Availing himself of the leave thus vicariously accorded the Texan picked out one of the largest in the collection, and, biting off about a third, commenced crunching it between his teeth, as though it was a piece of sugar-stick. This to the no small amusement of the Mexican, who, however, delicately refrained from making remark.
Nor was Cris hindered from having a smoke as well as a “chew,”—the mayor-domo soon after appearing with a pipe, a somewhat eccentric affair he had fished out from the back regions of the establishment.
Meanwhile their host had himself lit one of the “Emperors,” and was smoking away like a chimney. A somewhat comical sight at any time, or in any place, is a monk with a cigar in his mouth. But that the Abbot of the Cerro Ajusco was no anchorite they were already aware, and saw nothing in it to surprise them.
Seating himself beside Kearney, with face turned towards the valley, he put the question—
“What do you think of that landscape, Don Florencio?”
“Magnificent! I can’t recall having looked upon lovelier, or one with greater variety of scenic detail. It has all the elements of the sublime and beautiful.”
The young Irishman was back in his college classics with his countryman Burke.
“Make use of this,” said the Abbot, offering a small telescope which he drew out. “’Twill give you a better view of things.”
Taking the glass and adjusting it to his sight, Kearney commenced making survey of the valley, now bringing one portion of it within the field of telescopic vision, then another.
“Can you see the Pedregal?” asked the Abbot. “It’s close in to the mountain’s foot. You’ll recognise it by its sombre grey colour.”