Heart of the World

by H. Rider Haggard

For many years—twenty perhaps—I became a wanderer. Now as before the Indians loved me, and, as Lord of the Heart and their hereditary cacique, in a sense I still was great, although but the shadow of power dwelt with me: the substance had departed, as it departs ever from those who fail. From time to time I strove to rebuild the plot; but, now that I was friendless and without fortune, few would follow me thus far.

So it came about that at length I abandoned the endeavour, and lived as best I could. I fought in three wars, and gained honours therein, and took my share in many adventures, all of which left me as poor as I had entered on them. At times I remembered my desire to become a priest, but now it was over late to study; also my hands were too much soiled with the affairs of the world.

Wearying of the struggle, I went back to my village in the mountains and dwelt there awhile, but this also wearied me, having nothing to do, and I turned my attention to the management of mines.

It was while I was thus employed, as a middle-aged man, that I made the acquaintance of James Strickland, who was destined to accompany me to the city, Heart of the World.

CHAPTER II.
THE SEÑOR STRICKLAND

Two-and-twenty years ago, I, Ignatio, visited a village in the State of Tamaulipas, named Cumarvo, a beautiful place, half-hidden in pine forests amongst the mountains. I came to this hamlet because a friend of mine, one of the brethren of the Order of the Heart, wrote to me saying that there was an Indian in the neighbourhood who had in his possession an ancient Aztec scroll, which, being in picture-writing, neither he nor anyone else could read.

This scroll had descended to the Indian through many generations, and with it a tradition that it told of a very rich gold mine in the mountains whereof the site was lost, which had been closed to save it from the grip of Cortes, by the order of Guatemoc, my forefather, whom the Spaniards murdered—may their souls be accursed!

Now, I had been taught the secret of the picture-writing by old Antonio, my father’s friend, when first I was initiated into the mysteries of the Heart, though it must die with me, for I believe that at this hour there is no other man living who can read it.

This writing the Indian was willing to give up to me as Lord of the Heart, and accordingly, having nothing better to do, I journeyed to Cumarvo to study it. In this matter, as in many others, I was destined to meet with disappointment, however—at any rate for a while; for, on my arrival at the house of my friend, I heard that the Indian had died of a sudden sickness, and that his son could not discover where the scroll was hidden.

Another thing I heard also, namely, that a white man, an Inglese, the first who ever visited these parts, had come to the village about six months before, and was engaged in working some old silver mines on behalf of a company, a task that he found difficult, for the Mexican owners of land in the neighbourhood, being jealous of him and angry because he paid his men a fair wage, were striving to prevent Indians from labouring in his mine.