# Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII THE RESCUE
Throughout this period Sarah, a prey to the bitterest anguish, remained in the solitude of her own room. Nothing could induce her to quit it. Once, half stifled by her emotion, she sought relief by going to the balcony that overhung the garden below.
At that very instant she caught sight of a man wending his way through the groves of magnolias, and recognized her servant Liberta. To all appearance he was stealthily watching someone who did not see him. At one moment he was concealing himself behind a statue, at the next he was crouching on the grass.
Then all at once the girl turned pale. There was Liberta struggling with a tall man who had thrown him to the ​ground, and who was pressing his hand over his mouth so that he could only utter a feeble groan. She was about to cry out, when she saw the two men rise together from the ground, and deliberately make a survey of each other.
"You! you! is it you?" said Liberta.
There had risen to her vision what appeared to be a phantom from another world, and as Liberta now followed the man who had felled him to the earth, she recognized Martin Paz, and was unable to do more than re-echo the words she had heard, " You! you! is it you?"
Gazing at her intently, Martin addressed her with an earnest appeal.
"Does the bride hear the revelry of the bridal feast? Are not the guests speeding to the hall, that they may rejoice in the beauty of her charms? The victim, is she prepared for the sacrifice? Is it with these pale cheeks, and trembling lips, that she is going to surrender herself to the bridegroom?"
She scarcely understood him, but he continued his pathetic address, "Why should the maiden weep? There is peace there; far away from the house of her father; far away from the home where she drops her tears of bitterness; there is peace there."
And drawing himself to his full height, he stood pointing with his finger to the summits of the Cordilleras, as if showing that there was a refuge in the mountains to which she might escape.
The girl felt herself constrained by an irresistible impulse. There were voices close to her very chamber; she heard the sound of approaching footsteps; her father was on his way, perchance the man to whom she was betrothed was coming too. Suddenly Martin Paz extinguished the lamp that hung above her head, and his whistle, just as on that evening on the Plaza-Mayor, resounded shrilly through the gathering shades of night.
The door burst open. Samuel and Andre Certa hurried in. The darkness was all bewildering. The servants hastened to bring some lanterns; but the room was empty.
"Death and fury!" shrieked the half-breed.
"Where is she?" exclaimed the Jew.
"For this," said André, with the coarsest insolence, "I hold you responsible."
​A cold sweat came over the old man, and uttering a cry of anguish, he rushed away, followed by his servants.
All this time Martin Paz had been flying, at fullest speed, along the streets of the town. Summoned by his well-known signal, at about two hundred paces from Samuel's house, there were several Indians ready at his call.
"Away to our mountains!" he cried.
"To the Marquis Don Vegal's!" came from a voice close behind. The Indian turned, and found the marquis standing by his side.
"Will you not trust the maiden to me?" said Don Vegal.
Martin bowed his head in token of assent, and said in a smothered voice: "To the house of Don Vegal!"
Thus yielding her to the marquis, Martin had every confidence that the girl would be in safety, and from a feeling of what was owing to propriety, he resolved that he would not himself pass the night under the marquis's roof.
He made his way in another direction; his head was hot, and a fevered blood was throbbing in his veins; but he had hardly gone a hundred yards, when a party of half a dozen men threw themselves across his path, and in spite of his obstinate resistance, secured his arms, and blindfolded him. He raised a cry of desperation, supposing that he had fallen into the hands of his foes.
It did not take many minutes to convey him to a neigh-boring resort, and on the bandage being removed from his eyes, he saw that he was in a low room of the tavern where his associates had organized their scheme of revolution.
Sambo, who had been present at the rescue of the young girl, was there; Manangani and some others were standing round him. Martin's eyes flashed angrily.
"No pity had my son for me," said Sambo. "Shame that for so long he should permit me to believe that he was dead."
"Is it fair," asked Manangani, "that on the very eve of a revolution, Martin Paz, our chief, should betake himself to the quarters of the enemy."
Not a word fell from the lips of the prisoner in reply to either one or the other.
"Why should it be tolerated," demanded Manangani, "that our interests should be sacrificed to a woman?" and as he spoke he approached nearer to Martin, holding a ​poignard in his hand. Martin Paz did not even glance at him, but still stood perfectly unmoved.
"Let us speak first," said Sambo, "and act afterwards. If my son is disloyal to his brethren, I shall know how to exact a proper vengeance. Let him be on his guard! That Jew's daughter is not concealed so closely as to elude our grasp. He must think betimes. Let him once be condemned to die, and there will not be a stone in the town on which he could rest his head; let him, on the other hand, be the deliverer of his country, and he may crown that head with perpetual glory!"
Although Martin Paz did not break his silence, it was obvious that a mighty struggle was going on within his soul: Sambo had succeeded in stirring the depths of that ardent nature.
For all the projects of insurrection Martin Paz was indispensable. His was an influence over the Indians of the town which none but himself enjoyed; he bent them at his will; he had but to give the word, and they were prepared to follow him to death.
By Sambo's order the bonds were removed from his arms, and he stood at liberty. The old Indian looked at him steadily, and bade him once more listen. "To-morrow," he said, "is the feast of the Amanacäes. While the festival is at its height, our brethren will fall like an avalanche upon the unarmed and unsuspecting men of Lima. Now take your choice. There is the way to the mountains: there is the way to the town. You are free!"
"To the mountains! to the mountains!" shouted Martin; "and death to our foes!"
And the first rays of the rising sun cast a ruddy glow into the council-chamber of the Indian chiefs in the heart of the Cordilleras.
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