The little house seemed
to be the abode of silence.
Ibarra hitched his horse carefully to a post and walking almost on
tiptoe crossed the clean and well-kept garden to the stairway, which
he ascended, and as the door was open, he entered. The first sight that
met his gaze was the old man bent over a book in which he seemed to be
writing. On the walls were collections of insects and plants arranged
among maps and stands filled with books and manuscripts. The old man
was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the presence of the
youth until the latter, not wishing to disturb him, tried to retire.
"Ah, you here?" he asked, gazing at Ibarra with a strange
expression. "Excuse me," answered the youth, "I see that you're very
busy--"
"True, I was writing a little, but it's not urgent, and I want to
rest. Can I do anything for you?"
"A great deal," answered Ibarra, drawing nearer, "but--"
A glance at the book on the table caused him to exclaim in surprise,
"What, are you given to deciphering hieroglyphics?"
"No," replied the old man, as he offered his visitor a chair.
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