“Tell me,” he added, “to what do I owe the honour of your presence?”
“To an accident, Don Pedro,” the señor answered. “As it chances, the ruins of this ancient land interest me much, and I was travelling to Palenque with my Indian friend, Don Ignatio, when we were so unfortunate as to be wrecked near your hospitable house. In our dilemma we accepted the invitation of your son to visit you, in the hope that you may be able to sell us some guns and mules.”
“Ruins, Señor Strickland! Decidedly you Englishmen are strange. What pleasure can you find in hunting about among old walls, built by men long dead, unless indeed you seek for treasure there. For my part I hate the name of ruins, for I have always suffered from a presentiment that I should meet my end among them, and that is bad to think of. Bah!”—and he spat upon the floor—“there, it comes upon me again, suddenly as a fit of the ague.”
“Well,” he went on, “you are lucky to have saved your lives and your money, and to-morrow we will see about the things that you desire to buy. Meanwhile, you are travel-stained and doubtless will wish to cleanse yourselves before you eat. José, conduct the señor and his Indian friend, since he is so fond of his company, to their room, the abbot’s chamber. Supper will be served shortly, till then, adios. Girl, go with them,” he added, addressing the woman who had been engaged in swinging the hammock, “water may be wanted and other things.”
The woman bowed and went away, and at the door we found her standing, lamp in hand, to light us down the passage.
Now, Señor Jones, you, for whom I write my history, have so often slept in the abbot’s chamber in this house that it is needless for me to stop to describe it. Except for the furniture, the room is just as it was in those days. Then it was empty save for a few chairs, a rough washing-stand, and two truckle bedsteads of American make, which were placed at a little distance from each other on either side of the picture of the abbot.
“I fear that you will think this a poor place, after the luxury of Mexico, gentlemen,” said Don José, “but it is our guest-chamber, the best that we have.”
“Thank you,” answered the señor, “it will do very well, though perhaps your visitors suffer sometimes from nightmare,” and he glanced at the awful and life-sized picture on the south wall of an Indian being burnt at an auto-da-fé, while devils hanging above his head dragged the soul from his tortured and expiring body.
“Pretty, are they not?” said Don José; “I would have them whitewashed over, but my father likes them. You see all the victims are Indians, there isn’t a white man among them, and the old man never could bear Indians. Well, when you are ready, will you come to supper? You will not lose the way, for you can follow the smell of the food,” and he left the room.
“One moment,” I said addressing the girl, who was about to accompany him, “perhaps you will see that our servant,” and I pointed to Molas, “has some meat brought to him here, since your masters will not wish him to sit at table.”