Chapter Forty Four. The Abbot
“Amigo,” said their host, as he rejoined them, speaking to Kearney, who could alone understand him, “permit me to offer you a cigar – your comrade also – with my apologies for having forgotten that you smoked. Here are both Havannahs and Manillas, several brands of each. So choose for yourself.”
The mayor-domo, who attended him, carrying a huge mahogany case, had already placed it upon one of the rustic benches, and laid open the lid.
“Thanks, holy father,” responded Kearney, with a peculiar smile. “If you have no objection, I’ll stick to the Imperadoes. After smoking one of them a man need have no difficulty as to choice.”
At which he took an “Emperor” out of the case.
“I’m glad you like them,” observed the generous donor, helping him to a light. “They ought to be of good quality, considering what they cost, and where they come from. But, Don Florencio, don’t let the question of expense hinder you smoking as many as you please. My outlay on them was nil– they were a contribution to the monastery, though not exactly a charitable one.”
He said this with a sort of inward laugh, as though some strange history attached to the Imperadoes.
“A forced contribution, then,” thought the Irishman, the remark having made a strange, and by no means pleasant impression upon him.
The Texan had not yet touched the cigars, and when with a gesture the invitation was extended to him, he hung back, muttering to Kearney —
“Tell him, Cap, I’d purfar a pipe ef he ked accomerdate me wi’ thet ’ere article.”
“What says the Señor Cristoforo?” asked the Abbot.
“He’d prefer smoking a pipe, if you don’t object, and there be such a thing convenient.”
“Oh! un pipa. I shall see. Gregorio!”
He called after the mayor-domo, who was returning toward the house.
“Never mind, reverend Father,” protested Kearney; “content yourself with a cigar, Cris, and don’t give trouble.”
“I’m sorry I spoke o’ it,” said the Texan. “I oughter be only too gled to git a seegar, an’ it may be he wudn’t mind my chawin’, stead o’ smokin’ it! My stammuck feels starved for a bit o’ bacca. What wouldn’t I gie jest now for a plug o’ Jeemes’s River!”
“There, take one of the cigars and eat it if you like; I’m sure he’ll have no objection.”
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.”
“Certainly I see it,” answered the other, after depressing the telescope. “And the thicket we came through on its further side – quite distinctly.”
“Look to the right of that, then you’ll observe a large house, standing in the middle of the maguey fields. Have you caught it?”
“Yes; why do you ask?”
“Because that house has an interest for me – a very special one. Whom do you suppose it belongs to; or I should rather say did, and ought to belong to?”
“How should I know, holy father?” asked Kearney, thinking it somewhat strange his being so interrogated. “True,” responded the Abbot; “how could you, my son? But I’ll tell you. That magueyal is mine by right, though by wrong ’tis now the property of our late host, the Governor of the Acordada. His reward at the last confiscation for basely betraying his country and our cause.”
“What cause?” inquired the young Irishman, laying aside the glass, and showing more interest in what he heard than that he had been looking at. Country and cause! These were not the words likely to be on the lips of either monk or highwayman.
And that the man who had spoken to him was neither one nor other he had fuller proof in what was now further said.
“A cause, Señor Irlandes, for which I, Ruperto Rivas, am ready to lay down life, if the sacrifice be called for, and so most – I may say all – of those you’ve just met at almuerzo. You heard it proclaimed in the toast, ‘Patria y Libertad!’”
“Yes. And a grand noble sentiment it is. One I was gratified to hear.”
“And surprised as well. Is not that so, amigo?”
“Well, to be frank with you, holy father, I confess to something of the sort.”
“Not strange you should, my son. No doubt you’re greatly perplexed at what you’ve seen and heard since you came up here, with much before. But the time has come to relieve you; so light another cigar and listen.”