And a little later, by the light of glowing torches of bamboo and with the music of guitars, we leave them on the road toward the town.
Chapter XIII.
In the House of Tasio.
On the morning of the following day, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after visiting his estates, went to the house of Tasio, the philosopher, his father’s friend.
Quiet reigned in the old man’s garden. The swallows were flying about the gables of the house, but they were making scarcely a sound. The windows were covered with vines which clung to the old, moss-covered wall and made the house appear all the more solitary and quiet. Ibarra tied his horse to a post and, walking almost on tip-toes, crossed the clean and well-cultivated garden. He went up the stairs and, as the door was open, walked in. An old man leaned over a book in which he seemed to be writing. On the walls of the room were collections of insects and leaves, maps, and some shelves of books and manuscripts.
Tasio was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the arrival of the youth. The latter, not wishing to disturb the philosopher, tried to retire from the place, but the old man, looking up, said: “What? Are you here?” and showed no little surprise in his look.
“Excuse me,” replied Ibarra, “I see that you are very busy.”
“As a matter of fact I was writing a little, but it is not urgent, and I want to rest myself. Can I be useful to you in any way?”
Ibarra drew some papers from his pocket-book and replied: “My father was wont to consult you in many things, and I remember that he never had to do other than congratulate himself when he followed your advice. I have on my hands a small undertaking and I want to be assured of success.”