"The country will bless your memory, senor, if you carry out the splendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles I meet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The children read, write, learn by heart passages, sometimes whole books, in Castilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is such a school to the children of our peasants!"

"You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?"

"I have none," said the young man; "one cannot struggle alone against so many needs and against certain influences. I tried to remedy the evil of which I just spoke; I tried to carry out the order of the Government, and began to teach the children Spanish. The beginning was excellent, but one day Brother Damaso sent for me. I went up immediately, and I said good-day to him in Castilian. Without replying, he burst into laughter. At length he said, with a sidelong glance: 'What buenos dias! buenos dias! It's very pretty. You know Spanish?' and he began to laugh again."

Ibarra could not repress a smile.

"You laugh," said the teacher, "and I, too, now; but I assure you I had no desire to then. I started to reply, I don't know what, but Brother Damaso interrupted:

"'Don't wear clothes that are not your own,' he said in Tagal; 'be content to speak your own language. Do you know about Ciruela? Well, Ciruela was a master who could neither read nor write, yet he kept school.' And he left the room, slamming the door behind him. What was I to do? What could I, against him, the highest authority of the pueblo, moral, political, and civil; backed by his order, feared by the Government, rich, powerful, always obeyed and believed. To withstand him was to lose my place, and break off my career without hope of another. Every one would have sided with the priest. I should have been called proud, insolent, no Christian, perhaps even anti-Spanish and filibustero. Heaven forgive me if I denied my conscience and my reason, but I was born here, must live here, I have a mother, and I abandoned myself to my fate, as a cadaver to the wave that rolls it."

"And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?"

"I was rash enough to try two more experiments, one after our change of curates; but both proved offensive to the same authority. Since then I have done my best to convert the poor babies into parrots."

"Well, I have cheerful news for you," said Ibarra. "I am soon to present to the Government a project that will help you out of your difficulties, if it is approved."

The school-teacher shook his head.

"You will see, Senor Ibarra, that your projects—I've heard something of them—will no more be realized than were mine!"



XVIII.

THE STORY OF A MOTHER.

Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experienced one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner, we fly toward it without stopping to question.

Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?

As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.

The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.

She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed now by a band of garzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One of the guards beckoned her.

Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her throat parch.

"Speak the truth, or we'll tie you to this tree and shoot you," said one of the guards.

Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.

"You are the mother of the thieves?"

"The mother of the thieves?" repeated Sisa, without comprehending.

"Where is the money your sons brought home last night?"

"Ah! the money——"

"Give us the money, and we'll let you alone."

"Senores," said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again, "my boys do not steal, even when they're hungry; we are used to suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a real, do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves."

"Well then," said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa's, "follow us!"

"I—follow you?" And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms of the guards. "Oh, have pity on me! I'm very poor, I've nothing to give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my miserable cabin, but let me—let me—die here in peace!"

"March! do you hear? and if you don't go without making trouble, we'll tie your hands."

"Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least," she cried, as they laid hold of her.

The soldiers spoke together apart.

"Very well," said one, "when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on now, and quick!"

Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face, in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable; every one, even her husband, had abandoned her; but until now she had always felt herself respected.

As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked on all sides, seeking some succor in nature—death in the river would be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light in the darkness of her soul.

"Afterward," she said to herself,—"afterward, we will go to live in the heart of the forest."

She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:

"We are at the pueblo," she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.

The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.

A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened, in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two women she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her eyes on the ground.

At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes, and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:

"Where did you find her? Did you get the money?"

Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way under her feet.

"This way!" cried a guard.

Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. A gate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still more imperious checked her. While she sought to find whence the voice came, she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes, took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.

It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, and chickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothes or clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.

"Where is the sergeant?" demanded one of the guards angrily. "Has the alferez been informed?"

A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would take any trouble for the poor woman.

Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner, her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alferez arrived. He refused to believe the curate's accusations.

"Bah! monks' tricks!" said he; and ordered that the woman be released and the affair dropped.

"If he wants to find what he's lost," he added, "let him complain to the nuncio! That's all I have to say."

Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of the barracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fast as she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyes fixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not a cloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves of the trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.

At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin, ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ran to old Tasio's, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poor thing went back and commenced to call, "Basilio! Crispin!" standing still, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweet murmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred by the breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude. She called anew, mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took a sinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them, then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have said the light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.

She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the night before—she and Basilio—and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboo fence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio's blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent over and continued to look at this rag from her child's clothing, raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.

At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the human larynx would hardly know how to produce.

The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her sleep, and an angel's wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the beings of great Nature.



Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisostomo presented himself at the home of his fiancee; the curate arrived at the same moment. The house was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.

"The winds blow fresh," said the curate; "aren't you afraid of taking cold?"

"I don't feel the wind, father," said Maria.

"We Filipinos," said Crisostomo, "find this season of autumn and spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between, is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go."

The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the festival of its patron saint, which was near.

"Speaking of fetes," said Crisostomo to the curate, "we hope you will join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to start for the fishing-ground before sunrise," he went on to the curate, "and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo."

The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final arrangements.

As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.

"Who are you?" asked Crisostomo.

"You would not know my name, senor; I have been trying to see you for three days."

"And what do you want?"

"Senor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will help me find them. I want your aid."

"Come with me," said Ibarra.

The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness of the unlighted streets.



XIX.

THE FISHING PARTY.

The stars were yet brilliant in the sapphire vault, and in the branches the birds were still asleep when a merry party went through the streets of the pueblo, toward the lake, lighted by the glimmer of the pitch torches here called huepes.

There were five young girls, walking rapidly, holding each other by the hand or waist, followed by several elderly ladies, and servants bearing gracefully on their heads baskets of provisions. To see these girls' faces, laughing with youth, to judge by their abundant black hair flying free in the wind, and the ample folds of their garments, we might take them for divinities of the night fleeing at the approach of day; but they were Maria Clara and her four friends, the merry Sinang, her cousin, the calm Victoria, beautiful Iday, and pensive Neneng. They talked with animation, pinched each other, whispered in each other's ears, and pealed out merry rounds of laughter.

After a while there came to meet the party a group of young men, carrying torches of reeds. They were walking, silent, to the sound of a guitar.

When the two groups met, the girls became serious and grave. The men, on the contrary, talked, laughed, and asked six questions to get half a reply.

"Is the lake smooth? Do you think we shall have a fine day?" demanded the mamas.

"Don't be disturbed, senoras, I'm a splendid swimmer," said a tall, slim fellow, a merry-looking rascal with an air of mock gravity.

But they were already at the borders of the lake, and cries of delight escaped the lips of the women. They saw two great barks, bound together, picturesquely decked with garlands of flowers and various-colored festoons of fluffy drapery. Little paper lanterns hung alternating with roses, pinks, pineapples, bananas, and guavas. Rudders and oars were decorated too, and there were mats, rugs, and cushions to make comfortable seats for the ladies. In the boat, most beautifully trimmed, were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a carabao's horn; in the other burned a ship's fire; and tea, coffee and salabat—a tea of ginger sweetened with honey—were making for the first breakfast.

"The women here, the men there," said the mamas, embarking; "move carefully, don't stir the boat or we shall capsize!"

"And we're to be in here all alone?" pouted Sinang.

Slowly the boats left the beach, reflecting in the mirror of the lake the many lights of their lanterns. In the east were the first streaks of dawn.

Comparative silence reigned. The separation established by the ladies seemed to have dedicated youth to meditation. The water was perfectly tranquil, the fishing-grounds were near; it was soon decided to abandon the oars, and breakfast. Day had come, and the lanterns were put out.

It was a beautiful morning. The light falling from the sky and reflected from the water made radiant the surface of the lake, and bathed everything in an atmosphere of clearness saturated with color, such as some marines suggest. Everybody, even the mamas, laughed and grew merry. "Do you remember, when we were girls—" they began to each other; and Maria and her young companions exchanged smiling glances.

One man alone remained a stranger to this gayety—it was the helmsman. Young, of athletic build, his melancholy eyes and the severe lines of his lips gave an interest to his face, and this was heightened by his long black hair falling naturally about his muscular neck. His wrists of steel managed like a feather the large and heavy oar which served as rudder to guide the two barks.

Maria Clara had several times met his eyes, but he quickly turned them away to the shores or the mountains. Pitying his solitude, she offered him some cakes. With a certain surprise he took one, refusing the others, and thanked her in a voice scarcely audible. No one else seemed to think of him.

The early breakfast done, the party moved off toward the fishing enclosures. There were two, a little distance apart, both the property of Captain Tiago. In advance, a flock of white herons could be seen, some moving among the reeds, some flying here and there, skimming the water with their wings, and filling the air with their strident cries. Maria Clara followed them with her eyes, as, at the approach of the two barks, they flew away from the shore.

"Do these birds have their nests in the mountains?" she asked the helmsman, less perhaps from the wish to know than to make the silent fellow talk.

"Probably, senora," he replied, "but no one has ever yet seen them."

"They have no nests, then?"

"I suppose they must have; if not, they are unhappy indeed."

Maria Clara did not catch the note of sadness in his voice.

"Well?"

"They say, senora, that the nests of these birds are invisible, and have the power to render invisible whoever holds them; that as the soul can be seen only in the mirror of the eyes, so these nests can be seen only in the mirror of the water."

Maria Clara became pensive. But they had come to the first baklad, as the enclosures are called. The old sailor in charge attached the boats to the reeds, while his son prepared to mount with lines and nets.

"Wait a moment," cried Aunt Isabel, "the fish must come directly out of the water into the pan."

"What, good Aunt Isabel!" said Albino reproachfully, "won't you give the poor things a moment in the air?"

Andeng, Maria's foster-sister, was a famous cook. She began to prepare rice water, the tomatoes, and the camias; the young men, perhaps to win her good graces, aided her, while the other girls arranged the melons, and cut paayap into cigarette-like strips.

To while away the time Iday took up the harp, the instrument most often played in this part of the islands. She played well, and was much applauded. Maria thanked her with a kiss.

"Sing, Victoria, sing the 'Marriage Song,'" demanded the ladies. This is a beautiful Tagal elegy of married life, but sad, painting its miseries rather than its joys. The men clamored for it too, and Victoria had a lovely voice; but she was hoarse. So Maria Clara was begged to sing.

"All my songs are sad," she said.

"Never mind," said her companions, and without more urging she took the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.

The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they seemed listening still. The young girls felt their eyes fill with tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing far away.

Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his lungs the carabao's horn. There needed nothing more to bring back laughter, and dry tears.

"Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?" cried Aunt Isabel.

"Senora," he replied, "I've heard of a poor trumpeter who, from simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and noble lady."

"So he did—the Trumpeter of Saeckingen!" laughed Ibarra.

"Well," said Albino, "we shall see if I am as happy!" and he began to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas attacked him hand and foot.

"Ouch! ouch!" he cried, rubbing his hurts; "the Philippines are far from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted, another put in the san-benito!"

At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.

The fisherman's son now climbed the weir or "purse" of the enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or with a line.

All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.

The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.

"You don't understand your business," said Albino, climbing up by the young man; and he took the net. "Look now! Ready, Andeng!"

But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.

"Don't make a noise, you'll drive away the fish. The net must be broken." But every mesh was intact.

"Let me try," said Leon, the fiancee of Iday. "Are you sure no one has been here for five days?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something."

He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water and murmured:

"A crocodile!"

"A crocodile!"

The word passed from mouth to mouth amid general stupefaction.

"What's to be done?"

"Capture him!"

But nobody offered to go down. The water was deep.

"We ought to drag him in triumph at our stern," said Sinang; "he has eaten our fish!"

"I've never seen a crocodile alive," mused Maria Clara.

The helmsman got up, took a rope, lithely climbed the little platform, and in spite of warning cries dived into the weir. The water, troubled an instant, became smooth; the abyss closed mysteriously.

"Heaven!" cried the women, "we are going to have a catastrophe!"

The water was agitated: a combat seemed to be going on below. Above, there was absolute silence. Ibarra held his blade in a convulsive grasp. Then the struggle seemed to end, and the young man's head appeared. He was saluted with joyous cries. He climbed the platform, holding in one hand an end of the rope. Then he pulled with all his strength, and the monster came in view. The rope was round its neck and the fore part of its body; it was large, and on its back could be seen green moss—to a crocodile what white hair is to man. It bellowed like an ox, beat the reeds with its tail, crouched, and opened its jaws, black and terrifying, showing its long and saw-like teeth. No one thought of aiding the helmsman. When he had drawn the reptile out of the water he put his foot on it, closed with his robust hand the redoubtable jaws, and tried to tie the muzzle. The creature made a last effort, arched its body, beat about with its powerful tail, and escaping, plunged outside the enclosure into the lake, dragging its vanquisher after it. The helmsman was a dead man. A cry of horror escaped from every mouth.

Like a flash, another body disappeared in the water. There scarce was time to see it was Ibarra's. If Maria Clara did not faint, it was that the natives of the Philippines do not yet know how.

The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile's body. Its white belly was lacerated, Ibarra's knife was in the gorge.

Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm.

"I owe you my life," said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in mantles and rugs.

"You are too intrepid," said Ibarra. "Another time do not tempt God."

"If you had not come back!" murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling.

The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad; to their minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other misfortunes; it were better to go home.

"But what misfortune have we had?" said Ibarra. "The crocodile alone has the right to complain."

At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course toward the second baklad.



XX.

IN THE WOODS.

There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile's mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.

The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voices were added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.

"We shall see if I find a nest!" said a sweet and resonant voice. "I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere."

"I don't believe in heron's nests," said another voice; "but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible."

It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies, they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.

A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath, well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls' voices. Farther on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate, the alferez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio, father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not yet ended.

"We dispute a point at law," Crisostomo had said in inviting him, "but to dispute is not to be enemies," and the famous orator had accepted the invitation.

Bottles of lemonade were opened and green cocoanut shells were broken, so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water; the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume their unbound hair.

The lunch hour came. The curate, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo, some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.

"Have you learned anything, senor alferez, about the criminal who attacked Brother Damaso?" said Brother Salvi.

"Of what criminal are you speaking?" asked the alferez, looking at the father over his glass of wine.

"What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Damaso on the highway day before yesterday."

"Father Damaso has been attacked?" asked several voices.

"Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, senor alferez."

The alferez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his glass of wine.

"But I supposed you were informed," the curate went on; "I said to myself that the alferez of the Municipal Guard——"

The officer bit his lip.

At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared, like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.

"Give the poor woman something to eat," said the ladies.

She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned, recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.

"Give the woman something to eat," ordered Ibarra.

"The night is dark and the children are gone," murmured the poor woman. But at sight of the alferez she became frightened and ran, disappearing among the trees.

"Who is it?" demanded several voices.

"Isn't her name Sisa?" asked Ibarra with interest.

"Your soldiers arrested her," said the lieutenant to the alferez, with some bitterness; "they brought her all the way across the pueblo for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up."

"What!" demanded the alferez, turning to the curate. "It is perhaps the mother of your sacristans?"

The curate nodded assent.

"They have disappeared, and there hasn't been the slightest effort to find them," said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo, who lowered his eyes.

"Bring back the woman," Crisostomo ordered his servants.

"They have disappeared, did you say?" demanded the alferez. "Your sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?"

The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.

"Ho, ho! father," cried the alferez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at the prospect of revenge. "Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear, your reverence says nothing; and you also, senor gobernadorcillo, you also——"

He did not finish, but broke off laughing, and buried his spoon in the red flesh of a papaw.

The curate began with some confusion:

"I was responsible for the money."

"Excellent reply, reverend pastor of souls!" interrupted the alferez, his mouth full. "Excellent reply, holy man!"

Ibarra was on the point of interfering, but the priest recovered himself.

"Do you know, senor alferez," he asked, "what is said about the disappearance of these children? No? Then ask your soldiers."

"What!" cried the alferez, thus challenged, abandoning his mocking tone.

"They say that on the night when they disappeared shots were heard in the pueblo."

"Shots?" repeated the alferez, looking at the faces around him. There were several signs of assent.

Brother Salvi went on with a sarcastic smile:

"Come! I see that you do not know how to arrest criminals, that you are unaware of what your soldiers do, but that you are ready to turn yourself into a preacher and teach others their duty."

"Senores," interrupted Ibarra, seeing the alferez grow pale, "I wish to know what you think of a project I've formed. I should like to give the mother into the care of a good physician. I've promised the father to try to find his children."

The return of the servants without Sisa gave a new turn to the conversation. The luncheon was finished. While the tea and coffee were being served the guests separated into groups, the elders to play cards or chess, while the girls, curious to learn their destiny, posed questions to the "Wheel of Fortune."

"Come, Senor Ibarra!" cried Captain Basilio, a little gayer than usual; "we've had a case in court for fifteen years and no judge is able to solve it; let's see if we cannot end it at chess."

"In a moment, with great pleasure," said Ibarra; "the alferez is leaving us."

As soon as the officer had gone the men grouped around the two players. It was to be an interesting game. The elder ladies meanwhile had surrounded the curate, to talk with him of the things of religion; but Brother Salvi seemed to judge the time unfitting and made but vague replies, his rather irritated glance being directed almost everywhere except toward his questioners.

The chess players began with much solemnity.

"If the game is a tie, the affair is forgotten!" said Ibarra.

In the midst of the play he received a despatch. His eyes shone and he became pale, but he put the message in his pocket without opening it.

"Check!" he cried. Captain Basilio had no recourse but to hide his king behind the queen.

"Check!" said Ibarra, threatening with his castle.

Captain Basilio asked a moment to reflect.

"Willingly," said Ibarra; "I, too, should like a moment," and excusing himself he went toward the group round the "Wheel of Fortune."

Iday had the disc on which were the forty-eight questions, Albino the book of replies.

"Ask something," they all cried to Ibarra, as he came up. "The one who has the best answer is to receive a present from the others."

"And who has had the best so far?"

"Maria Clara!" cried Sinang. "We made her ask whether her lover is constant and true, and the book said——"

But Maria, all blushes, put her hand over Sinang's mouth.

"Give me the 'Wheel' then," said Crisostomo, smiling. And he asked:

"Shall I succeed in my present undertaking?"

"What a stupid question!" pouted Sinang.

The corresponding answer was found in the book. "'Dreams are dreams,'" read Albino.

Ibarra brought out his telegram and opened it, trembling.

"This time your wheel lies!" he cried. "Read!"

"'Project for school approved.' What does that mean?" they asked.

"This is my present," said he, giving the despatch to Maria Clara. "I'm to build a school in the pueblo; the school is my offering." And the young fellow ran back to his game of chess.

After making this present to his fiancee, Ibarra was so happy that he played without reflection, and, thanks to his many false moves, the captain re-established himself, and the game was a draw. The two men shook hands with effusion.

While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed, broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.

"Whoever stirs is a dead man!" cried the sergeant.

In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what he wanted.

"We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning," replied the officer, still threatening.

"A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken."

"No, senor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against a priest. You admit questionable people to your fetes."

Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great coldness.

"I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is welcome at my fetes." And he turned away.

The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to search on all sides. They had the helmsman's description on paper.

"Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenths of the natives," said Don Filipo; "see that you make no mistakes!"

Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.

"So this is the Elias who threw the alferez into the swamp," said Leon.

"He's a tulisane then?" asked Victoria, trembling.

"I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes."

"He hasn't the face of a criminal," said Sinang.

"No; but his face is very sad," said Maria. "I did not see him smile all the morning."

The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra's ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: "Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!"



XXI.

WITH THE PHILOSOPHER.

The next morning, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio's.

Complete quiet reigned in the old man's garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.

Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.

"What! you were there?" he cried, looking at Crisostomo with a certain astonishment.

"Don't disturb yourself; I see you are busy——"

"I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?"

"Of great service," said Ibarra, approaching; "but—you are deciphering hieroglyphics!" he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man's work.

"No, I'm writing in hieroglyphics."

"Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?" demanded the young man, doubting his senses.

"So that no one can read me."

Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.

"And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?"

"I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: 'Our ancestors did not all sleep.' But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things."

Ibarra drew out some papers.

"I know," he said, "that my father greatly valued your advice, and I have come to ask it for myself."

And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. "Whom shall I consult first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them all, I am almost a stranger."

Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.

"You are going to realize my dream," he said, greatly moved; "the dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never to ask advice of me."

Ibarra looked at him in surprise.

"Because, if you do," he continued with bitter irony, "all sensible people will take you for a fool, too. For all sensible people think those who differ with them fools; they think me one, and I am grateful for it, because the day they see in me a reasonable being woe is me! That day I shall lose the little liberty I now enjoy at the expense of my reputation. The gobernadorcillo passes with them for a wise man because having learned nothing but to serve chocolate and to suffer the caprices of Brother Damaso, he is now rich and has the right to trouble the life of his fellow-citizens. 'There is a man of talent!' says the crowd. 'He has sprung from nothing to greatness.' But perhaps I am really the fool and they are the wise men. Who can say?"

And the old man shook his head as though to dismiss an unwelcome thought.

"The second thing I advise is to consult the curate, the gobernadorcillo, all the people of position in the pueblo. They will give you bad advice, unintelligible, useless. But to ask advice is not to follow it. All you need is to make it understood that you are working in accordance with their ideas."

Ibarra reflected, then replied:

"No doubt your counsel is good, but it is very hard to take. May I not offer my own ideas to the light of day? Cannot the good make its way anywhere? Has truth need of the dross of error?"

"No one likes the naked truth," replied the old man. "It is good in theory, easy in the ideal world of which youth dreams. You say you are a stranger to your country; I believe it. The day that you arrived here, you began by wounding the self-esteem of a priest. God grant this seemingly small thing has not decided your future. If it has, all your efforts will break against the convent walls, without disturbing the monk, swaying his girdle, or making his robe tremble. The alcalde, under one pretext or another, will deny you to-morrow what he grants you to-day; not a mother will let her child go to your school, and the result of all your efforts will be simply negative."

"I cannot help feeling your fears exaggerated," said Ibarra. "In spite of all you say, I cannot believe in this power; but even admitting it to be so great, the most intelligent of the people would be on my side, and also the Government, which is animated by the best intentions, and wishes the veritable good of the Philippines."

"The Government! the Government!" murmured the philosopher, raising his eyes. "However great its desire to better the country, however generous may have been the spirit of the Catholic kings, the Government sees, hears, judges nothing more than the curate or the provincial gives it to see, hear, or judge. The Government is convinced that its tranquillity comes through the monks; that if it is upheld, it is because they uphold it; that if it live, is it because they consent to let it, and that the day when they fail it, it will fall like a manikin that has lost its base. The monks hold the Government in hand by threatening a revolt of the people they control; the people, by displaying the power of the Government. So long as the Government has not an understanding with the country, it will not free itself from this tutelage. The Government looks to no vigorous future; it's an arm, the head is the convent. Through its inertia, it allows itself to be dragged from abyss to abyss; its existence is no more than a shadow. Compare our system of government with the systems of countries you have visited——"

"Oh!" interrupted Ibarra, "that is going far. Let us be satisfied that, thanks to religion and the humanity of our rulers, our people do not complain, do not suffer like those of other countries."

"The people do not complain because they have no voice; if they don't revolt, it is because they are lethargic; if you say they do not suffer, it is because you have not seen their heart's blood. But the day will come when you will see and hear. Then woe to those who base their strength on ignorance and fanaticism; woe to those who govern through falsehood, and work in the night, thinking that all sleep! When the sun's light shows the sham of all these phantoms, there will be a frightful reaction; all this strength conserved for centuries, all this poison distilled drop by drop, all these sighs strangled, will find the light and the air. Who pay these accounts which the people from time to time present, and which History preserves for us in its bloody pages?"

"God will never permit such a day to come!" replied Ibarra, impressed in spite of himself. "The Filipinos are religious, and they love Spain. There are abuses, yes, but Spain is preparing reforms to correct them; her projects are now ripening."

"I know; but the reforms which come from the head are annulled lower down, thanks to the greedy desire of officials to enrich themselves in a short time, and to the ignorance of the people, who accept everything. Abuses are not to be corrected by royal decrees, not where the liberty of speech, which permits the denunciation of petty tyrants, does not exist. Projects remain projects; abuses, abuses. Moreover, if by chance some one coming to occupy an office begins to show high and generous ideas, immediately he hears on all sides—while to his back he is held a fool: 'Your Excellency does not know the country, Your Excellency does not know the character of the Indians, Your Excellency will ruin them, Your Excellency will do well to consult this one and that one,' and so forth, and so on. And as in truth His Excellency does not know the country, which hitherto he had supposed to be in America, and since, like all men, he has his faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don't ask for miracles; don't ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb, to warm a little with its rays the cold of death, to keep us from being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question."

"It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice, and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols."

"Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it."

"'Lower my head or lose it!'" repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. "The dilemma is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain; I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies."

"But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which——"

Ibarra did not let him finish.

"Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget, and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!"

The old philosopher lowered his eyes.

"Senor Ibarra," he said slowly, "if you are going to keep the remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget, abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your compatriots. This work demands another man."

Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must make good his offering to her.

"If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard road?" he asked in a low voice.

Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. A fresh breeze was blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.

"Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and blossoms?" said the philosopher, pointing out a superb rose-tree. "The wind makes it tremble, and it bends, as if to hide its precious charge. If the stalk stood rigid, it would break, the wind would scatter the flowers, and the buds would die without opening. The gust of wind passed, the stalk rises again, proudly wearing her treasure. Who accuses her for having bowed to necessity? To lower the head when a ball whistles is not cowardice. What is reprehensible is defying the shot, to fall and rise no more."

"And will this sacrifice bear the fruit I seek? Will they have faith in me? Can the priest forget his own offence? Will they sincerely aid me to spread that instruction which is sure to dispute with the convents the wealth of the country? Might they not feign friendship, simulate protection, and, underneath, wound my enterprise in the heel, that it fall more promptly than if attacked face to face? Admitting your views, one might expect anything."

The old man reflected, then he said:

"If this happens, if the enterprise fails, you will have the consolation of having done what you could. Something will have been gained. Your example will embolden others, who fear only to commence."

Ibarra weighed these reasonings, examined the situation, and saw that with all his pessimism the old man was right.

"I believe you," he said, grasping his hand. "It was not in vain that I came to you for counsel. I will go straight to the curate, who, after all, may be a fair-minded man. They are not all like the persecutor of my father. I go with faith in God and man."

He took leave of Tasio, mounted, and rode away, followed by the regard of the pessimistic old philosopher, who stood muttering to himself:

"We shall see, we shall see how the fates unroll the drama begun in the cemetery!"

This time the wise Tasio was wrong; the drama had begun long before.



XXII.

THE MEETING AT THE TOWN HALL.

It was a room of twelve or fifteen by eight or ten yards. The whitewashed walls were covered with charcoal drawings, more or less ugly, more or less decent. In the corner were a dozen old shot-guns and some rusty swords, the arms of the cuadrilleros.

At one end, draped with soiled red curtains, was a portrait of His Majesty the King, and on the platform underneath an old fauteuil opened its worn arms; before this was a great table, daubed with ink, carved and cut with inscriptions and monograms, like the tables of a German students' inn. Lame chairs and tottering benches completed the furniture.

In this hall meetings were held, courts sat, tortures were inflicted. At the moment the authorities of the pueblo and its vicinity were met there. The party of the old did not mingle with the party of the young; the two represented the Conservatives and Liberals.

"My friends," Don Filipo, the chief of the Liberals, was saying to a little group, "we shall vanquish the old men this time; I'm going to present their plan myself, with exaggerations, you may imagine."

"What are you saying?" demanded his surprised auditors.

"Listen," said Don Filipo. "This morning I ran across old Tasio. He said to me: 'Your enemies are more opposed to your person than to your ideas. Is there something you don't want to have go through? Propose it yourself. If it's as desirable as a mitre, they will reject it. Then let the most modest young fellow among you present what you really want. To humiliate you, your enemies will help to carry it.' Hush! Keep the secret."

The gobernadorcillo had come in. Conversation ceased, all took places, and silence reigned.

The captain, as the gobernadorcillo is called, sat down in the chair under the king's portrait. His look was harried. He coughed, passed his hand over his cranium, coughed again, and at length began in a failing voice:

"Senores, I've taken the risk of convening you all—hem, hem!—because we are to celebrate, the twelfth of this month, the feast of our patron, San Diego—hem, hem!"

At this point of his discourse a cough, dry and regular, reduced him to silence.

Then from among the elders arose Captain Basilio:

"Will your honors permit me," said he, "to speak a word under these interesting circumstances? I speak first, though many of those present have more right than I, but the things I have to say are of such importance that they should neither be left aside nor said last, and for that reason I wish to speak first, to give them the place they merit. Your honors will, then, permit me to speak first in this assembly, where I see very distinguished people, like the senor, the present gobernadorcillo; his predecessor, my distinguished friend, Don Valentine; his other predecessor, Don Julio; our renowned captain of the cuadrilleros, Don Melchior, and so many others, whom, for brevity, I will not mention, and whom you see here present. I entreat your honors to give me the floor before any one else speaks. Am I happy enough to have the assembly accede to my humble request?" And the speaker bowed respectfully, half smiling.

"You may speak, we shall hear you with pleasure!" cried his flattering friends, who held him a great orator. The old men hemmed with satisfaction and rubbed their hands.

Captain Basilio wiped the sweat from his brow and continued:

"Since your honors have been so kind and complaisant toward my humble self as to grant me the right of speech before all others here present, I shall profit by this permission, so generously accorded, and I shall speak. I imagine in my imagination that I find myself in the midst of the very venerable Roman senate—senatus populusque Romanus, as we said in those good old times which, unhappily for humanity, will never come back,—and I will ask the patres conscripti—as the sage Cicero would say if he were in my place—I would ask them, since time presses, and time is golden as Solomon says, that in this important matter each one give his opinion clearly, briefly, and simply. I have done."

And satisfied with himself and with the attention of the house the orator sat down, not without directing toward his friends a look which plainly said: "Ha! Did I speak well? Ha!"

"Now the floor belongs to any one who—hem!" said the gobernadorcillo, without being able to finish his sentence.

To judge by the general silence, no one wished to be one of the patres conscripti. Don Filipo profited thereby and rose.

The Conservatives looked at one another with significant nods and gestures.

"Senores, I will present my project for the fete," he began.

"We cannot accept it!" said an uncompromising Conservative.

"We vote against it!" cried another adversary.

Don Filipo could not repress a smile.

"We have a budget of 3,500 pesos. With this sum we can assure a fete that will surpass any we have yet seen in our own province or in others."

There were cries of "Impossible!" Such a pueblo spent 4,000 pesos; another, 5,000!

"Listen, senores, and you will be convinced," continued Don Filipo, unshaken. "I propose that in the middle of the plaza we erect a grand theatre, costing 150 pesos."

"Not enough! Say 160!"

"Observe, gentlemen, 200 pesos for the theatre. I propose that arrangements be made with the Comedy Company of Tondo for seven representations, seven consecutive evenings, at 200 pesos an evening. Seven representations, at 200 pesos each, makes 1,400 pesos. Observe, senor director, 1,400 pesos."

Old and young looked at one another in surprise. Only those in the secret remained unmoved.

"I further propose magnificent fireworks; not those little rockets and crackers that amuse nobody but children and old maids, but great bombs, colossal rockets. I propose, then, 200 bombs at two pesos each, and 200 rockets at the same price. Observe, senores, 1,000 pesos for bombs and——"

The Conservatives could not contain themselves. They got up and conferred with one another.

"And further, to show our neighbors that we are not people who must count their expenditures, I propose, first, four great preachers for the two feast days; second, that each day we throw into the lake 200 roasted fowls, 100 stuffed capons, and 50 sucking pigs, as did Sylla, contemporary of Cicero, to whom Captain Basilio alluded."

"That's it! Like Sylla!" repeated Captain Basilio, flattered.

The astonishment grew.

"As many rich people will come to the fetes, each bringing thousands of pesos and his best cocks, I propose fifteen days of the gallera, the liberty of open gaming houses——"

Cries rising from all sides drowned his voice; there was a veritable tumult. The gobernadorcillo, more crushed than ever, did nothing to quell it; he waited for order to establish itself.

Happily Captain Valentine, most moderate of the Conservatives, rose and said:

"What the lieutenant proposes seems to us extravagant. So many bombs and so much comedy could only be proposed by a young man, like the lieutenant, who could pass all his evenings at the theatre and hear countless detonations without becoming deaf. And what of these fowls thrown into the lake? Why should we imitate Sylla and the Romans? Did they ever invite us to their fetes? I'm an old man, and I've never received any summons from them!"

"The Romans live at Rome with the Pope," Captain Basilio whispered.

This did not disconcert Don Valentine.

"At all events," he went on, "the project is inadmissible, impossible; it's a folly!"

Don Filipo must needs retire his project.

Satisfied with the defeat of their enemy, the Conservatives were not displeased to see another young man rise, the municipal head of a group of fifty or sixty families, known as a balangay.

He modestly excused himself for speaking. With delicate blandishments he referred to the "ideas so elegantly expressed by Captain Basilio," upon which the delighted captain made signs to show him how to gesture and to change position: then he unfolded his project: to have something absolutely new, and to spend the 3,500 pesos in such a way as to benefit their own province.

"That's it!" interrupted the young men; "that's what we want!"

What did they care about seeing the King of Bohemia cut off the heads of his daughters! They were neither kings nor barbarians, and if they did such things themselves, would be hung high on the field of Bagumbayan. He proposed that two native plays be given which dealt with the manners of the times. There were two he had in mind, works of their best writers. They demanded only native costumes, and could be played by amateurs of talent, of whom the province had no lack.

"A good idea!" some of the Conservatives began to murmur.

"I'll pay for the theatre!" cried Captain Basilio, with enthusiasm.

"Accepted! Accepted!" cried numerous voices. The young man went on:

"A part of the money taken at the theatre might be distributed in prizes: to the best pupil in the school, the best shepherd, the best fisherman. We might have boat races, and games, and fireworks, of course."

Almost all were agreed, though some talked about "innovations."

When silence was established, only the decision of the gobernadorcillo was wanting.

The poor man passed his hand across his forehead, he fidgeted, he perspired; finally he stammered, lowering his eyes:

"I also; I approve; but, hem!"

The assembly listened in silence.

"But——" demanded Captain Basilio.

"I approve entirely," repeated the functionary, "that is to say, I do not approve; I say yes, but——"

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"But," continued the unhappy man, coming to the point at last, "the curate wants something else."

"Is the curate to pay for the festival? Has he given even a cuarto?" cried a penetrating voice.

Every one turned. It was Tasio. The lieutenant remained immovable, his eyes on the gobernadorcillo.

"And what does the curate want?" demanded Don Basilio.

"The curate wants six processions, three sermons, three solemn masses, and if any money is left, a comedy with songs between the acts."

"But we don't want it!" cried the young men and some of their elders.

"The curate wishes it," repeated the gobernadorcillo, "and I've promised that his wishes shall be carried out."

"Then why did you call us together?" asked one, impatient.

"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?" demanded another.

"I wished to, senores, but, Captain Basilio, I did not have a chance. We must obey the curate!"

"We must obey!" repeated some of the Conservatives.

Don Filipo approached the gobernadorcillo and said bitterly:

"I sacrificed my pride in a good cause; you sacrifice your manliness in a bad one; you spoil every good thing that might be done!"

Ibarra said to the schoolmaster:

"Have you any commission for the capital? I leave immediately."

On the way home the old philosopher said to Don Filipo, who was cursing his fate:

"The fault is ours. You didn't protest when they gave you a slave for mayor, and I, fool that I am, forgot about him!"



XXIII.

THE EVE OF THE FETE.

It is the 10th of November, the eve of the fete. The pueblo of San Diego is stirred by an incredible activity; in the houses, the streets, the church, the gallera, all is unwonted movement. From windows flags and rugs are hanging; the air, resounding with bombs and music, seems saturated with gayety. Inside on little tables covered with bordered cloths the dalaga arranges in jars of tinted crystal the confitures made from the native fruits. Servants come and go; orders, whispers, comments, conjectures are everywhere. And all this activity and labor are for guests as often unknown as known; the stranger, the friend, the Filipino, the Spaniard, the rich man, the poor man, will be equally fortunate; and no one will ask his gratitude, nor even demand that he speak well of his host till the end of his dinner.

The red covers which all the year protect the lamps are taken off, and the swinging prisms and crystal pendants strike out harmonies from one another and throw dancing rainbow colors on the white walls. The glass globes, precious heirlooms, are rubbed and polished; the dainty handiwork of the young girls of the house is brought out. Floors shine like mirrors, curtains of pina or silk jusi ornament the doors, and in the windows hang lanterns of crystal or of colored paper. The vases on the Chinese pedestals are heaped with flowers, the saints themselves in their reliquaries are dusted and wreathed with blossoms.

At intervals along the streets rise graceful arches of reed; around the parvis of the church is the costly covered passageway, supported by trunks of bamboos, under which the procession is to pass, and in the centre of the plaza rises the platform of the theatre, with its stage of reed, of nipa, or of wood. The native pyrotechnician, who learns his art from no one knows what master, is getting ready his castles, balloons, and fiery wheels; all the bells of the pueblo are ringing gaily. There are sounds of music in the distance, and the gamins run to meet the bands and give them escort. In comes the fanfare with spirited marches, followed by the ragged and half-naked urchins, who, the moment a number is ended, know it by heart, hum it, whistle it with wonderful accuracy, and are ready to pass judgment on it.

Meanwhile the people of the mountains, the kasama, in gala dress, bring down to the rich of the pueblo wild game and fruits, and the rarest plants of the woods, the biga, with its great leaves, and the tikas-tikas, whose flaming flowers will ornament the doorways of the houses. And from all sides, in all sorts of vehicles, arrive the guests, known and unknown, many bringing with them their best cocks and sacks of gold to risk in the gallera, or on the green cloth.

"The alferez has fifty pesos a night," a little plump man is murmuring in the ears of his guests. "Captain Tiago will hold the bank; Captain Joaquin brings eighteen thousand. There will be liam-po; the Chinese Carlo puts up the game, with a capital of ten thousand. Sporting men are coming from Lipa and Batanzos and Santa Cruz. There will be big play! big play!—but will you take chocolate?—Captain Tiago won't fleece us this year as he did last; and how is your family?"

"Very well, very well, thank you! And Father Damaso?"

"The father will preach in the morning and be with us at the games in the evening."

"He's out of danger now?"

"Without question! Ah, it's the Chinese who will let their hands go!" And in dumb show the little man counted money with his hands.

But the greatest animation of all was at the outskirts of the crowd, around a sort of platform a few paces from the home of Ibarra. Pulleys creaked, cries went up, one heard the metallic ring of stone-cutting, of nail-driving; a band of workmen were opening a long, deep trench; others were placing in line great stones from the quarries of the pueblo, emptying carts, dumping sand, placing capstans.

"This way! That's it! Quick about it!" a little old man of intelligent and animated face was crying. It was the foreman, Senor Juan, architect, mason, carpenter, metalworker, stonecutter, and on occasions sculptor. To each stranger he repeated what he had already said a thousand times.

"Do you know what we are going to build? A model school, like those of Germany, and even better. The plans were traced by Senor R——. I direct the work. Yes, senor, you see it is to be a palace with two wings, one for the boys, the other for the girls. Here in the centre will be a great garden with three fountains, and at the sides little gardens for the children to cultivate plants. That great space you see there is for playgrounds. It will be magnificent!" And the Senor Juan rubbed his hands, thinking of his fame to come. Soothed by its contemplation, he went back and forth, passing everything in review.

"That's too much wood for a crane," he said to a Mongol, who was directing a part of the work. "The three beams that make the tripod and the three joining them would be enough for me."

"But not for me," replied the Mongol, with a peculiar smile, "the more ornament, the more imposing the effect. You will see! I shall trim it, too, with wreaths and streamers. You will say in the end that you were right to give the work into my hands, and Senor Ibarra will have nothing left to desire."

The man smiled still, and Senor Juan laughed and threw back his head.

In truth, Ibarra's project had found an echo almost everywhere. The curate had asked to be a patron and to bless the cornerstone, a ceremony that was to take place the last day of the fete, and to be one of its chief solemnities. One of the most conservative papers of Manila had dedicated to Ibarra on its first page an article entitled, "Imitate Him!" He was therein called "the young and rich capitalist, already a marked man," "the distinguished philanthropist," "the Spanish Filipino," and so forth. The students who had come from Manila for the fete were full of admiration for Ibarra, and ready to take him for their model. But, as almost always when we try to imitate a man who towers above the crowd, we ape his weaknesses, if not his faults, many of these admirers of Crisostomo's held rigorously to the tie of his cravat, or the shape of his collar; almost all to the number of buttons on his vest. Even Captain Tiago burned with generous emulation, and asked himself if he ought not to build a convent.

The dark presentiments of old Tasio seemed dissipated. When Ibarra said so to him, the old pessimist replied: "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."

Toward evening Captain Tiago arrived from Manila, bringing Maria Clara, in honor of the fete, a beautiful reliquary of gold, set with emeralds and diamonds, enshrining a splinter from the fishing-boat of St. Peter. Scarcely had he come when a party of Maria's friends came to take her out to see the streets.

"Go," said Captain Tiago, "but come back soon. Father Damaso, you know, is to dine with us. You, too, Crisostomo, must join us."

"With the greatest pleasure," stammered Ibarra, avoiding Maria Clara's eyes, "if I did not feel that I must be at home to receive whoever may come."

"Bring your friends here; there is always room at my table," said Captain Tiago, somewhat coldly. "I wish Father Damaso and you to come to an understanding."

"There is yet time," said Ibarra, forcing a smile.

As they descended to the street, Aunt Isabel following, people moved aside to let them pass. Maria Clara was a vision of loveliness: her pallor had disappeared, and if her eyes remained pensive, her mouth seemed to know only smiles. With the amiability characteristic of happy young womanhood she saluted the people she had known as a child, and they smiled back their admiration. In these few days of freedom she had regained the frank friendliness, the gracious speech, which seemed to have slumbered inside the narrow walls of her convent. She felt a new, intense life within her, and everything without seemed good and beautiful. She showed her love for Ibarra with that maiden sweetness which comes from pure thoughts and knows no reason for false blushes.

At regular intervals in the streets were kindled great clustered lights with bamboo supports, like candelabra. People were beginning to illuminate their houses, and through the open windows one could see the guests moving about in the radiance among the flowers to the music of harp, piano, or orchestra. Outside, in gala costume, native or European, Chinese, Spaniards, and Filipinos were moving in all directions, escaping with difficulty the crush of carriages and calashes.

When the party reached Captain Basilio's house, Sinang saw them, and ran down the steps.

"Come up till I'm ready to go out with you," she said. "I'm weary of all these strangers who talk of nothing but cocks and cards."

The house was full of people. Many came up to greet Crisostomo, and all admired Maria Clara. "Beautiful as the Virgin!" the old dames whispered, chewing their buyo.

Here they must take chocolate. As they were leaving, Captain Basilio said in Ibarra's ear:

"Won't you join us this evening? Father Damaso is going to make up a little purse."

Ibarra smiled and answered by a movement of the head, which might have meant anything.

Chatting and laughing, the merry party went on past the brilliantly illuminated houses. At length they came to one fast closed and dark. It was the home of the alferez. Maria was astonished.

"It's that old sorceress. The Muse of the Municipal Guard, as Tasio calls her," said Sinang. "Her house is in mourning because the people are gay."

At a corner of the plaza, where a blind man was singing, an uncommon sight offered itself. A man stood there, miserably dressed, his head covered by a great salakot of palm leaves, which completely hid his face, though from its shadow two lights gleamed and went out fitfully. He was tall, and, from his figure, young. He pushed forward a basket, and after speaking some unintelligible words drew back and stood completely isolated. Women passing put fruit and rice into his basket, and at this he came forward a little, speaking what seemed to be his thanks.

Maria Clara felt the presence of some great suffering. "Who is it?" she asked Iday.

"It's a leper. He lives outside the pueblo, near the Chinese cemetery; every one fears to go near him. If you could see his cabin! The wind, the rain, and the sun must visit him as they like."

"Poor man!" murmured Maria Clara, and hardly knowing what she did, she went up and put into the basket the reliquary her father had just given her.

"Maria!" exclaimed her friends.

"I had nothing else," she said, forcing back the tears.

"What will he do with the reliquary? He can't sell it! Nobody will touch it now! If only it could be eaten!" said Sinang.

But the leper went to the basket, took the glittering thing in his hands, fell on his knees, kissed it, and bent his head to the ground, uncovering humbly. Maria Clara turned her face to hide the tears.

As the leper knelt, a woman crept up and knelt beside him. By her long, loose hair and emaciated face the people recognized Sisa. The leper, feeling her touch, sprang up with a cry; but, to the horror of the crowd, she clung to his arm.

"Pray! Pray!" said she. "It is the Feast of the Dead! These lights are the souls of men. Pray for my sons!"

"Separate them! Separate them!" cried the crowd; but no one dared do it.

"Do you see the light in the tower? That is my son Basilio, ringing the bells. Do you see that other in the manse? That is my son Crispin; but I cannot go to them, because the curate is ill, and his money is lost. I carried the curate fruit from my garden. My garden was full of flowers, and I had two sons. I had a garden, I tended my flowers, and I had two sons."

And leaving the leper she moved away, singing:

"I had a garden and flowers. I had two sons, a garden and flowers."

"What have you done for that poor woman?" Maria asked Ibarra.

"Nothing yet," he replied, somewhat confused. "But don't be troubled; the curate has promised to aid me."

As they spoke, a soldier came dragging Sisa back, rather than leading her. She was resisting.

"Where are you taking her? What has she done?" asked Ibarra.

"What has she done? Didn't you hear the noise she made?" said the guardian of public tranquillity.

The leper took up his basket and vanished. Maria Clara asked to go home. She had lost all her gayety. Her sadness increased when, arrived at her door, her fiance refused to go in.

"It must be so to-night," he said as he bade her good-by.

Maria, mounting the steps, thought how tiresome were fete days, when one must receive so many strangers.

The next evening a little perfumed note came to Ibarra by the hand of Andeng, Maria's foster sister.

"Crisostomo, for a whole day I have not seen you. They tell me you are ill. I have lighted two candles and prayed for you. I'm so tired of being asked to play and dance. I did not know there were so many tiresome people in the world. If Father Damaso had not tried to amuse me with stories, I should have left them all and gone away to sleep. Write me how you are, and if I shall send papa to see you. I send you Andeng now to make your tea; she will do it better than your servants. If you don't come to-morrow, I shall not go to the ceremony.

Maria Clara."



XXIV.

IN THE CHURCH.

The orchestras sounded the reveille at the first rays of the sun, waking with joyous airs the tired inhabitants of the pueblo.

It was the last day of the fete—indeed, the fete itself. Every one expected much more than on the eve, when the Brothers of the Sacred Rosary had had their sermon and procession; for the Brothers of the Third Order were more numerous, and counted on humiliating their rivals. The Chinese candle merchants had reaped a rich harvest.

Everybody put on his gala dress; all the jewels came out of their coffers; the fops and sporting men wore rows of diamond buttons on their shirt fronts, heavy gold chains, and white jipijapa hats, as the Indians call Panamas. No one but old Tasio was in everyday costume.

"You seem even sadder than usual," the lieutenant said to him. "Because we have so many reasons to weep, may we not laugh once in a while?"

"Yes, laugh, but not play the fool! It's the same insane orgy every year, the same waste of money when there's so much need and so much suffering! But I see! It's the orgy, the bacchanal, that is to still the lamentations of the poor!"

"You know I share your opinion," said Don Filipo, half serious, half laughing, "and that I defended it; but what can I do against the gobernadorcillo and the curate?"

"Resign!" cries the irate old man, leaving him.

"Resign!" muttered Don Filipo, going on toward the church. "Resign? Yes, certainly, if my post were an honor and not a charge."

There was a crowd in the parvis, and men, women, and children in a stream were coming and going through the narrow doors of the church. The smell of powder mingled with that of flowers and incense. Rockets, bombs, and serpents made women run and scream and delighted the children. An orchestra was playing before the convent; bands accompanied dignitaries on their way to the church, or paraded the streets under innumerable floating and dipping flags. Light and color distracted the eye, music and explosions the ear.

High mass was about to be celebrated. Among the congregation were to be the chief alcalde of the province and other Spanish notables; and last, the sermon would be given by Brother Damaso, who had the greatest renown as a preacher.

The church was crammed. People were jostled, crushed, trampled on, and cried out at each encounter. From far they stretched their arms to dip their fingers in the holy water, but getting nearer, saw its color, and the hands retired. They scarcely breathed; the heat and atmosphere were insupportable; but the preacher was worth the endurance of all these miseries; besides, his sermon was to cost the pueblo two hundred and fifty pesos. Fans, hats, and handkerchiefs agitated the air; children cried, and gave the sacristans a hard enough task getting them out.

Ibarra was in a corner. Maria Clara knelt near the high altar, where the curate had reserved a place for her. Captain Tiago, in frock coat, sat on the bench of authorities, and the children, who did not know him, taking him for another gobernadorcillo, dared not go near him.

At length the alcalde arrived with his suite. He came from the sacristy, and sat down in a splendid fauteuil, beneath which was spread a rich carpet. He was in full dress, and wore the cordon of Charles III., with four or five other decorations.

"Ha!" cried a countryman. "A citizen in fancy dress!"

"Imbecile!" replied his neighbor. "It's Prince Villardo whom we saw last night in the play!" And the alcalde, in the character of giant-slayer, rose accordingly in the popular estimation.

Presently those seated arose, those sleeping awoke, the mass had begun. Brother Salvi celebrated, attended by two Augustins. At length came the long-looked-for moment of the sermon. The three priests sat down, the alcalde and other notables followed them, the music ceased. The people made themselves as comfortable as possible, those who had no benches sitting outright on the pavement, or arranging themselves tailor fashion.

Preceded by two sacristans and followed by another monk, who bore a great book, Father Damaso made his way through the crowd. He disappeared a moment in the spiral staircase of the pulpit, then his great head reappeared and his herculean bust. He looked over his audience, and, the review terminated, said to his companion, hidden at his feet:

"Attention, brother!"

The monk opened his book.



XXV.

THE SERMON.

The first part of the sermon was to be in Castilian, the remainder in Tagalo. Brother Damaso began slowly and in ordinary voice:

"Et spiritum tuum bonum dedisti qui docevet eos, et manna tuum non prohibuisti ab ore eorum, et aquam dedisti eis in siti. Words of the Lord spoken by the mouth of Esdras, Book II., chapter ix., verse 20.

"Most worshipful senor (to the alcalde), very reverend priests, brothers in Christ!"

Here an impressive pose and a new glance round the audience, then, his eyes on the alcalde, the father majestically extended his right hand toward the altar, slowly crossed his arms, without saying a word, and, passing from this calm to action, threw back his head, pointed toward the main entrance, and, impetuously cutting the air with the edge of his hand, began to speak in a voice strong, full, and resonant.

"Brilliant and splendid is the altar, wide the door, the air is the vehicle of the sacred word which shall spring from my lips. Hear, then, with the ears of the soul and the heart, that the words of the Lord may not fall on a stony ground, but that they may grow and shoot upward in the field of our seraphic father, St. Francis. You, sinners, captives of those Moors of the soul who infest the seas of the eternal life, in the doughty ships of the flesh and the world; you who row in the galleys of Satan, behold with reverent compunction him who redeems souls from the captivity of the demon—the intrepid Gideon, the courageous David, the victorious Roland of Christianity! the celestial guard, more valiant than all the civil guards of past and future. (The alferez frowned.) Yes, Senor Alferez, more valiant and more powerful than all! This conqueror, who, without other weapon than a wooden cross, vanquished the eternal tulisanes of darkness, and would have utterly destroyed them were spirits not immortal. This marvel, this incredible phenomenon, is the blessed Diego of Alcala!"

The "rude Indians," as the correspondents say, fished out of this paragraph only the words civil guard, tulisane, San Diego, and San Francisco. They had noticed the grimace of the alferez and the militant gesture of the preacher, and had from this deduced that the father was angry with the guard for not pursuing the tulisanes, and that San Diego and San Francisco had taken upon themselves to do it. They were enchanted, not doubting that, the tulisanes once dispersed, St. Francis would also destroy the municipal guard. Their attention, therefore, redoubled.

The monk continued so long his eulogy of San Diego that his auditors, not even excepting Captain Tiago, began to yawn a little. Then he reproached them with living like the Protestants and heretics, who respect not the ministers of God; like the Chinese, for which condemnation be upon them!

"What is he telling us, the Pale Lamaso?" murmured the Chinese Carlos, looking angrily at the preacher, who went on improvising a series of apostrophes and imprecations.

"You will die in impenitence, race of heretics! Your punishment is already being meted out to you in jails and prisons. The family and its women should flee you; rulers should destroy you. If you have a member that causeth you to offend, cut it off and cast it into the fire!"

Brother Damaso was nervous. He had forgotten his sermon and was improvising. Ibarra became restless; he looked about in search of some corner, but the church was full. Maria Clara no longer heard the sermon. She was analyzing a picture of the souls of the "Blessed in Purgatory."

In the improvisation the monk who played the part of prompter lost his place and skipped some paragraphs. The text returned to San Diego, and with a long series of exclamations and contrasts the father brought to a close the first part of his sermon.

The second part was entirely improvised; not that Brother Damaso knew Tagalo better than Castilian; but, considering the natives of the province entirely ignorant of rhetoric, he did not mind making errors before them. Yet the second part of his discourse had for certain people graver consequences than the first.

He began with a "Mana capatir concristians," "My Christian brothers," followed by an avalanche of untranslatable phrases about the soul, sin, and the patron saint. Then he launched a new series of maledictions against lack of respect and growing irreligion. On this point he seemed to be inspired, and expressed himself with force and clearness. He spoke of sinners who die in prison without confession or the sacraments; of accursed families, of petty students, and of toy philosophers.

Ibarra listened and understood. He kept a calm exterior, but his eyes turned toward the bench of magistrates. No one seemed to pay attention; as to the alcalde, he was asleep.

The inspiration of the preacher increased. He spoke of the early times when every Filipino encountering a priest uncovered, knelt, and kissed his hand. Now, he said, there were those who, because they had studied in Manila or in Europe, thought fit to shake the hand of a priest instead of kissing it.

But in spite of the cries and gestures of the orator, by this time many of his auditors slept, and few listened. Some of the devout would have wept over the sins of the ungodly, but nobody joined them, and they were forced to give it up. A man seated beside an old woman went so sound asleep that he fell over against her. The good woman took her slipper and tried to waken him, at the same time crying out:

"Get away! Savage, animal, demon, carabao!"

Naturally this raised a tumult. The preacher elevated his brows, struck dumb by such a scandal; indignation strangled the words in his throat; he could only strike the pulpit with his fists. This had its effect. The old woman dropped the shoe and, still grumbling and signing herself, sank on her knees.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah!" the irate priest could at last articulate. "It is for this that I have preached to you all the morning! Savages! You respect nothing! Behold the work of the incontinence of the century!" And launched again upon this theme, he preached a half hour longer. The alcalde breathed loud. Maria Clara, having studied all the pictures in sight, had dropped her head. Crisostomo had ceased to be moved by the sermon. He was picturing a little house, high up among the mountains, with Maria Clara in the garden. Why concern himself with men, dragging out their lives in the miserable pueblos of the valley?

At length the sermon ended, and the mass went on. At the moment when all were kneeling and the priests bowed their heads at the "Incarnatus est," a man murmured in Ibarra's ear: "At the blessing of the cornerstone do not separate yourself from the curate; do not go down into the trench. Your life is at stake!"

It was the helmsman.



XXVI.

THE CRANE.

It was indeed not an ordinary crane that the Mongol had built for letting the enormous cornerstone of the school into the trench. The framework was complicated and the cables passed over extraordinary pulleys. Flags, streamers, and garlands of flowers, however, hid the mechanism. By means of a cleverly contrived capstan, the enormous stone held suspended over the open trench could be raised or lowered with ease by a single man.

"See!" said the Mongol to Senor Juan, inserting the bar and turning it. "See how I can manipulate the thing up here and unaided!"

Senor Juan was full of admiration.

"Who taught you mechanics?" he asked.

"My father, my late father," replied the man, with his peculiar smile, "and Don Saturnino, the grandfather of Don Crisostomo, taught him."

"You must know then about Don Saturnino——"

"Oh, many things! Not only did he beat his workmen and expose them to the sun, but he knew how to awaken sleepers and put waking men to sleep. Ah, you will see presently what he could teach! You will see!"

On a table with Persian spread, beside the trench, were the things to be put into the cornerstone, and the glass box and leaden cylinder which were to preserve for the future these souvenirs, this mummy of an epoch.

Under two long booths near at hand were sumptuous tables, one for the school-children, without wine, and heaped with fruits; the other for the distinguished visitors. The booths were joined by a sort of bower of leafy branches, where were chairs for the musicians, and tables with cakes, confitures, and carafes of water, for the public in general.

The crowd, gay in garments of many colors, was massed under the trees to avoid the ardent rays of the sun, and the children, to better see the ceremony of the dedication, had climbed up among the branches.

Soon bands were heard in the distance. The Mongol carefully examined his construction; he seemed nervous. A man with the appearance of a peasant standing near him on the edge of the excavation and close beside the capstan watched all his movements. It was Elias, well disguised by his salakot and rustic costume.

The musicians arrived, preceded by a crowd of old and young in motley array. Behind came the alcalde, the municipal guard officers, the monks, and the Spanish Government clerks. Ibarra was talking with the alcalde; Captain Tiago, the alferez, the curate and a number of the rich country gentlemen accompanied the ladies, whose gay parasols gleamed in the sunshine.

As they approached the trench, Ibarra felt his heart beat. Instinctively he raised his eyes to the strange scaffolding. The Mongol saluted him respectfully, and looked at him intently a moment. Ibarra recognized Elias through his disguise, and the mysterious helmsman, by a significant glance, recalled the warning in the church.

The curate put on his robes and began the office. The one-eyed sacristan held his book; a choir boy had in charge the holy water and sprinkler. The men uncovered, and the crowd stood so silent that, though the father read low, his voice was heard to tremble.

The manuscripts, journals, money, and medals to be preserved in remembrance of this day had been placed in the glass box and the box itself hermetically sealed within the leaden cylinder.

"Senor Ibarra, will you place the box in the stone? The curate is waiting for you," said the alcalde in Ibarra's ear.

"I should do so with great pleasure," said Ibarra, "but it would be a usurpation of the honor; that belongs to the notary, who must draw up the written process."

The notary gravely took the box, descended the carpeted stairway which led to the bottom of the trench, and with due solemnity deposited his burden in the hollow of the stone already laid. The curate took the sprinkler and sprinkled the stone with holy water.

Each one was now to deposit his trowel of cement on the surface of the lower stone, to seal it to the stone held suspended by the crane when that should be lowered.

Ibarra offered the alcalde a silver trowel, on which was engraved the date of the fete, but before using it His Excellency pronounced a short allocution in Castilian.

"Citizens of San Diego," he said, "we have the honor of presiding at a ceremony whose importance you know without explanations. We are founding a school, and the school is the basis of society, the book wherein is written the future of each race.

"Citizens of San Diego! Thank God, who has given you these priests! Thank the Mother Country, who spreads civilization in these fertile isles and protects them with the covering of her glorious mantle. Thank God, again, who has enlightened you by his priests from his divine Word.

"And now that the first stone of this building has been blessed, we, the alcalde of this province, in the name of His Majesty the King, whom God guard; in the name of the illustrious Spanish Government, and under the protection of its spotless and ever-victorious flag, consecrate this act and begin the building of this school!

"Citizens of San Diego, long live the king! Long live Spain! Long live the religious orders! Long live the Catholic church!"

"Long live the Senor Alcalde!" replied many voices.

Then the high official descended majestically, to the strains of the orchestras, put his trowel of cement on the stone, and came back as majestically as he had gone down.

The Government clerks applauded.

Ibarra offered the trowel to the curate, who descended slowly in his turn. In the middle of the staircase he raised his eyes to the great stone suspended above, but he stopped only a second, and continued the descent. This time the applause was a little warmer, Captain Tiago and the monks adding theirs to that of the clerks.

The notary followed. He gallantly offered the trowel to Maria Clara, but she refused, with a smile. The monks, the alferez, and others descended in turn, Captain Tiago not being forgotten.

Ibarra was left. He had ordered the stone to be lowered when the curate remembered him.

"You do not put on your trowelful, Senor Ibarra?" said the curate, with a familiar and jocular air.

"I should be Juan Palomo, who made the soup and then ate it," replied Crisostomo in the same light tone.

"You go down, of course," said the alcalde, taking him by the arm in friendly fashion. "If not, I shall order that the stone be kept suspended, and we shall stay here till the Day of Judgment!"

Such a menace forced Ibarra to obey. He exchanged the silver trowel for a larger one of iron, as some people noticed, and started out calmly. Elias gave him an indefinable look; his whole being seemed in it. The Mongol's eyes were on the abyss at his feet.

Ibarra, after glancing rapidly at the block over his head, at Elias, and at the Mongol, said to Senor Juan, in a voice that trembled:

"Give me the tray and bring me the other trowel."

He stood alone. Elias no longer looked at him, his eyes were riveted on the hands of the Mongol, who, bending over, was anxiously following the movements of Ibarra. Then the sound of Ibarra's trowel was heard, accompanied by the low murmur of the clerks' voices as they felicitated the alcalde on his speech.

Suddenly a frightful noise rent the air. A pulley attached to the base of the crane sprang out, dragging after it the capstan, which struck the crane like a lever. The beams tottered, the cables broke, and the whole fabric collapsed with a deafening roar and in a whirlwind of dust.

A thousand voices filled the place with cries of horror. People fled in all directions. Only Maria Clara and Brother Salvi remained where they were, pale, mute, incapable of motion.

As the cloud of dust thinned, Ibarra was seen upright among the beams, joists and cables, between the capstan and the great stone that had fallen. He still held the trowel in his hand. With eyes frightful to look at, he regarded a corpse half buried under the beams at his feet.

"Are you unhurt? Are you alive? For God's sake, speak!" cried some one at last.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried others.

"Come, take out the body of this man," said Ibarra, as if waking from a dream. At the sound of his voice Maria Clara would have fallen but for the arms of her friends.

Then everything was confusion. All talked at once, gestured, went hither and thither, and knew not what to do.

"Who is killed?" demanded the alferez.

"Arrest the head builder!" were the first words the alcalde could pronounce.

They brought up the body and examined it. It was that of the Mongol. The heart no longer beat.

The priests shook Ibarra's hand, and warmly congratulated him.

"When I think that I was there a moment before!" said one of the clerks.

"It is well they gave the trowel to you instead of me," said a trembling old man.