XXI.
With the Philosopher.
The next morning, Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio’s.
Complete quiet reigned in the old man’s garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.
Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.
“What! you were there?” he cried, looking at Crisóstomo with a certain astonishment.
“Don’t disturb yourself; I see you are busy——”
“I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?”
“Of great service,” said Ibarra, approaching; “but—you are deciphering hieroglyphics!” he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man’s work.
“No, I’m writing in hieroglyphics.”