A heavy fog was clearing from the sea, when from out of the mist rose the black hull and conning tower of the Cochrane. The senior officers of the flagship stood grouped on the starboard rail. The wind changed suddenly to the west, and, as it changed, it rolled up patches of the fog and revealed the black hull and conning tower of the Enlado. A heavy cloud of smoke poured from their funnels; decks cleared for action when they should put into practice the desperate objects of their existence.

A boat was lowered from the flagship and rowed to the wharf of Mollendo by sturdy Chileans, while an officer bore a message to the Prefecto for all noncombatants to leave the city, as bombardment would begin in an hour.

As the boat was leaving, it was fired upon. Then the ear-splitting reports which followed showed how the flagship took this breach of the rules of war. There was the rushing swishing sound, the terrifying screech of projectiles passing through the air, followed by terrific explosions and the crash of falling buildings.

In the city, pandemonium reigned. Men and women with blanched faces, were fleeing to the hills. Others threw themselves upon the ground, too terror-stricken to move. I heard a voice at my elbow calling in English. It was the voice of a woman, young and fair. “This way,” said I, and we hurried toward the massive rock from whose summit I had watched the battle of the Huascar and Amythist two years before.

“We are safe now,” I said, as we stood behind the thousands of tons of granite, “safe as if we were behind the rock of Gibraltar.”

“Oh, mother, sister and Mr. Robinson––heaven help them at this hour!” she exclaimed. 152 A shell struck a stone building and exploded by impact; fragments screamed like a panther in the air.

The young woman’s face was blanched to a death-like pallor, but she was calm, and, kneeling by my side, she asked God to help us. Aloud she prayed, a beautiful, impressive prayer, one that must have gone straight to the throne of heaven and received its answer, for soon the wind shifted and those belching volcanoes of the sea were curtained by the fog; the firing ceased.

We hurried to her home amid scenes of desolation and confusion. Her family was safe and, to my surprise, the Mr. Robinson she had spoken of was an employe of our railway, who had but lately arrived from the United States and to whom I had been introduced a few days before.

The bombardment was now over, but the human wolves began to sack the city. Fire was raging in some quarters and burned far into the night. It lit the streets with a lurid glare; its red light fell upon motionless 153 figures in the dust, and scurrying forms, bent beneath their weight of plunder.

Mr. Robinson was anxious to send his family to Arequipa, and I lent them all possible assistance, receiving their heartfelt thanks. They were in a strange land, not even knowing the language of the country. Hattie, the young woman I had met, was the sister-in-law of Mr. Robinson. Mrs. Robinson and her mother, an aged woman, were disappointed with Peru and were glad to get away from the theatre of war.

I met the Indian soldiers the next day, and the officer commanding was very indignant at his superior for not allowing him to go to the rocks at Mollendo and pick off the gunners from the battle ships, with flint lock rifles.

I was a frequent visitor at the home of the Robinson family in Arequipa, with whom I had now become well acquainted. It was strange to my ears to hear them all talk English, for seldom had I heard my own language spoken by women. The old 154 lady was one of those quiet, sweet, motherly women. Once introduced to her, it seemed one had always known her. The whole family was the happiest and most cheerful I had ever met. Hattie Judson became school teacher to the English and American children in Arequipa, and her gentle ways soon won the hearts of all. I enjoyed taking her to the theatre and other places of amusement, because of her bright conversation and high ideals. From her I began to catch a glimpse of the nobler things of life, things that to me, being but poorly educated and in a foreign land, had been denied. She was a sweet singer and an excellent performer on the piano, and somehow when she sang I was able to understand the soul-reaching depths of the melody.

There was company at the house one night, when I heard her sing for the first time “Coming Thro’ the Rye.” My soul floated back to Bonnie Scotland, as when a boy I saw the waving fields of grain, the cows in the barnyard, and the lassies coming 155 down the path from school; my mother with the willow basket, bringing in the clothes from the line, and father smoking his pipe by the well––scenes that nevermore would return.

In our walks in the shaded dells of the mountains, she often told me of the United States, the habits and customs of the people––how ambitions and aspirations were rewarded when accompanied by virtue and industry. Of the history of Peru she knew far more than I. It was interesting to hear from her lips the strange stories of the conquering Pizzaro hosts, whose mailed heels had once trod the ground we walked, and clanked the knell of a fallen empire.

My school had been the school of adversity. I had grown up with men who knew or cared little for the finer sensibilities. I felt that her standards of life were superior to mine. Her loyalty to God and holy charity toward the humblest soul, bent my spirit to profound respect. She was one who could see all there was of good in mankind and could measure the product of 156 one’s powers and give them impulse and direction. In my soul I bowed to the fair graces of her character. Each day we met I found in her some new wealth of noble thoughts that created higher ideals in my own untutored mind.

As time went on, fiercer rose the maddening cries of war. I felt the hot blood surge in my veins and I longed to be at the front, amid the roar of cannon and the clash of arms.

We were walking in a grove beneath the swift glimmer of the tropical twilight, when I told her that I felt it my duty to fight for the land that had been the home of my youth for so many years, and showed her a letter in which I was offered an officer’s commission on the Huascar. She laid her hand on my arm and said, “There are nobler things in life than the shedding of the blood of fellow men. The youth of the world goes out to fight for the empty glory of another’s crown. It is not on the field of carnage that greatest honors are won, but in the nobler, more peaceful pursuits of 157 life, doing good and becoming leaders of men and preventing war, that one wins the royal diadem of him who said, ‘peace on earth, good will to men.’”

As she spoke in earnest eloquence, I could have knelt and worshipped her. Her delicate cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were filled with tears.

No words of love had yet been spoken, but the Barbarian knew and felt that he had met his Ingomar.