my narrative.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

ANOTHER BATTLE--WE ARE CAPTURED BY SPANIARDS.

It must be remembered that the war party whom Pedro and I were now so
unwillingly compelled to accompany, was but an irregular portion of the
Indian army, and that the chief commanding it was in every respect
inferior to Tupac Amaru, and his brave sons Andres and Mariano, or his
brother Diogo. I mention this, because otherwise I might give my reader
a very unjust and incorrect history of the principal men engaged in the
attempt I am describing to regain the long-lost liberties of the
Peruvian nation.

The forces of Tupac Catari had crossed the sandy plain, and ascended the
woody height I have mentioned, when we reached a rocky defile, through
which lay the road we were to pursue. Instead of sending on an advanced
guard to feel the way, as a more experienced general would have done,
the chief rode carelessly on at the head of his followers. Pedro and I
were allowed to keep together, and to converse in Spanish; for I suppose
that Catari thought that we should not dream of attempting to escape
from among his numerous army. He was wrong, however; for the idea of
doing so was never absent from my mind.

"Pedro," said I, "you have been so true and faithful, and have shown so
much regard for me, that I know you would not willingly desert me, and
yet I do not like to lead you into danger unnecessarily; but tell me, do
you think we could manage to get away from these people?"

"O Senor, do not suppose I would hesitate a moment to serve you on
account of the danger," he answered, in a tone of much feeling. "What
have I, without kindred or friends, to live for, that I should be afraid
of risking my life? Yet at present I do not see what chance we have of
escaping; though an opportunity may occur when we least expect it."

"Thanks, Pedro, thanks, my friend," I replied. "I was certain that you
would be ready to aid me; and I hope some day to show my gratitude to
you, little as I am now able to do so. But do not say that you have no
friends. Surely Manco is your friend, and the Indians among whom you
have lived, and the good priest who educated you."

"The good priest is dead. Manco is my friend, and so are the kind
Indians; but I am the child of another race, and though I love the
Indians, my heart yearns for the sympathy and affection of the people
from whom I am sprung. When I was a child I cared not for it; but since
I learned