"Let us go back to the house," she ordered her husband.

He, fearing that there was going to be a storm, turned on his heels and obeyed the command.

They met the alferez on the way back and greeted him. He increased the discontent of Dona Victorina, for he not only failed to compliment her on her dress, but surveyed it almost with a mocking manner.

"You ought not to extend your hand to a simple alferez," said she to her husband as soon as they were some distance away. "He scarcely touches his helmet, and you take off your hat. You don't know how to maintain your rank."

"He is ch—ch—chief here!"

"And what does that matter to us? Are we, perchance, natives?"

"You are right," replied he, not wishing to quarrel.

They passed by the officer's house. Dona Consolacion was in the window, as usual, dressed in her flannel outfit and smoking her cigar. As the house was rather low, they could see each other as they passed, and Dona Victorina could distinguish her very well. The Muse of the Guardia Civil examined her with tranquillity from head to foot, and, afterward, sticking out her lower lip, spit, turning her face to the other side. That put an end to Dona Victorina's patience, and, leaving her husband without any support, she squared herself in front of the alfereza, trembling with rage, and unable to speak. Dona Consolacion turned her head slowly, looked her over again, and then spit again, but with still greater disdain.

"What is the matter with you, Dona?" said the alfereza.

"Can you tell me, Senora, why you look at me so? Are you envious?" Dona Victorina finally succeeded in saying.

"I envious of you?" said the Medusa with scorn. "O, yes! I envy those curls."

"Come, wife!" said the doctor. "Do—don't take no—no—notice of her!"

"Let me give this shameless common person a lesson!" replied the woman, giving her husband a push. He nearly fell to the ground. Turning to Dona Consolacion, she continued:

"Look how you treat me! Don't think that I am a provincial, or a soldiers' querida! In my house in Manila alferezas never are allowed to come in. They wait at the door."

"Oh-oh! Most Excellent Senora! Alferezas don't enter, but invalids like that out there. Ha, ha, ha!"

If it hadn't been for all the paint on her face, one could have seen Dona Victorina blush. She wanted to throw herself upon her enemy, but the sentry stopped her. In the meantime, the street was filling up with curious people.

"Listen! I lower myself talking with you. People of categoria ... Do you want my clothes to wash? I will pay you well. Do you think that I don't know that you are a washerwoman?"

Dona Consolacion became furious. The reference to her being a washerwoman wounded her.

"Do you think that we do not know what you are? Get out! My husband has already told me. Senora, I, at least, have not belonged to more than one man, but you? One must be pretty hard up to take the leavings."

This shot struck Dona Victorina square in the breast. She rolled up her sleeves, clenched her fists, and, gnashing her teeth, began:

"Come down here, you nasty old thing, that I may smash your filthy mouth."

The Medusa disappeared quickly from the window, but was soon seen coming down the stairs on a run, swinging her husband's whip.

Don Tiburcio interposed, pleading with them, but they would have come to blows if the alferez had not arrived.

"But, senoras!... Don Tiburcio!"

"Teach your woman better; buy her better clothes. If you haven't the money, rob the people. You have your soldiers for that!" shouted Dona Victorina.

"Senora," said the alferez furiously. "Thank yourself that I don't forget that you are a woman; for if you were not, I would kick you to pieces, with all your curls and ribbons."

"Se—se—senor al—alferez!" said Don Tiburcio.

"Go ahead! Kill us! You don't wear big enough trousers, you quack."

And so the battle waged: words, gestures, cries, insults, and injuries. They brought out all the nasty things they could think of, all four speaking at the same time, and, saying so many things and bringing to light so many truths, that we will not relate here all that was said. The people who had gathered around to satisfy their curiosity, if they understood all the remarks, must have enjoyed themselves not a little. They were all waiting to see them come to blows. Unfortunately for the spectators, the curate came along and pacified them.

"Senoras! senoras! What a shame. Senor alferez."

"What are you meddling in these matters for, you hypocrite, you Carlist?"

"Don Tiburcio, take away your wife! Senora, hold your tongue!"

"Tell that to those robbers of the poor!"

Finally, the dictionary of epithets was exhausted. The review of the disgraces of each couple was ended, and little by little they were separated, threatening and insulting each other. Father Salvi kept going from one side to the other, adding life to the scene.

"This very day we will go to Manila and we will present ourselves to the Governor General," said Dona Victorina, in fury to her husband. "You are not a man. It is a shame that you spend money for trousers."

"B—b—but, wife, and the Guardia Civil? I—I—am lame."

"You must challenge him to a duel with pistol or sword or, or——"

And Dona Victorina looked at his false teeth.

"Daughter, I never have used——"

Dona Victorina did not let him finish. With a sublime movement she jerked out his false teeth in the middle of the street, and throwing them to the ground stepped on them. He, half crying, and she sputtering away, arrived at the house. At that time, Linares was talking with Maria Clara, Sinang, and Victoria, and, as he knew nothing about the quarrel, the sudden arrival of his cousins gave him a shock. Maria Clara was lying on a sofa among pillows and blankets, and was not a little surprised at the doctor's new physiognomy.

"Cousin," said Dona Victorina, "you have got to challenge the alferez immediately to a duel, or——"

"And why? what for?" asked Linares, surprised.

"You challenge him right off, or I will tell them all who you are."

"But, Dona Victorina!"

The three young women looked at one another.

"The alferez has insulted us. The old witch came down with her whip, and that thing there allowed it all. A man!"

"Pshaw!" said Sinang. "They have been fighting and we haven't seen it."

"The alferez has broken the doctor's teeth," added Victoria.

"This very day we are going to Manila. You stay here to challenge him to a duel, and, if you don't, I'll tell Don Santiago that all that you have told him is a lie. I will tell him——"

"But, Dona Victorina! Dona Victorina!" interrupted Linares, pale and going closer to her. "You keep quiet. Don't make me call to mind"——and he added in a low voice—"Don't be imprudent, especially just now."

Just at that time, when this was going on, Captain Tiago arrived home from the cock-pit. He was downhearted. He had lost his lasak.

But Dona Victorina did not give him much time to sigh. In a few words, and with many insults, she related to him what had passed, she, of course, trying to put herself in a good light.

"Linares is going to challenge him. Do you hear? If he don't, I won't let him marry your daughter. Don't you permit it. If he has no courage, he does not merit Clarita."

"Then you are going to marry this gentleman?" asked Sinang, with her jolly eyes full of tears. "I knew that you were discreet, but I did not think you so fickle."

Maria Clara, pale as wax, raising herself half up, looked at her father with frightened eyes, and then at Dona Victorina and Linares. The latter turned red in the face, Captain Tiago looked down, and the senora added:

"Clarita, bear it in mind, and never marry a man who does not wear trousers. You expose yourself to insults like a dog, if you do."

But the young maiden did not reply and said to her friends:

"Take me to my room, for I cannot go alone."

They helped her to her feet, and, leaning her marble-like head on pretty Sinang's shoulder, and, with the arms of her friend around her waist, she went to her bedroom.

That night the doctor and his wife collected their things together, submitted their account to Captain Tiago—which amounted to several thousand pesos—and very early on the following day, left for Manila in the Captain's carriage. To timid Linares they intrusted the role of the avenger.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE ENIGMA.

As Lucas had announced, Ibarra arrived the next day. His first visit was to the family of Captain Tiago, with the object of seeing Maria Clara and telling her that His Most Illustrious Greatness had already reconciled him with the Church. He brought a letter of recommendation to the curate, written by the hand of the Archbishop himself. Aunt Isabel was not a little delighted over it, for she liked the young man and did not look favorably upon the marriage of her niece with Linares. Captain Tiago was not at home.

"Come in," said the aunt in her half-Castellano language. "Maria, Don Crisostomo is again in the grace of God. The Archbishop has dis-excommunicated him."

But the young man could not advance. His smile froze on his lips, and words fled from his mind. Linares was standing next to Maria Clara on the balcony, interweaving nosegays with the flowers and leaves on the climbing plants. On the floor, were scattered roses and sampagas. Maria Clara was leaning back on a sofa, pale, pensive, her look sad, playing with her ivory fan. But the fan was not as white as her poor fingers.

At the presence of Ibarra, Linares turned pale and Maria Clara's cheeks were tinged with carmine. She tried to rise, but her strength failing her, she cast her eyes upon the floor, and let fall her fan.

An embarrassing silence reigned for several seconds. Finally, Ibarra was able to advance, and tremblingly murmured:

"I have just arrived and have hastened to see you.... I find that you are better than I thought."

Maria Clara seemed to have turned dumb. She could not pronounce a single word, and continued to keep her eyes on the floor.

Ibarra surveyed Linares with a look which the modest young man bore with considerable haughtiness.

"Well, I see that my arrival was not expected," he said slowly. "Maria, pardon me for not having announced my coming. Some other day I will be able to explain to you my conduct."

These words were accompanied with a look at Linares. The maiden raised her eyes to Ibarra, those beautiful eyes, full of purity and melancholy, so supplicating and sweet that Ibarra stopped confused.

"May I come to-morrow?"

"You know that on my part you are always welcome," replied she, scarcely able to pronounce the words.

Ibarra walked away, apparently tranquil; but a tempest raged in his mind, and his heart was chilled. What he had just seen and felt was incomprehensible. What was it? Doubt, apathy or treason?

"Oh, woman!" he murmured.

He arrived, without noticing it, at the place where the school house was being constructed. The work was well along. Nor Juan, with his yard stick and plumb-line, was going to and fro among the numerous workmen. On seeing the young man approach, he ran to meet him.

"Don Crisostomo," said he, "you have arrived at last. We were all expecting you. Just see how the walls are rising. They are already a meter and ten centimeters high. Within two days, they will be as high as a man. I have not allowed them to use anything but the best of wood. Do you want to look at the cellar?"

The workmen saluted him respectfully.

"Here is the system of drainage which I have taken the liberty to add," said Nor Juan. "These underground canals lead to a cesspool about thirty feet off. It will serve to fertilize the garden. This was not in the plans. Do you object to it?"

"Quite on the contrary, I approve of it and I congratulate you on your idea. You are a true architect. From whom did you learn the profession?"

"From myself, senor," replied the modest old man.

"O, yes! Before I forget it: let the scrupulous people know (for some may fear to speak to me) that I am no longer excommunicated. The Archbishop invited me to dine with him."

"Pshaw! senor! We don't take any notice of excommunications. We are all excommunicated. Dather Damaso is himself; however, he goes on, as fat as ever."

"How's that?"

"I feel sure about it. A year ago he gave the coadjutor a blow with his cane, and the coadjutor is as much a priest as he. Who takes any notice of excommunications, senor?"

Ibarra caught sight of Elias among the workmen. He saluted him like the others, but with a look that gave Ibarra to understand that he wanted to speak with him.

"Nor Juan," said Ibarra, "will you bring me a list of the workmen?"

Nor Juan disappeared and Ibarra approached Elias, who was alone, raising a large stone and loading it in a cart.

"If you are able, senor, to grant me some hours of conversation, come this afternoon to the shore of the lake and embark in my banca, for I want to talk with you about some serious matters," said Elias. Ibarra gave a nod of assent and went away.

Nor Juan brought the list, but Ibarra read it in vain. The name of Elias was not on it.



CHAPTER XXX

THE VOICE OF THE PERSECUTED.

Before the sun went down, Ibarra put his foot into Elias's banca on the shore of the lake. He seemed displeased about something, as though he had been opposed or contradicted.

"Pardon me, senor," said Elias on seeing him. "Pardon me for having ventured to make this appointment with you. I would like to speak with you freely, and here we have no witnesses. We can return within an hour."

"You are mistaken, friend Elias," replied Ibarra, trying to smile. "You will have to take me to that town over there, where you see that belfry. Fate obliges me to go there."

"Fate?"

"Yes; on my way here, I met the alferez. He insisted upon accompanying me. I thought about you, and knew that he would recognize you, and, in order to get rid of him, I told him that I was going to that town. Now I will have to remain there all day to-morrow, for the man whom I am going to see will not look for me till to-morrow afternoon."

"I am obliged to you for your thoughtfulness, but you might have simply told him to accompany you," replied Elias with naturalness.

"How's that? And what about you?"

"He would never have recognized me. The only time that he ever saw me, I don't believe that he thought to take down a description of me."

"I am in hard luck!" sighed Ibarra, thinking of Maria Clara. "What have you to say to me?"

Elias looked around him. They were far from the shore. The sun had already sunk below the horizon, and, as the twilight in these latitudes is very short, the darkness was falling over the earth, and the disk of the full moon was already shining.

"Senor," replied Elias, in a grave voice, "I am the spokesman of many unfortunate people."

"Unfortunate people. What do you mean?"

In a few words, Elias referred to the conversation which he had had with the chief of the tulisanes, but omitted saying anything about the doubts which the chief entertained, or the threats. Ibarra listened attentively, and, when Elias concluded his story, a long silence reigned. Ibarra was the first to break the spell.

"So that they desire——?"

"Radical reforms in the armed forces, in the religious matters, and in the administration of justice. That is to say, they ask for paternal care on the part of the Government."

"Reforms? In what sense?"

"For example: more respect for human dignity; more security for the individual; less power in the hands of the forces already armed; fewer privileges for that body which easily abuses them."

"Elias," replied the young man, "I don't know who you are, but I believe that you are not an ordinary man. You think and work differently from the others. You will understand me if I say to you that, even if it is true that the present state of affairs is defective, there will be a worse state if there is a change. I could arrange to get the assistance of my friends in Madrid, by paying them. I could speak to the Governor General, but all of that would accomplish nothing. He has not enough power to introduce reforms, nor would I ever take a step in that direction, for I know very well that, if it is true that these religious corporations have their defects, they are now necessities. They are what you might call a necessary evil."

Elias raised his head and looked astonished.

"Do you believe, senor, in necessary evils?" he asked, his voice slightly trembling. "Do you believe that in order to do good it is necessary to do evil?"

"No. I look upon it as a violent remedy which we have to make use of to cure an illness. To illustrate further, the country is an organism which is suffering from a chronic illness, and, in order to cure it, the Government finds itself compelled to use medicines, hard and violent, if you wish, but useful and necessary."

"He is a bad doctor, senor, who seeks to cure the symptoms and suppress them without trying to find the origin of the illness, or knowing it, fears to attack it. The Guardia Civil has no other end than this: the suppression of crime by terror and force. This end it neither fulfills nor carries out except in chance instances. And you have to take into account that society can be severe with individuals only after she has furnished all means necessary for their perfect morality. In our country, since there is no society, since the people and the Government do not form a unity, the latter ought to be indulgent, not only because indulgence is necessary, but because the individual, neglected and abandoned by Government, has less self responsibility than if he had been enlightened. Besides, following out your comparison, the medicine applied to the evils of the country is so much of a destroyer that its effect is only felt on the sane parts of the organism. These it weakens and injures. Would it not be more reasonable to fortify and strengthen the infirm organism and minimize a little the violence of the medicine?"

"To weaken the Guardia Civil would be to put the security of the towns in danger."

"The security of the towns!" exclaimed Elias with bitterness. "The towns have had the Guardia Civil for nearly fifteen years and what is the result? We still have tulisanes, we still hear of them sacking towns, and they still make their attacks on people on the roads. Robberies continue and the robbers are not punished. Crime exists and the real criminal goes free, but not so with the peaceful inhabitants of the town. Ask any honorable citizen if he looks upon this institution as a good, as a protection by the Government, or as an imposition, a despotism whose excesses do more harm than the violence of the criminals. Communication between people is paralyzed, for they fear to be maltreated for trifling causes. More importance is attached to the formality of the law than to the basal principle of it,—the first symptom of incapacity in government. The heads of the organization consider it their first duty to make people salute them, either of their own will or by force, even in the darkness of night. In this, their inferior officers imitate them and maltreat and fleece the poor countrymen. There is no such thing as sacredness of the fireside. There is no security for the individual. What have the people accomplished by overcoming their wrath and by waiting for justice at the hands of others? Ah! senor, if you call that preserving the order——"

"I agree with you that there are evils," replied Ibarra. "But we have to accept those evils for the good which accompanies them. This institution may be imperfect, but believe me, by the terror which it inspires, it prevents the number of criminals from increasing."

"You might better say that by that terror it increases the number of criminals," said Elias, correcting him. "Before this body was created, almost all the evildoers, with the exception of a very few, were criminals because of their hunger. They pillaged and robbed in order to live. That famine once passed over and hunger once satisfied, the roads were again free from criminals. It was sufficient to have the poor but valiant cuaderilleros chase them, with their imperfect arms—that body of men so often calumniated by those who have written upon our country, those men who have three legal rights, to do their duty, to fight and to die. And for all that, a jest as recompense. Now there are tulisanes who will be tulisanes all their lives. A crime inhumanly punished, resistance against the excesses of the power which inflicts such punishment, and fear that other atrocities may be inflicted—these make them forever members of that society who are bound by oath to kill and die [21]. The terrorism of the Guardia Civil impressed upon them closes forever the doors to repentance. And as a tulisan fights and defends himself in the mountains better than a soldier, whom he scorns, the result is that we are incapable of abating the evil which we have created. Call to mind what the prudent Governor General de la Torre did. The amnesty which he granted to these unhappy people has proved that in these mountains the hearts of men still beat, and only await pardon. Terrorism is useful only when the people are enslaved, when the mountains have no caverns, when the governing power can station a sentry behind every tree, and when the slave has in his body nothing but a stomach. But when the desperado who fights for his life feels the strong arm of that power, then his heart beats and his being fills with passion. Can terrorism put out the fire which——"

"It confuses me, Elias, to hear you talk so. I would believe that you were right if I did not have my own convictions. But note this point—and do not be offended, for I do not include you—I look upon you as an exception—consider who those are who ask for this reform. Almost all are criminals or people who are in the way of becoming such."

"Criminals or future criminals; but why are they so? Because their peace has been disturbed, their happiness taken away from them, their dearest affections wounded, and, after asking protection from Justice, they have been convinced that they can secure it only by their own hands, by their own efforts. But you are mistaken, senor, if you believe that only criminals ask for it. Go from town to town, from house to house. Listen to the secret sighings of the family and you will be convinced that the evils which the Guardia Civil causes are equal to if not greater than those which it corrects. Would you conclude then that all the citizens are criminals? Then, why defend them from the others? Why not destroy them?"

"There is some flaw in your reasoning which escapes me now. In Spain, the Mother Country, this body lends and has lent very useful services."

"I do not doubt it. Perhaps there it is better organized; the personnel more select. Perhaps, too, Spain needs such a body, but the Philippines do not. Our customs, our mode of living, which are always cited when any one wants to deny us a right, are totally forgotten when some one wants to impose something on us. And tell me, senor, why have not other nations adopted this institution, other nations which resemble Spain more than do the Philippines? Is it due to the efforts of such an institution that other nations have fewer robberies of the railways, fewer riots, fewer assassinations, and less hand-to-hand fighting in their great capitals?"

Ibarra bowed his head in meditation. Afterward he raised it and replied:

"That question, my friend, needs serious study. If my investigations tell me that these complaints are well founded, I will write to my friends in Madrid, since we have no deputies to represent us. In the meantime, believe me, the Government needs a body like the Guardia Civil, which has unlimited power, in order to make the people respect its authority and the laws imposed."

"That would be all right, senor, if the Government were at war with the country; but, for the good of the Government, we ought not to make the people believe that they are in opposition to the law. Furthermore, if that were the case, if we preferred force to prestige, we ought to look well to whom we give this unlimited force or power, this authority. Such great power in the hands of men, and ignorant men at that, men full of passion, without moral education, without tested honor—such a thing is a weapon in the hands of a maniac in a multitude of unarmed people. I grant and I will agree with you that the Government needs this weapon, but let it choose that weapon well; let it choose the most worthy men to bear it."

Elias was speaking with enthusiasm and with fervor. His eyes glistened and his voice vibrated. Then followed a solemn pause. The banca, no longer propelled by the paddle, floated tranquilly on the waves. The moon was shining majestically from a sapphire sky. Some lights were glimmering on the shore.

"And what more do they ask?" said Ibarra.

"Reforms in the priesthood," responded Elias, in a discouraged and sad tone of voice. "The unfortunates ask more protection against——"

"Against the religious orders?"

"Against their oppressors, senor."

"Have the Filipinos forgotten what they owe to these orders? Have they forgotten the immense debt of gratitude they owe to them for having saved them from error and given them the Faith? What they owe to them for protection against the civil power? Here is one of the evils which result from not teaching the history of the country in our schools."

Elias, surprised, could scarcely give credit to what he heard.

"Senor," he replied in a grave voice. "You accuse the people of ingratitude: permit me, one of those who suffer, to defend the people. Favors, in order to be recognized as such, must be done by persons with disinterested motives. Let us consider in a general way the mission of the orders, of Christian charity, that threadbare subject. Let us lay history aside. Let us not ask what Spain did with the Jews, who gave all Europe a Book, a religion and a God! Let us not ask what Spain has done with the Arabic people who gave her culture, who were tolerant in religion and who reawakened in her a pure national love, fallen into lethargy and almost destroyed by the domination of Romans and Goths. Let us omit all that. Do you say that these orders have given us the Faith and have saved us from error? Do you call those outward ceremonies, faith? Do you call that commerce in straps and scapularies religion? Do you call those miracles and stories which we hear every day truth? Is that the law of Jesus Christ? To teach such a faith as this it was not at all necessary that a God should allow himself to be crucified. Superstition existed long before the friars came here; it was only necessary to perfect it and to raise the price of the traffic. Will you tell me that although our religion of to-day is imperfect, it is better than that which we had before? I will agree with you in that and grant it; but we have purchased it at too high a price if we have had to renounce our nationality and independence for it; when for it, we have given to the priests our best towns, our fields, and still give them our little savings in order to buy religious objects. A foreign industry has been introduced among us; we pay well for it, and are in peace. If you speak of the protection they have afforded us against the civil governors of the provinces, I would reply that through them we fall under the power of these governors. However, I recognize that a true Faith, and a true love for humanity guided the first missionaries who came to our shores. I recognize the debt of gratitude which is due those noble hearts. I know that in those days Spain abounded in heroes of all kinds, as well in religion as in politics, as well in civil life as in military. But because the forefathers were virtuous, should we consent to the abuses practiced by their degenerate descendants? Because a great good has been done for us, are we guilty if we prevent ourselves from being harmed? The country does not ask for abolition of the priesthood; it only asks for reforms which new circumstances and new needs require."

"I love our country as you love it, Elias. I understand to some extent what you desire. I have heard with attention what you have said; yet, despite all of that, my friend, I believe we are looking upon it with a little prejudice. Here, less than in other things, I see the necessity of reforms."

"Can it be possible, senor," said Elias, discouraged and stretching out his hands. "Do you not see the necessity of reforms, you whose family——"

"Ah! I forget myself and I forget my own injuries for the sake of the security of the Philippines, for the sake of the interests of Spain," interrupted Ibarra eagerly. "To preserve the Philippines it is necessary that the friars continue as they are, and in union with Spain lies the welfare of our country."

Ibarra had ceased speaking, but Elias continued to listen. His face was sad, his eyes had lost their brilliancy.

"The missionaries conquered the country, it is true," he said. "Do you think that Spain will be able to keep the Philippines through the instrumentality of the friars?"

"Yes, only through the friars. This is the belief held by all who have written on the Philippines."

"Oh!" exclaimed Elias, discouraged and throwing his paddle into the bottom of the banca. "I did not think that you had so poor a conception of the Government and of the country."

Ibarra replied: "I love our country, not only because it is the duty of all men to love the country to which they owe their being, not only because my father taught me so; but also because my mother was a native, an Indian, and because all my most beautiful memories live in these islands. I love it too, because I owe it my happiness and will continue to do so."

"And I, I love it because I owe to it my misfortunes," said Elias.

"Yes, my friend, I know that you are suffering, that you are unfortunate, and that this makes you see a dark future and influences your way of thinking. For this reason, I make allowance for your complaints. If I were able to appreciate the motives, if I had known part of that past——"

"My misfortunes have another source. If I had known that they would have been of usefulness, I would have related them, for aside from that, I make no secret of them. They are well enough known by many."

"Perhaps knowing them would rectify my opinions. You know I do not rely much upon theories; facts are better guides."

Elias remained pensive for some moments.

"If that is the case, senor," he replied, "I will relate briefly the history of my misfortunes."



CHAPTER XXXI

ELIAS'S FAMILY.

"Some sixty years ago my grandfather lived in Manila and kept books for a Spanish merchant. My grandfather was then very young, but was married and had a son. One night, without any one knowing the cause, the store-house was burned. The fire spread to the store and from the store to many others. The losses were very heavy. Search was made for the incendiary, and the merchant accused my grandfather. In vain he protested and, as he was poor and could not pay celebrated lawyers, he was condemned to be whipped publicly and to be led through the streets of Manila. It was not a great while ago that this infamous punishment was still in use here. It was a thousand times worse than death itself. My grandfather, abandoned by everybody except his wife, was tied to a horse and, followed by a cruel multitude, was whipped on every corner, in the sight of men, his brothers, and in the vicinity of the numerous temples of the God of Peace. When the unfortunate man, disgraced forever, had satisfied the punishment by his blood, his tortures and his cries, they untied him from the horse, for he had become unconscious. Would to God he had died! As a refined cruelty, they gave him liberty. His wife, embarrassed with a child at the time, begged in vain from door to door for work or alms that she might care for her sick husband and the poor son. But who would have confidence in the wife of an infamous man guilty of arson? The wife, then, had to give herself up to prostitution."

Ibarra started from his seat.

"Oh! do not be disturbed! Prostitution was not the only dishonor which she and her husband suffered. Honor and shame no longer existed for them. The husband cured his wounds, and, with his wife and son, hid in the mountains of this province. Here the woman brought forth a still-born child, deformed and full of disease. In the mountains, they lived for several months, miserable, isolated, hated and fleeing from all. Unable to endure the misery, less valorous than his wife, and growing desperate at seeing her ill and deprived of all aid and comfort, my grandfather hanged himself. The body rotted in the sight of the son, who was now scarcely able to take care of his sick mother. The bad odor of the rotting corpse disclosed it to Justice. My grandmother was accused and condemned for not having given notice. The death of her husband was attributed to her and people believed it. For, what is a wife of a wretch not capable of doing after having prostituted herself? If she took oath, they said she perjured herself; if she wept, they said that it was false; and if she invoked God, they said she blasphemed. However, they had some consideration for her and waited for her to give birth to a child before whipping her. You know that the friars spread the belief that the only way to deal with the natives is with the whip. Read what Father Gaspar de San Augustin says.

"Thus condemned, the woman cursed the day when she would give birth to the child, and this not only prolonged her punishment, but violated her maternal sentiments. The woman delivered the child, and unfortunately the child was born robust. Two months later the sentence of whipping which had been imposed upon her was carried out, to the great satisfaction of the people, who thought that in this way they were fulfilling their duty. No longer able to be at peace in these mountains she fled with her two sons to a neighboring province and there they lived like wild beasts: hating and hated. The older boy, remembering his happy infancy and its contrast with such great misery, became a tulisan as soon as he had sufficient strength. Before long the bloody name of Balat extended from province to province; it was the terror of the towns and the people, for he took his revenge with fire and blood. The younger boy, who had received from Nature a good heart, resigned himself to his lot at his mother's side. They lived on what the forests afforded them; they dressed in the rags that travellers threw away. The mother had lost her good name, she was now known only by such titles as the 'criminal,' the 'prostitute,' and the 'horse-whipped woman.' The younger brother was known only as the son of his mother, because he had such a pleasant disposition that they did not believe him to be the son of the incendiary. Finally the famous Balat fell one day into the hands of Justice. Society had taught him no good, but he was asked to account for his crimes. One morning as the younger boy was looking for his mother, who had gone to gather mushrooms from the forest, and had not yet returned, he found her lying on the ground by the roadside, under a cotton-tree. Her face was turned toward the sky, her eyes were torn from their sockets, and her rigid fingers were buried in the blood-stained earth. It occurred to the young man to raise his eyes and follow the direction in which his mother had been looking, and there from a limb of a tree he saw a basket, and in that basket the bloody head of his brother."

"My God!" exclaimed Ibarra.

"That is what my father must have exclaimed," continued Elias, coldly. "The men had cut the highwayman into quarters and buried him in a trunk of a tree. But the limbs were saved, and were hung up in different towns. If you go some time from Calamba to Santo Tomas you will still find the rotting leg of my uncle hanging from a lomboy tree. Nature has cursed the tree and it neither grows nor gives fruit. They did the same thing with the other members of his body, but the head, the head, as the best part of the man and that part which can be most easily recognized, they hung before the mother's cabin."

Ibarra bowed his head.

"The young man fled like one that is accursed," continued Elias. "He fled from town to town, through mountains and valleys, and when at last he thought he was not recognized by any one, he began to work in the store of a rich man in the province of Tayabas. His activity, his agreeable disposition, won for him the esteem of those who did not know his past life. By working and saving he managed to make a little capital, and, as the misery had passed away, and, as he was young, he thought that he would be happy. His good appearance, his youth, and his quite unencumbered position won for him the love of a girl in the town, but he did not dare to ask for her hand, for fear that she might learn of his past. But love became too strong and both erred. The man, in order to save the honor of the woman, risked all; he asked her to marry him, the papers were looked up and all was disclosed. The girl's father was rich and began to prosecute the man. The latter, however, did not try to defend himself, admitted it all and was sent to jail. The young woman gave birth to a boy and a girl. They were brought up in seclusion and made to believe that their father was dead. This was not difficult, for while the children were still young they saw their mother die, and they thought little about investigating their genealogy. As our grandfather was very rich, our youth was happy. My sister and I were educated together, we loved each other as only twins can when they know no other love. While very young, I went to study in the Jesuit College, and my sister, in order that we might not be entirely separated, went to the Concordia boarding school. Our short education having been ended, for we only wished to be farmers, we returned to the town to take possession of the inheritance which was left us by our grandfather. We lived happily for some time; the future smiled on us; we had many servants; our fields bore good crops; and my sister was on the eve of being married to a young man who loved her and to whom she was well suited. On account of some pecuniary questions, and, because my character was then haughty, I lost the good will of a distant relative, and he threw in my face one day my dark birth and my infamous ancestry. I thought it a calumny and demanded satisfaction. The tomb in which so much grief was sleeping was opened again and the truth came out. I was confounded. To make the misfortune greater, we had had for some years an old servant who had always suffered all my caprices without ever leaving us. He contented himself by weeping and crying while the other servants jested with him. I do not know how my relative found it out; the fact is that he summoned this old man before the court and made him tell the truth. The old servant was my father, who had stuck fast to his dear children and whom I had maltreated many times. Our happiness disappeared: I renounced our fortune; my sister lost her lover; and with our father we abandoned the town to go to some other point. The thought of having contributed to our disgrace and misfortune, cut short the life of the old man, from whose lips was learned all the sorrowful past. My sister and I were left alone.

"She wept a great deal, but, amid such grief as they piled upon us, she could not forget her love. Without complaining, without saying a word, she saw her old lover marry another girl, and I saw her a little later gradually become ill, without being able to console her. One day she disappeared. In vain I searched for her everywhere; in vain I asked for her for six months. Afterward I learned that during the time while I was searching for her, one day when the water had risen in the lake, there had been found on the beach at Calamba the body of a girl, either drowned or assassinated. She had, they say, a knife piercing her breast. The authorities of Calamba published the fact in the neighboring towns. Nobody presented himself to claim the body; no young woman had disappeared. From the description which they gave me afterward, from the dress, the rings, the beauty of her face and her very abundant hair, I recognized her as my poor sister. From that time, I have been wandering from province to province. My fame and history are in the mouths of many people; they attribute all sorts of deeds to me; at times they calumniate me; but I take no notice of men and continue on my way. I have here briefly related my history, and that of a judgment at the hands of mankind."

Elias became silent and continued rowing.

"I believe that you are not wrong," murmured Ibarra, in a low voice, "when you say that justice ought to procure the welfare of the people by lifting up the criminals and by raising the standard of their morality. Only ... that is impossible—a Utopia. And then, where is the money for so many new employees to come from?"

"And what are the priests for, the priests who proclaim peace and charity as their mission? Is it more meritorious for a priest to wet the head of a child, to give it salt to eat, than to awaken in the darkened conscience of a criminal that spark, given by God to every man, that he may seek to do good? Is it more human to accompany a criminal to the gallows than to accompany him through the difficult path which leads from vice to virtue? Are not spies, executioners and Guardias Civiles paid? The latter institution, besides being an evil, also costs money."

"My friend, neither you nor I, although we wish it, can accomplish it."

"Alone we are nothing, it is true. Take up the cause of the people, unite them, listen to their voices, give others an example to follow, give them the idea of what is called a fatherland, a patria!"

"What the people ask for is impossible. We must wait."

"To wait, to wait, is equivalent to suffering!"

"If I should ask it, they would laugh at me."

"And if the people should sustain you?"

"Never! I would never be the one to lead the multitude and accomplish by force what the Government does not believe is opportune. No! If I ever saw the multitude armed for such a purpose, I would put myself on the side of the Government. And I would fight it, for in such a mob I would not see my country. I wish for its welfare: that is the reason that I am erecting the school-house. I look for it through means of instruction, education and progress. Without light there is no road."

"Nor without fighting is there liberty," replied Elias.

"I do not care for that kind of liberty."

"Without liberty there is no light," replied the pilot with enthusiasm. "You say that you know very little about our country. I believe it. You do not see the fight that is impending. You do not see the cloud on the horizon. The combat begins in the sphere of ideas, and then descends to the arena to tinge it with blood. I hear the voice of God. Woe to them who resist it. History has not been written for them."

Elias was transformed. As he stood up, his head uncovered, his manly face illumined by the moonlight, there was something extraordinary about him. He shook his long hair and continued:

"Do you not see how all is awakening? Sleep has lasted for centuries, but one day a thunderbolt will fall and new life will be called forth. New tendencies are animating the spirits, and these tendencies to-day separated, will be united some day, and will be guided by God. God has not failed other peoples, nor will he fail ours. Their cause is liberty."

A solemn silence followed these words. In the meantime, the banca carried along imperceptibly by the waves, neared the shore. Elias was the first to break the silence.

"What have I to say to those who have sent me?" he asked, changing the tone of his voice.

"I have already told you that I greatly deplore their condition, but for them to wait, since evils are not cured by other evils. In our misfortune, we are all at fault."

Elias did not insist further. He bowed his head, continued rowing and, bringing the banca up to the shore, took leave of Ibarra saying:

"I thank you, Senor, for your condescension. For your own interests I ask you in the future to forget me, and never to recognize me in whatever place you may meet me."

And saying this, he turned his banca and rowed in the direction of a dense thicket on the beach. He seemed to observe only the millions of diamonds which his paddle lifted and which fell back into the lake, where they soon disappeared in the mystery of the blue waves.

Finally, he arrived at the place toward which he had been rowing. A man came out of the thicket and approached him:

"What shall I tell the captain?" he asked.

"Tell him that Elias, if he does not die before, will fulfill his word," he replied gloomily.

"Then when will you meet us?"

"When your captain thinks that the hour of danger has come."

"All right. Good-bye!"

"If I do not die before," murmured Elias.



CHAPTER XXXII

CHANGES.

The modest Linares was serious and very uneasy. He had just received a letter from Dona Victorina which, translated from the most illiterate Spanish, and omitting its many errors in spelling and punctuation, was as follows:

"Esteemed Cousin:—Within three days I want to know from you if you have killed the alferez or he you. I don't want another day to pass without this animal being punished. If this length of time passes and still you have not challenged him, I will tell Don Santiago that you never were secretary and that you never joked with Canovas or with General Martinez. I will tell Clarita that it is all a lie and I will not give you another cuarto. If you challenge him, I promise you all that you wish. If you do not challenge him, I will accept no excuses or reasons.

"Your cousin who loves you in her heart. "Victorina de los Reyes de de Espadana. "Sampalog, Monday Eve, 7 o'clock."

It was a serious matter. Linares knew Dona Victorina's character and knew what she was capable of doing. To reason with her was out of the question; to beg was useless; to deceive her worse. There was no other remedy than to challenge.

"But what can I do?" he said to himself, as he was walking alone. "If he receives me harshly? If I meet his wife? Who would want to be my second? The curate? Captain Tiago? Cursed be the hour in which I gave ear to her advice! What will this senorita say about me? Now I am sorry to have been secretary to all the ministers."

The good Linares was in this sad soliloquy when Father Salvi arrived. The Franciscan was certainly thinner and paler than usual, but his eyes shone with a peculiar light and a strange smile was seen on his lips.

"Senor Linares, all alone?" saluted the priest and directed his steps to the sala, through the half open door of which notes of the piano were heard.

Linares restrained a smile.

"And Don Santiago?" added the curate.

Captain Tiago presented himself at that moment, kissed the curate's hand, took the Father's hat and cane and smiled like one who had been blessed.

"Well, well!" said the curate, going into the sala, followed by Linares and Captain Tiago. "I have good news from Manila which you will all enjoy. I have received letters from Manila which confirm the one which Senor Ibarra brought me yesterday—so that, Don Santiago, the impediment is removed."

Maria Clara was seated at the piano between her two girl friends. She half rose to her feet at this remark, but her strength failed her and she sat down again. Linares turned pale and looked at Captain Tiago, who turned his eyes to the floor.

"This young man really seems to me a very nice fellow," continued the curate. "At first, I judged him bad—he is a little quick-tempered. But he knows so well how to atone for his faults afterward, that one cannot hold any grudge against him. If it were not for Father Damaso...." And the curate directed a quick glance at Maria Clara. She was listening to all that was going on but without taking her eyes off the music—in spite of the concealed pinches which Sinang gave her to express her joy. Had she been alone, she would have danced.

"Father Damaso?" asked Linares without finishing the sentence.

"Yes," continued the curate. "Father Damaso has said that as ... godfather he could not permit ... but I believe that if finally, Senor Ibarra asks pardon, which I do not doubt he will do, all will be arranged."

Maria Clara arose, made an excuse and retired to her room, accompanied by Victoria.

"And if Father Damaso does not pardon him?" asked Captain Tiago, in a low voice.

"Then Maria Clara will see that Father Damaso is her spiritual father. But I believe that they will come to an understanding."

At that moment, steps were heard and Ibarra appeared, followed by Aunt Isabel. His presence on the scene produced a varied effect. He saluted Captain Tiago affably, the latter not knowing whether to smile or to weep; to Linares he bowed profoundly. Father Salvi arose and extended his hand to him so affectionately that Ibarra could not suppress a look of surprise.

"Do not think it strange," said Father Salvi. "I was just paying you a compliment."

Ibarra thanked him and approached Sinang.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked, with a childish laugh. "We have been asking each other, 'Where could this soul redeemed from purgatory have gone?' Each one of us gave a different answer."

"And will you not tell what you said?"

"No, that is a secret; but I will surely tell you in private. Now tell us where you have been so that we can see who has been able to guess it."

"No, that also is a secret; but I will tell you alone, if the senores will permit."

"Certainly, certainly!" said Father Salvi.

Sinang took Crisostomo to one end of the hall. She was very happy with the idea of knowing a secret.

"Tell me, my little friend," said Ibarra, "Is Maria angry with me?"

"I do not know, but she says that it is better that you should forget her and then begins to cry. Captain Tiago wants her to marry that gentleman; Father Damaso also wishes it; but she says neither yes nor no. This morning when we were asking for you, I said: 'What if he has gone to make love to some one else?' She replied to me: 'Would to God that he had!' and then began to cry."

Ibarra was serious.

"Tell Maria that I want to speak with her alone."

"Alone?" asked Sinang, knitting her eyebrows and looking at him.

"Entirely alone, no. But so that we may not be seen by that other senor."

"It is difficult, but don't worry. I will tell her."

"And when will I know the answer?"

"To-morrow come to the house early. Maria never wants to be alone. We keep her company. Victoria sleeps by her side one night, and I the next. To-morrow night it is my turn. But listen: What is the secret? You are going without telling me the principal thing."

"That is true. I was in the town of Los Banos. I went up there to do some business in cocoanut trees, since I am thinking of building a factory. Your father will be my partner."

"Nothing more than that? Give us the secret!" exclaimed Sinang in a loud voice and in the tone of a defrauded usurer. "I thought——"

"Take care. I don't want you to tell it."

"I have no desire to!" replied Sinang, sticking up her nose. "If it were something more important, I would tell it to my friends. But to buy cocoanuts! cocoanuts! Who is interested in cocoanuts?"

And she went away in haste to find her girl friends.

A few moments afterward, Ibarra seeing that the conversation was lagging, took leave of the gathering. Captain Tiago's expression was between sweet and sour; Linares was silent and observing; and the curate, feigning to be joyful, was telling stories. None of the girls had returned.



CHAPTER XXXIII

PLAYING CARDS WITH THE SHADES.

A cloudy sky hides the moon, and a cold wind, the omen of approaching December, whirls the dry leaves and dust in the narrow path leading to the cemetery.

Under the gate, three forms are conversing in a low tone.

"Have you spoken to Elias?" asked a voice.

"No; you know he is very odd and discreet. But he ought to be with us. Don Crisostomo saved his life."

"I accepted the offer for the same reason," said the first voice. "Don Crisostomo is having my wife treated at a doctor's house in Manila. I have agreed to take charge of the convent in the attack, so that I can settle my accounts with the curate."

"And we, we will have charge of the attack on the cuartel, so that we can say to the members of the Guardia Civil that our father had sons."

"How many will there be of you?"

"Five! Five will be enough. Don Crisostomo's servant says that there will be twenty in all."

"And if things don't turn out well?"

"St!" said one, and they all became silent.

In the semi-darkness, a form could be seen crawling along the fence. From time to time it stopped, as if to look behind.

And it did so not without reason. Behind, at some twenty paces, came another form. This one was taller and seemed to be darker than the first. Each time that the first stopped this second one would disappear as if the earth had swallowed it.

"They are following me," murmured the one ahead. "Is it a Guardia Civil? Has the sacristan lied?"

"It appears that the appointment is here," said the second, in a low voice. "They are up to something bad, when the two brothers hide it from me."

The first form finally arrived at the gate of the cemetery. The three who were already there advanced.

"Is it you?"

"Is it you?"

"Let us separate. Some one is following me. To-morrow we will have the arms and to-morrow night will be our time. The cry is 'Viva Don Crisostomo!' Begone!"

The three persons disappeared behind the wall. The recent arrival hid himself in the hollow of the gate and waited silently.

"Let's see who is following me!" he murmured.

The second person came along very cautiously, and stopped to look around.

"I have arrived late!" said he in a half intelligible voice. "But perhaps they will return."

And, as a fine rain began to fall and threatened to continue, he took refuge under the gate. Naturally, he met the other.

"Ah! who are you?" asked the one who had just come up, in a manly voice.

"And who are you?" replied the other tranquilly.

There was a moment's pause. Each tried to recognize the other by the tone of his voice and to distinguish the other's features.

"What are you waiting here for?" asked the one with the heavy voice.

"Till the clock strikes eight, so as to have a game of cards with the dead. I want to win some money to-night," replied the other, in an ordinary tone. "And you: what do you come here for?"

"A—a—for the same thing."

"Well! I am glad. So I will not be without a companion. I have brought some cards. At the first stroke of the bell, I put down the albur (the first two cards put on the board in monte). At the second stroke, I put down the gallo (the second pair). The cards which move after I have put them down, are those which the dead choose for themselves. Did you also bring some cards?"

"No."

"Then?"

"It is simple. Just as you act as 'banker' for them, so I hope that they will 'bank' for me." (In monte the banker deals the cards and bets that one of the cards in either the albur or gallo is turned up by dealing off the pack, before the card chosen by the other person is turned up. A banker can play against two others.)

"And if the shades do not care to 'bank'?"

"What can be done? The game is not obligatory upon the dead."

There was a moment's silence.

"Did you come armed? What if you have to fight with the shades of the dead?"

"I'll use my fists," replied the taller of the two.

"Ah! The devil! Now, I remember! The dead do not bet when there is more than one live person around. There are two of us."

"Is that true? Well, I don't want to go away."

"Nor I. I need some money," replied the smaller one. "But let us do this: We will decide by the cards which one shall go away."

"All right!" replied the other, showing a certain amount of displeasure.

"Then let us go in. Have you any matches?"

They entered the cemetery and in the obscurity they searched for a place where they might decide the question with the cards. They soon found a niche upon which they sat down. The shorter one took from his hat some playing cards and the other lighted a match.

Each one looked at the other in the light which the match made, but, judging from the expression on their faces, they did not recognize each other. However, we can recognize in the taller one, the one with the manly voice, Elias; and in the smaller one, Lucas, with the scar on his cheek.

"Cut the cards!" said the latter, without ceasing to look at the other.

He pushed aside some bones which were found on the niche and turned up an ace and a jack for the albur. Elias lighted one match after another.

"On the jack!" said he and, in order to show which of the cards he was betting on, he placed upon it a piece of vertebrae.

"I deal!" said Lucas and, after turning up four or five cards, an ace came up.

"You have lost," he added. "Now leave me alone so that I may win some money."

Elias, without saying a word, disappeared in the darkness.

Some minutes afterward, the clock in the church struck eight and the bell announced the hour of prayer. But Lucas did not invite anybody to play with him. He did not call out the shades, as superstition demanded. Instead, he uncovered his head, murmured some prayers and crossed himself with the same fervor as the chief of the Brotherhood of the Most Sacred Rosary would have done at that moment.

The drizzling rain continued all night. At nine o'clock the streets were dark and lonely. The little cocoanut oil lanterns, which each citizen had to hang out in front of his house gave light scarcely a meter around. It seemed as though they had been lighted so one might see the darkness.

Two Civil Guards were walking from one side of the street to the other near the church.

"It is cold," said one in Tagalog with a Visayan accent. "We aren't catching any sacristans. There is nobody to clean out the alferez's hen yard and we ought to catch some sacristan and make him do it. Since that one was killed, they have taken warning. I am getting tired of this."

"So am I," replied the other. "Nobody commits any robbery; no one disturbs the peace; but, thank God, they say that Elias is in town. The alferez says that the one who catches him will be free from whippings for three months."

"Ah! Do you know his identification marks?" asked the Visayan.

"I certainly do! Stature, tall, according to the alferez's description; ordinary, according to the description of Father Damaso; color, brunette; eyes, black; nose, regular; mouth, regular; beard, none; hair, black."

"Ah! And particular marks?"

"Camisa, black; pantaloons, black; a wood-cutter——"

"Ah! He will not escape. I think I see him already."

"I don't confuse him with anybody else, although you might think so."

Both soldiers continued their beats.

By the light of the lantern two forms could again be seen, one following the other cautiously. A forcible "Quien vive?" stops them both. The first one replied "Espana," in a trembling voice.

The two soldiers drag him along and bring him up to the light, to recognize him. It was Lucas, but the soldiers were in doubt and questioned each other with a glance.

"The alferez said nothing about his having a scar," said the Visayan in a low voice. "Where are you going?"

"To order a mass for to-morrow."

"Have you not seen Elias?"

"I do not know him, senor," replied Lucas.

"You dunce! I am not asking if you know him. Nor do we know him. I am asking you if you have seen him."

"No, senor."

"Listen closely. I will give you his description. Stature, at times tall, at times regular; skin and eyes, black; all the others are regular," said the Visayan. "Do you know him now?"

"No, senor," replied Lucas, frightened.

"Then, sulung! (Go along). You brute! You ass!" And they gave him a shove.

"Do you know why Elias is tall, according to the alferez, and why he is short, according to the curate?" asked the Tagalog of the other.

"No."

"Because the alferez was stuck in a mud hole when he observed him, and the curate was on foot when he saw him."

"That's right!" exclaimed the Visayan. "You are bright. Why are you a Guardia Civil?"

"I haven't been always. I was a smuggler at one time," replied the Tagalog boastingly.

But another form attracted their attention. They called out "Quien Vive?" and brought him up to the light. This time it was Elias himself.

"Where are you going?"

"I am pursuing, senor, a man who has whipped and threatened my brother. He has a scar on his face and his name is Elias——"

"Ha?" exclaimed the two, and looked at each other frightened.

And at once they started on a run toward the church, where a few minutes before Lucas had disappeared.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE DISCOVERY.

The bell announces the hour of evening prayer. On hearing the religious sound, all stop, leave their work and uncover their heads; the laborer, coming from the fields on the carabao's back, suspends the song to which the animal keeps step, and prays; the women in the middle of the street make the sign of the cross, and move their lips with affectation so that no one may doubt their devotion: the man stops fondling his game-cock and recites the Angelus so that he may have good luck; in the houses, they pray in a loud voice ... every sound which is not a part of the Ave Maria is dissipated, silenced.

However, the curate, without his hat, hastily crosses the street, scandalizing many old women. And still more scandalous, he directs his steps towards the alferez's house. The devout women think that it is time for them to stop the movement of their lips and to kiss the curate's hand, but Father Salvi takes no notice of them. To-day he finds no pleasure in placing his bony hand under a Christian's nose. Some important business must be occupying him that he should so forget his own interests and those of the Church!

He goes up the stairs and knocks impatiently at the alferez's door. The latter appears, his eyebrows knit and followed by his better half, who smiles malignantly.

"Ah, Father Curate! I was just going to see you. Your he-goat...."

"I have a most important matter...."

"I can't allow your goat to go on breaking down my fence.... I'll shoot him if he gets in there again."

"That is if you are alive to-morrow," said the curate, breathless, and directing himself toward the sala.

"What! do you think that that seven-months-old puppy will kill me? I'll kick him to pieces."

Father Salvi stepped back and looked instinctively at the feet of the alferez.

"Whom are you talking about?" asked he, trembling.

"Of whom could I be talking but that big blockhead who proposes to challenge me to a duel with revolvers at one hundred paces?"

"Ah!" sighed the curate, and added: "I have come to speak about a most urgent matter which seriously concerns the life of all of us."

"Seriously!" repeated the alferez, turning pale in turn. "Does this young fellow shoot well...?"

"I am not speaking about him."

"Then?"

The friar pointed to the door which the alferez shut in his customary manner, by a kick. The alferez usually found his hands superfluous. An imprecation and a groan from without were heard.

"You brute. You have cut open my head!" cried his wife.

"Now unbosom yourself," said he to the curate in a quiet manner. The latter looked at him for some time. Afterward he asked, in that nasal and monotonous priest's voice:

"Did you see how I came running?"

"Umph! I thought something was the matter with you."

"When I leave my duties in this manner there are grave motives."

"And what is it?" asked the other, stamping his foot on the floor.

"Calm yourself!"

"Then, why did you come in such a hurry?"

The curate approached him and asked in a mysterious way:

"Don't—you—know—anything—new?"

The alferez shrugged his shoulders.

"You confess that you know absolutely nothing?"

"What! do you mean to tell me about Elias, whom your sacristan mayor hid last night?" he asked.

"No, no! I don't speak of such matters now," replied the curate, in a bad humor. "I am talking about a great danger."

"Then d——n it! Let it out."

"Now then," said the friar slowly and with a certain disdain, "you will see again how important we priests are. The lowest layman is worth a regiment, so that a curate...."

And then lowering his voice in a very mysterious manner:

"I have discovered a great conspiracy."

The alferez started and looked at the friar astonished.

"A terrible and well-laid conspiracy, which is to break out this very night."

"This very night!" exclaimed the alferez, moving at first toward Father Salvi, and then running after his revolver and saber, which were hanging on the wall: "Whom shall I arrest? Whom shall I arrest?" he cried.

"Be calm. It is not yet time, thanks to my great haste. At eight o'clock."

"I'll shoot them all!"

"Listen! This afternoon a woman, whose name I must not mention (it is a secret of the confessional) came to me and disclosed it all. At eight o'clock they will take the cuartel by surprise, sack the convent, seize the Government's steamboat and assassinate all the Spaniards."

The alferez was stupified.

"The woman has not told more than that," added the curate.

"Has not told you more? Then I'll arrest her!"

"No; I cannot consent to it. The tribunal of penitence is the throne of God of forgiveness."

"Neither God nor forgiveness count in this matter. I'll arrest her."

"You are losing your head. What you ought to do is to prepare yourself. Arm your soldiers quietly and put them in ambush. Send me four Guards for the convent and notify the people on the Government steamboat."

"The boat is not here. I'll send to other sections for aid."

"They would notice that and would not go on with their plans. No, don't do that. What is important is that we catch them alive and make them talk; I say, you will make them disclose the conspiracy. I, in the capacity of a priest, ought not to mix myself in these matters. Now's your chance! Here you can win crosses and stars. I ask only that you make it evident that I am the one who warned you."

"It will be made evident, Father, it will be made evident! And perhaps a mitre will fall to you!" replied the radiant alferez.

"Be sure and send me four un-uniformed Civil Guards, eh? Be discreet! To-night at eight o'clock, it will rain stars and crosses."

While this was going on, a man came running down the road which led to Ibarra's house, and quickly went up the stairs.

"Is the Senor at home?" asked Elias of the servant.

"He is in his laboratory at work."

Ibarra, in order to pass the time while he impatiently waited for the hour when he could make explanations to Maria Clara, had gone to work in his cabinet.

"Ah, is it you, Elias?" he exclaimed. "I was thinking about you. Yesterday, I forgot to ask you for the name of that Spaniard in whose house your grandfather lived."

"Don't bother yourself, Senor, about me...."

"Look!" continued Ibarra, without noting the agitation of the young man, and putting a piece of bamboo to a flame. "I have made a great discovery. This bamboo is incombustible...."

"Don't talk about bamboo now, Senor. Talk about collecting your papers and fleeing in a minute."

Ibarra looked at him surprised, and, on seeing the seriousness in Elias's countenance, he dropped the object which he had in his hands.

"Burn everything that can possibly implicate you in any way and put yourself in a more secure place within an hour."

"And what for?" he asked at last.

"Put all that you have of value in a secure place...."

"And what for?"

"Burn all papers written by you or to you. The most innocent can be interpreted in a bad sense."

"But what for?"

"What for? Because I have just discovered a conspiracy which will be attributed to you in order to ruin you."

"A conspiracy? And who has planned it?"

"I have been unable to learn the author of it. Only a moment ago I was talking with one of the unfortunate men who have been paid for it. I could not dissuade him."

"And didn't that fellow say who paid him?"

"Yes. Asking me to keep the secret, he told me that it was you."

"My God!" exclaimed Ibarra. He stood stupefied.

"Senor, don't hesitate, don't doubt, don't lose time, for undoubtedly the conspiracy will break out this very night."

Ibarra, with staring eyes, and hands holding his head, seemed not to hear him.

"The blow cannot be thwarted," continued Elias. "I have arrived too late. I do not know their leaders ... save yourself, Senor, save yourself for the sake of your country."

"Where shall I flee? They are expecting me this evening," exclaimed Ibarra, thinking of Maria Clara.

"To any other town, to Manila, to the house of some official; only flee somewhere so that they will not say that you are directing the movement."

"And if I myself denounce the conspiracy?"

"You denounce it?" exclaimed Elias, looking at him, and stepping back. "You would pass for a traitor and a coward in the eyes of the conspirators, and for a pusillanimous person in the eyes of others. They would say that you had played a trick to win some praise, they would say...."

"But what can be done?"

"Already I have told you. Destroy all the papers you have which relate to you; flee and await developments."

"And Maria Clara?" exclaimed the young man. "No; death first!"

Elias wrung his hands and said:

"Well, then, at least avoid the blow. Prepare yourself against their accusations."

Ibarra looked around him in a stupefied manner.

"Then, help me! There in those bags I have my family letters. Sort out those from my father, which are, perhaps, the ones that would incriminate me. Read the signatures."

Ibarra, stunned and overwhelmed, opened and closed drawers, collected papers, hastily read letters, tore up some, kept others, took down books and thumbed through some of them. Elias did the same, if indeed with less confusion, with equal zeal. But he stopped, with eyes wide open, turned over a paper which he had in his hand and asked in a trembling voice:

"Did your family know Don Pedro Eibarramendia?"

"Certainly!" replied Ibarra, opening a drawer and taking out a pile of papers. "He was my great-grandfather."

"Your great grandfather? Don Pedro Eibarramendia?" he again asked, with livid features and a changed appearance.

"Yes," replied Ibarra, distracted. "We cut short the name, for it was too long."

"He was a Basque?" said Elias approaching him.

"Yes; but what's the matter?" he asked, surprised.

Elias closed his fist, shook it in Ibarra's face and looked at him. Crisostomo stepped back as soon as he read the expression on that face.

"Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was?" he asked between his teeth. "Don Pedro Eibarramendia was that wretch who accused my grandfather and caused all our misery.... I was looking for one of his name. God has given you into my hands.... Account to me for our misfortunes."

Ibarra looked at him terrified. Elias shook him by the arm and, in a bitter voice, filled with hate, said:

"Look at me well; see if I have suffered, and you, you live, you love, you have fortune, home, consideration. You live ... you live!"

And, beside himself, he ran toward a small collection of arms, but he had scarcely grasped two swords when he let them fall, and, like a madman, looked at Ibarra, who remained immovable.

"What am I to do?" he said and fled from the house.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE CATASTROPHE.

There in the dining-room Captain Tiago, Linares, and Aunt Isabel were eating supper. In the sala the rattling of plate and tableware was heard. Maria Clara had said that she did not care to eat and had seated herself at the piano. By her side was jolly Sinang, who murmured little secrets in Maria's ear, while Father Salvi uneasily paced the sala.

It was not because the convalescent had no appetite that she was not eating. It was because she was awaiting the arrival of a certain person and had taken advantage of the moment in which her Argus could not be present, the hour when Linares ate.

"You will see how that ghost will stay till eight o'clock," murmured Sinang, pointing to the curate. "At eight o'clock he ought to come. This priest is as much in love as Linares."

Maria Clara looked at her friend, frightened. The latter, without noticing her expression, continued her terrible gossip:

"Ah! Now I know why he doesn't go, in spite of all my hints. He doesn't want to burn the lamps in the convent. Don't you see? Ever since you fell ill, he has had the two lights which he used to burn, put out. But look at his eyes and his face!"

Just at that moment the clock in the house struck eight. The curate trembled and went and sat down in a corner of the room.

"He is coming," said Sinang, pinching Maria Clara. "Do you hear?"

The bell in the church tolled eight and all arose to pray. Father Salvi, with a weak and trembling voice, led, but, as each one had his own thoughts, nobody paid any attention to him.

The prayer had scarcely ended, when Ibarra presented himself. The young man was wearing mourning, not only in his dress, but in his face. In fact, it was so evident that Maria Clara, on seeing him, arose and took a step toward him as if to ask what ailed him, but at the same instant a discharge of musketry was heard. Ibarra stopped, his eyes rolled and he was unable to speak. The curate hid himself behind a pillar. More shooting and more noise was heard in the direction of the convent, followed by cries and the sound of people running. Captain Tiago, Aunt Isabel and Linares entered the room, hurriedly crying "tulisan! tulisan!" Andeng followed them, brandishing a spit and ran toward her foster sister.

Aunt Isabel fell on her knees and prayed the Kyrie eleison. Captain Tiago, pale and trembling, carried a chicken's liver on his fork, and, in tears, offered it to the Virgin of Antipolo. Linares had his mouth full and was armed with a spoon. Sinang and Maria Clara embraced each other. The only person who did not move was Ibarra. He stood as if petrified, his face indescribably pale.

The cries and blows continued, the windows were shut with a bang, a whistle was heard, and occasionally a shot.

"Christe eleison! Santiago, fasten the windows," groaned Aunt Isabel.

"Fifty great bombs and a thanksgiving mass," replied Captain Tiago. "Ora pro nobis!"

After a time, things quieted down and there was a terrible silence. The voice of the alferez was distinguished, as he came running in, and crying: "Father curate! Father Salvi! Come!"

"Misere! The alferez is asking for confession!" cried Aunt Isabel.

"Is he wounded?" asked Linares at last. "Ah!"

"Come, Father Salvi! There is nothing to fear now," continued the alferez, shouting.

Father Salvi, pale, and decided at last, came out of his hiding-place and went downstairs.

"The tulisanes have killed the alferez!" said Aunt Isabel.

"Maria Clara, Sinang, go to your room! Fasten the door! Kyrie eleison!"

Ibarra also went toward the stairs, in spite of Aunt Isabel, who was saying: "Don't go out! You haven't confessed yet. Don't go out!"

The good old woman had been a great friend of Ibarra's mother.

But Ibarra left the house. It seemed to him that all about him was revolving through the air, that even the ground was gone from under his feet. His ears buzzed. His legs moved heavily and irregularly. Waves of blood, light and darkness, succeeded one another on the retina of his eye.

Despite the fact that the moon was shining brightly in the heavens, the young man stumbled on every stone in the solitary and deserted street.

Near the cuartel he saw some soldiers with their bayonets fixed, talking excitedly. He passed by unseen.

In the tribunal, blows, cries, wails, and curses were heard. The alferez's voice drowned all the others.

"Put him in the stocks! Put handcuffs on that fellow! Two shots for whoever moves! Sergeant, you will mount your guard! Let no one pass, not even God! Corporal, let no one sleep!"

Ibarra hastened his steps toward his house. His servants were uneasily awaiting him.

"Saddle the best horse and go to bed!" said he to them.

He entered his laboratory and hurriedly began to get his travelling bag ready. He opened an iron box, took out all the money which he found there and put it in a bag. He gathered his jewels together, took down a picture of Maria Clara which was hanging upon the wall, and, arming himself with a dirk and two revolvers, he turned to the cupboard where he had some tools.

At that instant, three blows, loud and strong, sounded on the door.

"Who's there?" asked Ibarra, in a doleful voice.

"Open in the name of the King! Open the door at once, or we will knock it down!" replied an imperious Spanish voice.

Ibarra looked toward the window. His eyes flashed and he cocked his revolver. But changing his mind, he left the arms and went to open the door at the same moment that the servants came up.

Three Guards seized him instantly.

"You are made a prisoner in the name of the King!" said the sergeant.

"What for?"

"They will tell you later. We are prohibited from saying a word."

The young man reflected a moment and not wishing, perhaps, the soldiers to discover his preparations for flight, he took his hat and said:

"I am at your disposal. I suppose it will be only for a short time."

"If you promise not to escape, we will not handcuff you. The alferez grants this favor, but if you flee——"

Ibarra followed, leaving the servants in consternation.

In the meantime, what had become of Elias?

On leaving Crisostomo's house, like a madman, he ran about without knowing where. He crossed fields, and in violent agitation arrived at a forest. He was fleeing from people, and from light. The moon troubled him and he entered the mysterious shade of the forest. Sometimes stopping, sometimes following unbroken paths, leaning upon century-old trunks, entangled in the briars, he looked toward the town, which lay at his feet bathed in the light of the moon, stretching itself out on the plain, lying on the shore of the lake. Birds, disturbed in their sleep, flew away. Owls screeched and flew from one limb to another. But Elias neither heard nor saw them. He thought he was being followed by the infuriated shades of his ancestors. He saw the horrible basket hanging from every branch with the blood-covered head of Balat, just as his father had described it to him. He thought he saw the dead body of his grandmother lying at the foot of every tree. He seemed to see the skeleton of his dishonored grandfather in the darkness, and the skeleton, the old woman, and the head all cried out to him, "Coward! Coward!"

He left the mountain and fled down toward the sea. He ran along the beach in agitation. But there in the distance, amid the waves, where the light of the moon seemed to raise a fog, he thought he saw a shade raise itself, the shade of his sister, with her breast covered with blood, her hair hanging loose in the air.

Elias fell upon his knees on the sand.

"And you, too!" he cried stretching out his arms.

Then, with his eyes fixed on the fog, he arose slowly and, advancing toward it, went into the water as if to follow somebody. He waded on over the gentle slope of the beach which forms the bar. He was already far from the shore and the water was up to his belt. He went on and on, as if fascinated by a seducing spirit. The water was now up to his breast. Suddenly, the discharge of musketry awoke him from his dream, the vision disappeared, and the young man returned to reality. He stopped, reflected, and noticed that he was in the water. The lake was smooth and he could still see the lights in the fishermen's huts.

He returned to the shore and made his way toward the town. What for? He himself did not know.

The town seemed uninhabited. The houses were all closed. Even the animals, the dogs which are accustomed to bark at night, had hid themselves through fear. The silvery light of the moon increased the sadness and solitude.

Afraid of meeting the Civil Guards, he went through the orchards and gardens. In one of the gardens he thought he saw two human forms, but he continued his way. Jumping over fences and walls, he arrived after great labor at the other side of the town, and directed his steps toward Ibarra's house. The servants were in the door, lamenting and commenting on the arrest of their master.

Aware of what had passed, Elias went away, but returned to the house, leaped over the wall, crawled through a window and went into the cabinet or laboratory, where the candle which Ibarra had left was still burning.

Elias saw the papers and the books. He found the arms and the little sacks which contained the money and the jewelry. All that had passed ran through his imagination again, and, seeing all the papers which might incriminate Ibarra, he thought of collecting them, throwing them through the window and burying them.

He glanced toward the garden and, by the light of the moon, he saw two Civil Guards coming with an adjutant. Their bayonets and helmets were glistening in the light.

Then he decided. He piled up the clothes and papers in the middle of the cabinet, emptied the oil in a lamp upon the pile and set fire to it. He quickly buckled the arms around him. He saw the picture of Maria Clara, hesitated—put it in one of the little sacks, and jumped out of the window with them all.

It was already time, for the two Civil Guards were forcing their entrance.

"Let us go up to get your master's papers," said the adjutant.

"Have you permission? If not, you shall not go up!" said an old servant.

But the soldiers pushed the servants aside with the butts of their guns and went upstairs. A thick smoke was already filling the whole house, and gigantic tongues of flame were coming out from the sala, licking the doors and windows.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!" they all cried.

Each hurried to save what he could, but the fire had filled the small laboratory, breaking out furiously among the inflammable materials. The Civil Guards had to turn back. The fire, roaring and sweeping all before it, closed the passage to them. In vain they brought water from the well. All were shouting, and crying for help, but they were isolated. The fire reached the other rooms and in thick columns of smoke ascended to the heavens. Some peasants came from a distance, but they arrived only in time to see the frightful spectacle, the end of that old building, so long respected by the elements.



CHAPTER XXXVI

WHAT PEOPLE SAY AND THINK.

Day dawned at last for the terrorized people. The streets in which the cuartel and the tribunal were situated were still deserted and solitary. The houses showed no signs of life. However, a shutter was opened with a creaking noise and an infant head stuck out and looked in all directions.... Slap!... A sound announces hard contact between a strip of leather and a human body. The child made a grimace, closed its eyes and disappeared. The shutter was closed again.

The example had been set. Without any doubt the opening and closing of the shutter has been heard, for another window was opened very slowly and cautiously and a wrinkled and toothless old woman thrust out her head. She was called Sister Rute. She looked about, knit her brows, spit noisily and then crossed herself. In the house opposite, a little window was timidly opened and her friend, Sister Rufa appeared. They looked at each other for a moment, smiled, made some signals, and again crossed themselves.

"Jesus! It was like a thanksgiving mass," said Sister Rufa.

"Since the time that Balat sacked the town I have never seen a night like it," replied Sister Pute.

"What a lot of shots! They say that it was old Pablo's gang."

"Tulisanes? It couldn't be. They say that it was the cuaderilleros against the Civil Guards. For this reason, they have arrested Don Filipo."

"Sanctus Deus! They say that there are no less than fourteen killed."

Other windows were opened and different faces appeared, exchanging salutations and commenting on the affair.

In the light of the day—which promised to be a splendid one—could be seen in the distance, like ash-colored shadows, soldiers hurrying about in confusion.

"There goes another corpse!" said some one from one of the windows.

"One? I see two."

"And so do I. But do you know what it was?" asked a man with a crafty face.

"Certainly. The cuaderilleros."

"No, Senor. An uprising at the cuartel."

"What uprising? The curate against the alferez?"

"No, nothing of the sort," said he who had asked the question. "The Chinese have risen in revolt."

And he closed his window again.

"The Chinese!" repeated all, with the greatest astonishment.

In a quarter of an hour other versions of the affair were in circulation. Ibarra, with his servants, it was said, had tried to steal Maria Clara, and Captain Tiago, aided by the Guardia Civil had defended her.

By this time the number of the dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. Captain Tiago, it was said, was wounded and was going right off to Manila with his family.

The arrival of two cuaderilleros, carrying a human form in a wheelbarrow, and followed by a Civil Guard, produced a great sensation. It was supposed that they came from the convent. From the form of the feet which were hanging down, they tried to guess who it could be. By half-past seven, when other Civil Guards arrived from neighboring towns, the current version of the affair was already clear and detailed.

"I have just come from the tribunal, where I have seen Don Filipo and Don Crisostomo prisoners," said a man to Sister Pute. "I talked with one of the cuaderilleros on guard. Well, Bruno, the son of the man who was whipped to death, made a declaration last night. As you know, Captain Tiago is going to marry his daughter to a Spaniard. Don Crisostomo, offended, wanted to take revenge and tried to kill all the Spaniards, even the curate. Last night they attacked the convent and the cuartel. Happily, by mercy of God, the curate was in Captain Tiago's house. They say that many escaped. The Civil Guards burned Don Crisostomo's house, and if they had not taken him prisoner, they would have burned him, too."

"They burned the house?"

"All the servants were arrested. Why, you can still see the smoke from here!" said the narrator, approaching the window. "Those who come from there relate very sad things."

All looked toward the place indicated. A light column of smoke was still ascending to the heavens. All made comments more or less pious, more or less accusatory.

"Poor young man!" exclaimed an old man, the husband of Pute.

"Yes!" replied his wife. "But he did not order a mass for the soul of his father, who undoubtedly needs it more than others."

"But wife, you don't have any pity...."

"Sympathy for the excommunicated? It is a sin to have pity for the enemies of God, say the curates. Don't you remember? He ran over the sacred burial ground as if he were in a cattle pen."

"But a cattle pen and a cemetery are much alike," responded the old man, "except that but one class of animals enter the cemetery."

"What!" cried Sister Pute. "Are you still going to defend him whom God so clearly punishes? You will see that they will arrest you, too. You may support a falling house, if you want to!"

The husband became silent in view of this argument.

"Yes," continued the old woman, "after striking Father Damaso, there was nothing left for him to do but to kill Father Salvi."

"But you can't deny that he was a good boy when he was a child."

"Yes, he was a good child," replied the old woman, "but he went to Spain. All those who go to Spain return heretics, so the curates say."

"Oh!" exclaimed the husband, seeing his revenge. "And the curate, and all the curates, and the Archbishops, and the Pope, and the Virgin—are they not Spaniards? Bah! Are they heretics, too? Bah!"

Happily for Sister Pute, the arrival of a servant, who rushed in confused and pale, cut off the discussion.

"A man hanged in a neighboring orchard!" she exclaimed breathless.

"A man hanged!" exclaimed all, full of amazement.

The women crossed themselves. No one could stir.

"Yes, Senor," continued the servant, trembling. "I was going to gather some peas in.... I looked into the orchard next door ... to see if there ... I saw a man swinging.... I thought it was Teo ... I went nearer to gather peas, and I saw that it was not he but it was another, and was dead ... I ran, ran and...."

"Let us go and see it," said the old man, rising. "Take us there."

"Don't go!" cried Sister Pute, seizing him by the shirt.

"You'll get into trouble! He has hanged himself? Then all the worse for him!"

"Let me see it, wife! Go to the tribunal, Juan, and report it. Perhaps he is not dead yet."

And he went ino[typo, should be into?] the orchard, followed by the servant, who kept hid behind him. The women and Sister Pute herself came along behind, full of terror and curiosity.

"There it is, Senor," said the servant stopping him and pointing with her finger.

The group stopped at a respectful distance, allowing the old man to advance alone.

The body of a man, hanging from the limb of a santol tree, was swinging slowly in the breeze. The old man contemplated it for some time. He looked at the rigid feet, the arms, the stained clothing and the drooping head.

"We ought not to touch the corpse until some official has arrived," said he, in a loud voice. "He is already stiff. He has been dead for some time."

The women approached hesitatingly.

"It is the neighbor who lived in that little house; the one who arrived only two weeks ago. Look at the scar on his face."

"Ave Maria!" exclaimed some of the women.

"Shall we pray for his soul?" asked a young girl as soon as she had finished looking at the dead body from all directions.

"You fool! You heretic!" Sister Pute scolded her. "Don't you know what Father Damaso said? To pray for a damned person is to tempt God. He who commits suicide is irrevocably condemned. For this reason, he cannot be buried in a sacred place. I had begun to think that this man was going to have a bad ending. I never could guess what he lived on."

"I saw him twice speaking with the sacristan mayor," observed a girl.

"It couldn't have been to confess himself or to order a mass!"

The neighbors gathered together and a large circle surrounded the corpse which was still swinging. In half an hour some officers and two cuaderilleros arrived. They took the body down and put it in a wheelbarrow.