May I trouble you to open that cupboard near the foot of the bed, and to give me the pile of writing that you will find in it. A thousand thanks. Here, señor, in these pages, if you care to take the trouble to read them, is set out an account of how I and my English friend came to visit the Golden City, of what we saw and suffered there, and of some other matters which you may think superfluous, but that are not without their bearing upon the tale. I fear that my skill in writing is small, still perhaps it may serve its turn, and if not, it matters nothing, seeing that you seek the spirit, not the letter, and are not sufficient of a Spanish scholar to be too critical.
“Now take the book and put it away, for the very sight of it wearies me, recalling the hours of labor that I have spent on it. Also I wish to talk of something more important. Tell me, friend, do you propose to stop in this country, or to return to England?”
“Return to England! Why, I should starve where there are no mines to manage. No, I am too poor.”
“Then would you return if you were rich?” asked the dying man anxiously.
“I do not know; it depends. But I think that I have been too long away to go to live in England for good.”
“I am glad to hear that, friend. . . .”
An extraordinarily beautiful Indian princess and a white Englishman fall in love but suffer deeply because of their feelings.
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