Heart of the World | Page 3

the end of the
week's work to attend worship with the peons--do not press round the
noble /Inglese/, my children--also I did not think that you would arrive
before the sun was down."
"Pray don't apologise, señor," answered Jones; "I have been much
interested in watching all your servants at their devotions. What a
beautiful chapel this is! May I look at it before you shut the doors?"
"Certainly, señor. Like the rest of the house, it is fine. The old monks
who designed it two hundred years ago--for this was a great
monastery--knew how to build, and labour was forced in those days
and cost nothing. Of course I have repaired it a great deal, for those
who lived here before me did not trouble about such things.
"You would scarcely think, señor, that in the old days, twenty years ago,
this place was a nest of highway robbers, smugglers, and man-slayers,
and that these people whom you see to-night, or their fathers, were
slaves with no more rights than a dog.
"But so it was. Many a traveller has lost his life in this house or its
neighbourhood. I, myself, was nearly murdered here once. Look at the
carving of that altar-piece. It is fine, is it not? Those /sapote/ wood
columns date from the time of the old monks. Well, I have known Don
Pedro Moreno, my predecessor, tie human beings to them in order to
brand them with red-hot irons."
"To whom does that inscription refer?" asked Jones, pointing to the
marble slab which has been described.
Don Ignatio's face grew very sad as he answered:
"It refers, señor, to the greatest friend I ever had, the man who saved
my life at the risk of his own when I came by this limp, and one who
was dear to me with a love passing the love of woman. But there was a

woman who loved him also, an Indian woman too, and he cared for her
more than he did for me, as was right, for has not God decreed that a
man should leave his friends, yes, his father and mother even, and
cleave unto his wife?"
"He married her then?" said Jones, who was growing interested.
"Oh, yes; he married her, and in a strange place and fashion. But it is an
old story, señor, and with your permission I will not tell it; even to
think of it revives too many painful memories, memories of death and
loss, and disappointed ambition, and high hopes unfulfilled. Perhaps,
one day, if I have the courage and live long enough, I will write it all
down. Indeed, some years ago I made a beginning, and what I wrote
seemed foolishness, so I gave up the task.
"I have lived a rough life, señor, and met with many adventures in it,
though, thanks be to God, my last years have been spent in peace. Well,
well, it is coming to an end now, and were it not for the thought that my
people here may fall into evil hands when I am gone, that would not
trouble me.
"But come, señor, you are hungry, and the good father, who has
promised to eat with us, must ride to-night to celebrate a mass
to-morrow at a village three leagues away, so I have ordered supper
early. The porter with your bag arrived safely; it has been placed in
your chamber, the Abbot's room it is called, and if you will follow me I
will show you a short path to it from the chapel."
Then he led the way to a little door in the wall. Unlocking this door,
they passed up some narrow stairs, at the head of which was a
landing-place with a window, or rather /grille/, so arranged that, while
it was invisible from below, an observer standing there could hear and
see all that passed in the chapel.
"This was the place," said Don Ignatio, "whence the old abbots kept
secret watch upon the monks, and it was here that once I saw a sight
which I am not likely to forget."

Then he passed on through several long and intricate passages, till he
came to a sitting-room filled with handsome old Spanish furniture.
"Your sleeping-place lies beyond, señor," he said, opening another door
that led into a large and dreary-looking chamber, lighted by
heavily-barred windows, of which the sills were not less than ten feet
from the ground.
On the walls were frescoes of the Last Judgment, and of scenes inspired
by the bloody drama of the Inquisition, grim to look on and somewhat
injured by damp, but executed with great power and vivid, if distorted,
imagination. Below the centre window, and reaching to within three
feet of the floor, was an ancient full-length