Heart of the World | Page 2

Ignatio announcing his intended visit, and received in
reply a most courteous and well-written letter, begging him to pass the
next Sunday at the /hacienda/, "where any English gentleman would
always be most welcome."
As he approached the /hacienda/, he was astonished to see the /façade/
of an enormous white stone building of a semi-Moorish style of
architecture, having towers and ornamented doorways at either end, and
a large dome rising from the centre of its flat roof. Riding through the
/milpas/, or corn-fields, and groves of cocoa and coffee bushes, all in a
perfect state of cultivation, which covered many acres on every side of
the building, Jones came to the gateway of a large /patio/, or courtyard,
where grew several gigantic /ceiba/ trees, throwing their grateful shade
over the mouth of a well. From under these trees an Indian appeared,
who evidently had been watching for his arrival, and, taking the horse,
informed him, with many salutations, that the Señor Ignatio was at
even-song with his people in the chapel yonder, according to his habit,
but that the prayers would soon be finished.
Leaving his horse in charge of the Indian, Jones went to the chapel, and,
its great doors being open, he entered and sat down. So soon as his eyes
became accustomed to the dim light, he perceived that the place was
unusually beautiful, both in its proportions and its decorations.
The worshippers also were many--perhaps they numbered three
hundred, clearly all of them Indians employed upon the estate; and so
intent were they upon their devotions that his entry was not even
noticed. To his mind, however, the most curious object in the building
was a slab of white marble, let into the wall above the altar, whereon
the following inscription was engraved in Spanish, in letters so large
that he had no difficulty in reading it:
"Dedicated by Ignatio, the Indian, to the memory of his most beloved
friend, James Strickland, an English gentleman, and Maya, Princess of
the Heart, his wife, whom first he met upon this spot. Pray for their
souls, of your charity, O passer-by."

While Jones was wondering who this James Strickland, and Maya,
Princess of the Heart, might be, and whether it was his host who had set
up the tablet to their memory, the priest pronounced his benediction,
and the congregation began to leave the church.
The first to pass its doors was an Indian gentleman, whom Jones rightly
took to be Don Ignatio himself. He was a man of about sixty years, but
one who looked much older than his age, for sorrow, hardship, and
suffering had left their marks upon him. In person he was tall and spare,
nor did a slight lameness detract from the dignity of his bearing. His
dress was very simple and quite innocent of the finery and silver
buttons which have so much attraction for the Mexican mind,
consisting as it did of a sombrero of Panama straw, with a black ribbon
in place of the usual gilt cord, a clean white jacket and shirt, a black tie
fastened in a bow, a pair of drab-coloured trousers, and brown boots of
European make.
Indeed, the only really remarkable thing about Don Ignatio was his face.
Never, thought Jones, had he beheld so beautiful a countenance, or, to
be more accurate, one that gave him such assurance of its owner's
absolute goodness and purity of nature. The features were those of a
high-bred Indian, thin and delicately cut; the nose aquiline, the
cheek-bones and brow prominent, while beneath the latter shone a pair
of large and soft black eyes, so tender and trustful in their expression
that they seemed almost out of place in the face of a man.
He stood by the door of the chapel, in the light of the setting sun,
leaning somewhat heavily on a stick, while the Indians filed past him.
Every one of these, man, woman, and child, saluted him with the
utmost reverence as they went, some of them, especially the children,
kissing his long and finely-shaped hand when they bade him
good-night in terms of affection, such as "father," and called on the
Saints to guard him. Jones, watching them, reflected upon the
difference of their attitude from that of the crouching servility which
centuries of oppression have induced in their race towards any master
of white blood, and wondered to what his host's influence over them
was due. It was at this moment that Don Ignatio turned and saw him.

"A thousand pardons, señor," he said in Spanish, with a shy and
singularly engaging smile as he lifted his sombrero, showing his long
hair, which, like his pointed beard, was almost white. "You must
indeed have thought me rude, but it is my custom at