The archbishop had received him cordially, and had given him a parish, although less than a day had passed since his arrival.

When the padre knew of our disappointment, he hastened to his prelate, told him that an eminent American archaeologist, with a party of four, wished to visit Mitla, but had no interpreter; might he not accompany these worthy gentlemen, in some way serving mother church by doing so?
So strong was his appeal, that he was deputed to say mass at Mitla Sunday, starting for his new parish of Chila on the Monday following.
In the heavy, lumbering coach we left next morning, Saturday, for Mitla.
The road, usually deep with dust, was in fair condition on account of recent rains.

We arrived in the early afternoon and at once betook ourselves to the ruins.

At the curacy, we presented the archbishop's letter to the indian cura, who turned it over once or twice, then asked the padre to read it, as his eyes were bad.

While the reading proceeded, the old man listened with wonder, and then exclaimed, "What a learned man you are to read like that!" As we left, the padre expressed his feelings at the comeliness of the old priest's indian housekeeper, at the number of her children, at the suspicious wideness of his bed, and at his ignorance, in wearing a ring, for all the world just like a bishop's.