. However, turning to one of the fellows, I said, first in Spanish, then in the patois used by Sorillo's men, "We are officers in the Patriot army, and friends of Raymon Sorillo and the Silver Key; who are you?" He shook his head solemnly, and looked at me with a blank stare.
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