"Some people are in a hurry to die," said one of the officers, laughing, while he took out the pen from behind his ear.

He asked some trifling questions; took the declaration of the servant, whom he tried to implicate, now looking at her with evil in his eyes, now threatening her and now attributing to her words which she did not say—so much so that the servant, believing that she was going to be taken to jail, began to weep and finished by declaring that she was looking for peas, but that ... and she called Teo to witness.

In the meantime, a peasant with a wide hat and a large plaster on his neck, was examining the body, and the rope by which it was hanging.

The face was no more livid than the rest of the body. Above the rope could be seen two scars and two small bruises. Where the rope had rubbed, there was no blood and the skin was white. The curious peasant examined closely the camisa and the pantaloons. He noted that they were full of dust and recently torn in some places. But what most attracted his attention were the "stick-tights" [22] on his clothing, even up to his neck.

"What do you see?" asked the officer.

"I was trying to identify him, senor," stammered the peasant, lowering his hat further from his uncovered head.

"But haven't you heard that it was one Lucas? Were you sleeping?"

All began to laugh. The peasant, embarrassed, muttered a few words, and went away with head down, walking slowly.

"Here! Where are you going?" cried the old man. "You can't get out that way. That's the way to the dead man's house."

"That fellow is still asleep," said the officer with a jeer. "We'll have to throw some water on him!"

Those standing around laughed again.

The peasant left the place where he had played so poor a part and directed his steps toward the church. In the sacristy, he asked for the sacristan mayor.

"He is still sleeping!" they replied gruffly. "Don't you know that they sacked the convent last night?"

"I will wait till he awakes."

The sacristans looked at him with that rudeness characteristic of people who are in the habit of being ill-treated.

In a dark corner, the one-eyed sacristan mayor was sleeping in a large chair. His spectacles were across his forehead among his long locks of hair. His squalid, bony breast was bare, and rose and fell with regularity.

The peasant sat down near by, disposed to wait patiently, but a coin fell on the floor and he began looking for it with the aid of a candle, under the sacristan mayor's big chair. The peasant also noted "stick-tights" on the sleeping man's pantaloons and on the arms of his camisa. The sacristan awoke at last, rubbed his good eye, and, in a very bad humor, reproached the man.

"I would like to order a mass said, senor," replied he in a tone of excuse.

"They have already finished all the masses," said the one-eyed man, softening his accent a little. "If you want it for to-morrow.... Is it for souls in Purgatory?"

"No, senor;" replied the peasant, giving him a peso.

And looking fixedly in his one eye, he added:

"It is for a person who is going to die soon." And he left the sacristy. "I could have seized him last night," he added, sighingly as he removed the plaster from his neck. And he straightened up and regained the stature and appearance of Elias.



CHAPTER XXXVII

VAE VICTIS!

Civil Guards were passing with a sinister air to and fro in front of the door of the tribunal, threatening with the butts of their guns the daring boys who stood on tip-toe or raised each other up in order to look through the grates in the windows.

The sala did not present that same joyful aspect as it did when the program for the festival was being discussed. It was gloomy and the silence was almost death-like. The Civil Guards and the cuaderilleros who were occupying the room scarcely spoke and the few words that they did pronounce were in a low tone. Around the table sat the directorcillo, two writers and some soldiers scribbling papers. The alferez walked from one side to the other, looking from time to time ferociously toward the door. Themistocles after the battle of Salamis could not have shown more pride at the Olympic games. Dona Consolacion yawned in one corner of the room, and disclosed her black palate and her crooked teeth. Her cold and evil look was fixed on the door of the jail, covered with indecent pictures. Her husband, made amiable by the victory, had yielded to her request to be allowed to witness the interrogation and, perhaps, the tortures which were to follow. The hyena smelled the dead body, she licked her chops and was wearied at the delay in the punishment.

The gobernadorcillo's chair, that large chair under the portrait of His Majesty, was empty and seemed destined for some other person.

At nearly nine o'clock, the curate, pale and with eyebrows knit, arrived.

"Well, you haven't made any one wait!" said the alferez sarcastically to the friar.

"I would have preferred not to be present," replied Father Salvi, in a low voice, without taking notice of the bitter tone.... "I am very nervous."

"As no one came, I decided that, in order not to leave the chair empty, your presence.... You already know that the prisoners are to leave town this afternoon."

"Young Ibarra and the teniente mayor?"

The alferez pointed toward the jail.

"Eight are in there," said he. "Bruno died last night at midnight, but his declaration has been obtained."

The curate saluted Dona Consolacion, who responded with a yawn and an "aah!" The friar took the big chair under the picture of His Majesty.

"We can begin," said he.

"Bring out the two who are in the stocks!" ordered the alferez in his most terrifying voice. And turning to the curate, he added, changing his tone:

"They are fastened in the stocks with two holes vacant!"

For those who are interested in instruments of torture, we will say that the stocks is one of the most innocent. The holes in which are fastened the legs of the prisoner are a little more or less than a palm apart. Leaving two holes vacant, and putting the prisoner's legs in the holes on either side, would make the position strained, so that the ankles would suffer peculiarly and the lower extremities be stretched apart more than a yard. It does not kill instantly, as may well be imagined.

The turnkey, followed by four soldiers, drew back the bolt and opened the door. A nauseating odor, and the thick, damp air escaped from the dense darkness of the prison and, at the same time, groans and sighs were heard. A soldier lighted a match, but the flame was extinguished in that foul, vitiated atmosphere, and they had to wait till the air was renewed.

In the vague light of a candle, several human forms could be discerned. They were men, some of whom locked their arms around their knees and hid their heads between them, others were lying down, with their mouths to the ground, some standing, and some leaning against the wall. A blow and a creaking sound was heard, accompanied by oaths; the stocks were being opened.

Dona Consolacion's body was bent forward, the muscles of her neck were rigid, her eyes riveted to the half open door.

Between the soldiers came out Tarsilo, the brother of Bruno. He wore handcuffs. His torn clothes disclosed well-developed muscles. His eyes were fixed insolently on the alferez's wife.

"This is the one who defended himself most bravely, and who ordered his companions to flee," said the alferez to Father Salvi.

Behind came another miserable sight, a man crying and weeping like a child. He was limping and his pantaloons were stained with blood.

"Mercy, senor, have mercy! I will not enter the cuartel yard again," he cried.

"He is a crafty fellow," said the alferez, speaking to the curate. "He wanted to flee, but had received a flesh wound."

"What is your name?" asked the alferez, speaking to Tarsilo.

"Tarsilo Alasigan."

"What did Don Crisostomo promise you for attacking the cuartel?"

"Don Crisostomo has never communicated with us."

"Don't deny it! You wanted to surprise us for him!"

"You are mistaken. You whipped our father to death. We avenged him and nothing more. Look for your two soldiers!"

The alferez looked at the sergeant, surprised.

"They are at the bottom of that precipice. We threw them there yesterday. There they will rot. Now kill me! You will know nothing more."

Silence and general surprise.

"You are not going to tell who were your accomplices?" said the alferez in a threatening manner and brandishing a whip.

A scornful smile curled the lips of the culprit.

The alferez conferred for some minutes with the curate in a low voice. Then turning to the soldiers, he ordered:

"Take him to where the dead bodies are!"

In a corner of the yard, upon an old wagon, were five bodies close together and half covered by a filthy piece of torn matting. A soldier on guard was pacing up and down, and constantly spitting.

"Do you recognize them?" asked the alferez, lifting the matting.

Tarsilo did not respond. He saw the dead body of Pedro, with two others; one, his own brother, riddled with bayonet wounds, and the other, Lucas, with the rope still around his neck. His look became gloomy and a sigh seemed to escape from his breast.

"Do you know them?" they asked him.

Tarsilo remained silent.

There was a whistling sound and the whip came down across his back. He trembled, and his muscles contracted. The lashes were repeated, but Tarsilo continued impassive.

"Let them whip him till they cut him to pieces or till he makes a declaration," cried the alferez, exasperated.

"Speak then!" said the directorcillo to him. "They will surely kill you."

They led him back to the sala of the tribunal, where the other prisoner was invoking God, grating his teeth and shaking on his legs.

"Do you know this man?" asked Father Salvi.

"This is the first time I have ever seen him," replied Tarsilo, looking with a certain pity on the other.

The alferez gave him a cuff with his fist and kicked him.

"Tie him to the bench!"

Without taking off the bloody handcuffs, he was fastened to the wooden bench. The unhappy fellow looked about him as if in search of some one, and his eyes fell on Dona Consolacion. He smiled sardonically. Those present were surprised and followed his glance and saw the senora. She was biting her lips.

"I have never seen an uglier woman," exclaimed Tarsilo amid the general silence. "I prefer to lie down on this bench as I am doing than to lie by her side, like the alferez."

The Muse turned pale.

"You are going to whip me to death, alferez," he continued, "but to-night I will be avenged by your woman."

"Gag him!" shouted the alferez, furious and trembling with rage.

It seemed as though Tarsilo had wanted the gag, for when he had it in his mouth, his eyes gleamed with a ray of satisfaction.

At a signal from the alferez a guard, armed with a whip, began his cruel task. The whole body of Tarsilo shrank. A groan, suppressed and prolonged, could be heard in spite of the rag which stopped up his mouth. He lowered his head. His clothes were being stained with blood.

Father Salvi, pale and with a wild look, rose to his feet laboriously, made a sign with his hand and left the sala with vacillating steps. In the street, he saw a girl, leaning her back against the wall, rigid, immovable, listening attentively, looking into space, her marble-like hands extended along the old wall. The sun was shining full upon her. She was counting, it seemed without breathing, the sharp blows and listening to that heart-rending groan. She was Tarsilo's sister.

In the meantime, the scene was continuing in the sala. The unfortunate fellow, overcome with pain, had become silent and waited for his punishers to tire. At last, the soldier breathless, let fall his arm. The alferez, pale with wrath and astonishment, made a signal for them to unloose him.

Dona Consolacion then arose and whispered something into her husband's ear. He nodded his head, signifying that he understood.

"To the well with him!" said he.

The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalog they call it timbain. We do not know who could have been the inventor of this method of punishment, but we are of the opinion that he must have lived long ago. In the middle of the tribunal yard there was a picturesque stone-wall, roughly made out of cobble stones, around a well. A rustic apparatus of bamboo in the form of a lever serves to draw out the vile, dirty and bad smelling water. Broken dishes, refuse and all sorts of filth collected there, since the well was a common receptacle for everything that the people threw away or found useless. An object which fell into the place, no matter how good it may have been, was thereafter surely lost. However, the well was never closed up. At times, prisoners were condemned to go down and make it deeper, not because it was thought that the work would be useful in any way, but because the work was so difficult. If a prisoner went down in the well once, he invariably contracted a fever, from which he died.

Tarsilo contemplated all the preparations of the soldiers with a firm look. He was very pale and his lips were trembling or murmuring a prayer. The haughtiness of his desperation seemed to have disappeared, or at least to have weakened. A number of times he bent his head, fixed his eyes on the ground, resigned to his suffering.

They took him to one side of the stone wall. Dona Consolacion followed smiling. The unfortunate wretch glanced enviously toward the pile of dead bodies, and a sigh escaped from his breast.

"Speak now!" said the directorcillo again. "They will certainly drown you. At least, die without having suffered so much."

"When you come out of this, you will die," said a cuaderillero.

They took the gag out of his mouth and hung him by his feet. He had to go down head first and remain under the water some time just like a bucket, except that a man is left under the water a longer time.

The alferez went to look for a watch that he might count the minutes.

In the meantime, Tarsilo was hanging, his long hair waving in the air and his eyes half closed.

"If you are Christians, if you have hearts," he begged, in a low voice, "let me down rapidly and make my head strike against the wall that I may die. God would reward such a good deed.... Perhaps some day you will be in the same straits as I am now."

The alferez returned and with watch in hand witnessed the descent.

"Slowly, slowly!" cried Dona Consolacion following the poor fellow with her eyes. "Be careful!"

The pole was being lowered slowly. Tarsilo rubbed against the projecting stones and the dirty plants which grew in the crevices. Then, the pole ceased to move. The alferez was counting the seconds.

"Up!" he ordered dryly, at the end of a half minute.

The silvery harmony of the drops of water falling back into the well, announced the return of the unfortunate man to the light. As the weight on the end of the lever was heavy, he came up quickly. The rough pieces of stone and pebbles, torn loose from the walls, fell with splashes to the bottom.

His face and hair full of filthy mud, his body wet and dripping, he appeared again in the sight of the silent crowd. The wind made him shiver with cold.

"Do you want to make a declaration?" they asked him.

"Take care of my sister!" the unhappy one murmured, looking at the cuaderillero, with supplication.

The bamboo pole creaked again, and again the condemned man disappeared. Dona Consolacion observed that the water remained still. The alferez counted a minute.

When Tarsilo came up again, his face was livid and his features contracted. He glanced at those standing around and kept open his bloodshot eyes.

"Will you make a declaration?" asked the alferez again, with vexation.

Tarsilo shook his head and again they let him down. His eyelids were almost closed and his eyes were gazing at the white clouds floating in the heavens. He bent his neck to keep sight of the light of day, but he was soon submerged in the water. That filthy curtain closed from him the sight of the world.

A minute passed. The Muse saw large bubbles of air come up to the surface of the water.

"He is thirsty," said she, laughing.

The water was again smooth.

This time a minute and a half had passed when the alferez gave the signal.

Tarsilo's features were no longer contracted. The half opened lids showed the white of his eyes. Muddy water, clotted with blood, ran out of his mouth. The cool wind was blowing, but his body no longer shivered.

Those present, pale and terrified, looked at each other in silence. The alferez made a signal for them to take him down from where he was hanging, and stepped aside for a few moments. Dona Consolacion a number of times applied the lighted end of her cigar to the bare legs of Tarsilo, but his body did not quiver. It put out the light.

"He has asphyxiated himself," murmured a cuaderillero. "See how his tongue is turned, as if he wanted to swallow it."

The other prisoner, trembling and perspiring, contemplated the scene. Like a madman he looked about him.

The alferez ordered the directorcillo to question him.

"Senor, Senor," he groaned. "I will tell you all that you wish."

"Good. Let us see! What is your name?"

"Andong, Senor!"

"Bernardo ... Leonardo ... Ricardo ... Educardo. Gerardo ... or what?"

"Andong, Senor," repeated the imbecile.

"Call it Bernardo or whatever you please," said the alferez, decided not to bother more about it.

"What family name?"

The man looked at him frightened.

"What's your name? What do you add to the name Andong?"

"Ah, Senor! Andong Medio-tonto (half-fool), Senor."

Those standing around could not resist a laugh. The alferez himself stopped short.

"What is your business?"

"Cocoanut tree pruner, Senor, and servant for my mother-in-law."

"Who ordered you to attack the cuartel?"

"Nobody, Senor."

"What's that; nobody? Don't you lie or we will put you in the well. Who ordered you to do it? Speak the truth."

"That's the truth, Senor."

"Who?"

"Who?"

"I ask you who ordered you to revolt."

"What revolt, Senor?"

"That one last night, when you were in the tribunal yard."

"Ah, Senor!" exclaimed Andong, blushing.

"Who was to blame for that?"

"My mother-in-law, Senor."

A laugh of surprise followed this reply. The alferez stopped and looked sharply at the simple peasant, who believed that his words had produced a good effect. More animated, he was about to continue when the crack of a whip cut him short.

"To the jail!" ordered the alferez. "This afternoon, send him to the capital."



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE ACCURSED.

The news that the prisoners were going to depart spread quickly through the town. At first, the news was heard with terror; afterward, came tears and lamentations.

The members of the families of the prisoners were running about madly. They would go from the convent to the cuartel from the cuartel to the tribunal, and not finding consolation anywhere, they filled the air with cries and moans. The curate had shut himself up because he was ill. The alferez had increased his guards, who received the supplicants with the butts of their guns. The gobernadorcillo, a useless being, anyway, seemed more stupid and useless than ever.

The sun was burning hot, but none of the unhappy women who were gathered in front of the cuartel thought of that. Doray, the gay and happy wife of Don Filipo, wandered about, with her tender little child in her arms. Both were crying.

"Get out of the sun," they said to her. "Your son will catch a fever."

"What is the use of his living if he has no father to educate him?" replied the dispirited woman.

"Your husband is innocent. Perhaps he will return."

"Yes, when we are in our graves."

Capitana Tinay wept and cried for her son, Antonio. The courageous Capitana Maria gazed toward the small grate, behind which were her twins, her only sons.

There, too, was the mother-in-law of the cocoanut tree pruner. She was not crying; she was walking to and fro, gesticulating, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and haranguing the public.

"Have you ever seen anything equal to it?" said she. "They arrest my Andong, wound him, put him in the stocks, and take him to the capital, all because he happened to be in the cuartel yard."

But few people had any sympathy for the Mussulman mother-in-law.

"Don Crisostomo is to blame for all of this," sighed a woman.

The school teacher also was wandering about in the crowd. Nor Juan was no longer rubbing his hands, nor was he carrying his yard stick and plumb line. He had heard the bad news and, faithful to his custom of seeing the future as a thing that had already happened, he was dressed in mourning, mourning for the death of Ibarra.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, an uncovered cart, drawn by two oxen, stopped in front of the tribunal.

The cart was surrounded by the crowd. They wanted to destroy it.

"Don't do that!" said Capitana Maria. "Do you want them to walk?"

This remark stopped the relatives of the prisoners. Twenty soldiers came out and surrounded the cart. Then came the prisoners.

The first was Don Filipo; he was tied. He greeted his wife with a smile. Doray broke into a bitter lamentation and two soldiers had to work hard to keep her from embracing her husband. Antonio, the son of Captain Tinay, next appeared, crying like a child—a fact which made the family cry all the more. The imbecile, Andong, broke out in a wail when he saw his mother-in-law, the cause of his misfortune. Albino, the former seminary student, came out with his hands tied, as did also the twin sons of Capitana Maria. These three youths were serious and grave. The last who came was Ibarra. The young man was pale. He looked about for the face of Maria Clara.

"That is the one who is to blame!" cried many voices. "He is to blame and he will go free."

"My son-in-law has done nothing and he is handcuffed."

Ibarra turned to the guards.

"Tie me, and tie me well, elbow to elbow," said he.

"We have no orders."

"Tie me!"

The soldiers obeyed.

The alferez appeared on horse-back, armed to the teeth. Ten or fifteen more soldiers followed him.

Each of the prisoners had there in the crowd his family praying for him, weeping for him, and calling him by the most affectionate names. Ibarra was the only exception. Even Nor Juan himself and the school-teacher had disappeared.

"What have you done to my husband and my son?" said Doray to Ibarra, crying. "See my poor boy! You have deprived him of a father!"

The grief of the people was changed to wrath against the young man, accused of having provoked the riot. The alferez gave orders to depart.

"You are a coward!" cried the mother-in-law of Andong to Ibarra. "While the others were fighting for you, you were hiding. Coward!"

"Curses upon you!" shouted an old man following him. "Cursed be the gold hoarded up by your family to disturb our peace! Curse him! Curse him!"

"May they hang you, heretic!" cried one of Albino's relatives. And unable to restrain himself, he picked up a stone and threw it at Ibarra.

The example was quickly imitated, and a shower of dust and stones fell on the unfortunate youth.

Ibarra suffered it all, impassive, without wrath, without a complaint—the unjust vengeance of suffering hearts. This was the leave-taking, the "adios" tendered to him by his town, the center of all his affections. He bowed his head. Perhaps he was thinking of another man, whipped through the streets of Manila, of an old woman falling dead at the sight of the head of her son. Perhaps the history of Elias was passing before his eyes.

The cortege moved slowly on and away.

Of the persons who appeared in a few opened windows, those who showed the most compassion for the unfortunate young man were the indifferent and the curious. All his friends had hidden themselves; yes, even Captain Basilio, who forbade his daughter Sinang to weep.

Ibarra saw the smouldering ruins of his house, of the house of his fathers where he had been born, where he had lived the sweetest days of his infancy and childhood. Tears, for a long time suppressed, burst from his eyes. He bowed his head and wept, wept without the consolation of being able to hide his weeping, tied as he was by the elbows. Nor did that grief awaken compassion in anybody. Now he had neither fatherland, home, love, friends or future.

From a height a man contemplated the funeral-like caravan. He was old, pale, thin, wrapped in a woollen blanket and was leaning with fatigue on a cane. It was old Tasio, who as soon as he heard of what had happened wanted to leave his bed and attend, but his strength would not permit it. The old man followed with his eyes the cart until it disappeared in the distance. He stood for some time, pensive and his head bowed down; then he arose, and laboriously started on the road to his house, resting at every step.

The following day, shepherds found him dead on the very threshold of his solitary retreat.



CHAPTER XXXIX

MARIA CLARA IS MARRIED.

Captain Tiago was very happy. During all this terrible time nobody had busied himself with him. They had not arrested him, nor had they submitted him to excommunications, court trials, electrical machines, continual hot foot baths in subterranean places, or to any of the other punishments which are well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. He had returned to his Manila house. Those who had been the Captain's friends—for he had renounced all his Filipino friends from the moment that they were suspected by the Government—had also returned to their homes after some days of vacation spent in the Government buildings. The Governor General had himself ordered these people to leave their possessions, for he had not thought it fitting that they should remain in them during the great danger.

Captain Tiago was overflowing with gratitude, but he did not know exactly to whom he was indebted for such signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo, to the Virgin of the Rosary, or at least to the Virgin of Carmen. The least that she would concede was that it was due to Our Lady of Corea. According to the Aunt, the miracle was certainly due to one of these Virgins. Captain Tiago did not deny that it was a miracle, but he added:

"I do not believe, Isabel, that the Virgin of Antipolo could have done it alone. My friends have aided in it; my future son-in-law, Senor Linares has, as you know, joked with Senor Antonio Canovas himself, whose portrait we saw in 'Illustracion.'"

And the good man could not suppress a smile every time that he heard any important news about the event. And there was good reason for it. It was whispered about that Ibarra was going to be hanged; that, even if many proofs had been lacking, at last one had appeared which could confirm the accusation; and that skilled workmen had declared that, as a matter of fact, the work for the school-house could pass for a fort or a fortification. Even if defective in some parts, that was as much as could be expected from ignorant Indians. These rumors quieted the Captain and made him smile.

Just as the Captain and his cousin, Aunt Isabel, were of different opinions about the miracle, so, too, the other friends of the family were divided into different parties—those who followed the miracle monger, and those who followed the Government. The latter party, however, was quite insignificant. The miracle mongers were sub-divided into other factions: the Sacristan Mayor of Binondo, the woman who sold the wax candles, and the chief of one of the brotherhoods, all saw the hand of God in the miracle, moved by the Virgin of the Rosary. The Chinese candle maker, who provided the Captain whenever he went on a pilgrimage to Antipolo, was saying as he sat fanning himself and wiggling his foot:

"What for you b'long foolish? Thisee belong Mergin Antipolo. She can do muchy more: others, no can do. No b'long plopper say pidgin b'long other man."

Captain Tiago held the Chinaman in great estimation and made him pass for a prophet and doctor. Examining the hand of his deceased wife in the sixth month of her pregnancy, he had prophesied:

"If thisee one no b'long man, and no go dead side, will b'long bery good woman."

And so it was that Maria Clara came to this earth and fulfilled the Chinaman's prophecy.

Captain Tiago, being a prudent and timid person, could not decide the question of the miracle as easily as the Trojan Paris. He could not give preference to one of the Virgins for fear of offending some other of them, a thing which might bring about grave results. "Prudence," he said to himself. "Be prudent! Let us not lose all now."

He was in the midst of these doubts when the party in favor of the Government, or the Governmental party, arrived, viz., Dona Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares.

Dona Victorina did all the talking for the three men and for herself also. She mentioned the visits which Linares had made to the Governor General, and repeatedly brought out the benefits derived from having a relative of categoria.

For some days past, she had been trying to be Andalusian by suppressing the d in all words and in changing the s to z. No one could get the idea out of her head; she would prefer to lose her front curls first.

"Yes," she said, in speaking of Ibarra. "That fellow merits very well all that he is going to get. I told you so when I saw him for the first time. I told you he was a filibustero. What did the General tell you, cousin? What did he say? What news did you give him about Ibarra?"

Seeing that the cousin hesitated in his reply, she went on, directing her words to Captain Tiago.

"Believe me, if they convict him, as is to be hoped, it will be through my cousin."

"Senora, Senora!" protested Linares.

But she did not give him any time.

"Oh, what a diplomat you have turned out to be! But we all know that you are the adviser of the Governor General, that he could not live without you. Ah! What a pleasure to see you, Clarita."

Maria Clara seemed paler than ever, although she was now quite recovered from her illness. Sadly smiling, she approached and greeted Dona Victorina with a formal kiss.

After the customary words had been exchanged, Dona went on with her false Andalusian.

"We came to visit you. You have been saved by the efforts of your friends,"—looking significantly at Linares.

"God has protected my father," said the girl, in a low voice.

"Yes, Clarita, but the time for miracles has passed long ago. As we Spaniards say: 'Have no trust in the Virgin and save yourself by running.'"

"The—th—the ot—ot—other way," said the doctor, correcting her proverbial quotation.

Captain Tiago, who had not yet found opportunity to say a word, ventured to ask her, giving much attention to her reply: "So you, Dona Victorina, believe that the Virgin...?"

"That is precisely what we came for, to speak to you about the Virgin," replied she, indicating Maria Clara. "We have a matter to talk over."

The maiden understood that she ought to retire. She sought an excuse and went away, supporting herself on the furniture as she walked along.

What was said in the conference which followed was so low and mean that we prefer to omit it. It is sufficient for us to say that when they took their leave all were happy, and that Captain Tiago afterward said to his cousin:

"Isabel, send word to the restaurant that we are going to give a fiesta to-morrow. You get Maria ready to be married in a short time."

Aunt Isabel looked at him, surprised.

"You will see! When Senor Linares is our son-in-law all the palaces will be open to us. They will be envying us; they will all die with envy."

And thus it was that at eight o'clock on the following evening, Captain Tiago's house was again full of guests, only that this time the men whom he had invited were either Spaniards or Chinamen, while the fair sex was represented by Spaniards born in the Peninsula or in the Philippines.

The larger part of our acquaintances was there: Father Sibyla, Father Salvi and several other Franciscans and Dominicans, the old lieutenant of the Civil Guard, Senor Guevara, more melancholy than ever; the alferez, who related his battle for the thousandth time, feeling himself head and shoulders above everybody and a veritable Don Juan de Austria, now a lieutenant with the rank of commander; De Espadana, who looked at the former with respect and fear and avoided his glance; and the indignant Dona Victorina. Linares was not yet present, for, being a very important personage, it was fitting that he should arrive later than the others.

Maria Clara, the subject of all the gossip, was the center of a group of women. She had greeted and received them ceremoniously, but did not throw off her air of sadness.

"Psh!" said one of the girls. "A little stuck-up!"

"A cute little thing," replied another, "but he might have selected some one of a more intelligent appearance."

"It's the money; he's a good-looking fellow and sells himself for a good price."

In another part of the room they were talking like this:

"Marry, when her former betrothed is about to be hanged!"

"I call that prudence; to have one on hand as a substitute."

Possibly the young maiden heard these remarks as she sat in a chair near by, arranging a tray of flowers, for her hand was seen to tremble, she turned pale and bit her lips a number of times.

The conversation among the men was in a loud tone. Naturally, they were conversant with the recent happenings. All were talking, even Don Tiburcio, with the exception of Father Sibyla, who maintained a disdainful silence.

"I have heard that Your Reverence leaves the town, Father Salvi?" asked the newly made lieutenant, now made more amiable by the star on his sleeve.

"I have nothing more to do now in San Diego. I am permanently settled in Manila now ... and you?"

"I also leave the town," replied the former alferez, straightening up. "The Government needs me to take command of a flying column to clear the provinces of filibusteros."

Friar Salvi looked him over from head to foot, and turned his back to him completely.

"Is it yet known for a certainty what is to become of the leader of the revolutionists?" asked a Government employee.

"Are you referring to Crisostomo Ibarra?" asked another. "What is most probable and most just is that he be hanged, as those were in '72."

"He will be exiled," said the old lieutenant, dryly.

"Exiled! Nothing more than exiled! But it will be a perpetual exile!" exclaimed several at the same time.

"If that young fellow," Lieutenant Guevara went on to say in a loud voice, "had been more cautious; if he had trusted certain people less with whom he had correspondence; and if the officers had not made a subtle interpretation of what was written—if it had not been for all of this, that young man would surely have gone free."

This statement by the old lieutenant and the tone of his voice produced a great surprise in the room. Those who heard it did not know what to say. Father Salvi looked in another direction, perhaps so as not to meet the dark look which the old man directed toward him. Maria Clara dropped her flowers and sat motionless. Father Sibyla, the one who knew how to keep silent, appeared to be the only one who knew how to ask questions.

"Are you referring to the letters, Senor Guevara?"

"I am telling what the defendant's attorney told me. He has taken up the case with zeal and interest. Aside from some ambiguous lines which this young man wrote to a young woman before departing for Europe, they have found no proof to sustain the accusation. In these few lines, the officers saw a plan and threat against the Government."

"And what about the declaration made by the bandit before he died?"

"That statement has proved of no account, since, according to the bandit himself, the conspirators never had communicated with the young man, but only with one, Lucas, who was Ibarra's enemy, as they have been able to prove, and who committed suicide, perhaps from remorse. It has been proved that the papers found in the possession of the dead man were forged, since the handwriting was like that of Ibarra seven years ago, but not like that of to-day—a fact which shows that it was copied from the letter used as evidence against him. Besides, his attorney says that if Ibarra had not admitted the genuineness of the letter, he would have been able to do much for him; but, at the sight of it, the young man turned pale, lost heart and acknowledged that he had written it."

"Do you say," asked a Franciscan, "that the letter was directed to a young woman? How did it get into the hands of the officers?"

The lieutenant did not reply. He looked for a moment at Friar Salvi and then walked off, twisting nervously the end of his grey beard. In the meantime, others were commenting something like this:

"There you see the hand of God!" said one. "Even the women hate him."

"He had his house burned, thinking that he could thus save himself. But he did not reckon with his host—that is, with his querida, [23] with his babai," [23] added another, smiling. "That is God's work. Santiago protects Spain!"

The old army officer stopped and approached Maria Clara. She was listening to the conversation, immovable in her seat. The flowers were at her feet.

"You are a very prudent young woman," said the old lieutenant to her in a low voice. "You have done well to hand over the letter.... In this way you will assure yourself of a peaceful future."

With dull eyes, and biting her lips, she looked at him as he walked away. Luckily, Aunt Isabel passed her at this moment. Maria Clara summoned enough strength to catch hold of her aunt's dress.

"Aunt," she murmured.

"What is the matter with you?" asked the latter, frightened, as she saw the young woman's face.

"Take me to my room!" she begged, clinging to the arm of the old woman in order to raise herself to her feet.

"Are you sick, my child? You seem to have lost all your strength. What is the matter with you?"

"A little sick to my stomach ... the crowd in the sala ... so much light ... I need to rest. Tell father that I am going to sleep."

"You are cold! Do you want some tea?"

Maria Clara shook her head negatively. She closed the door of her room and locked it, and, her strength failing her, she fell to the floor, at the feet of an image, weeping and sobbing:

"Mother, mother, my mother!"

The moonlight was shining through the open window and door which led out upon the azotea.

The orchestra continued playing gay waltzes. The laughter and the hum of conversation could be heard in her bedroom. A number of times her family, Aunt Isabel, Dona Victorina, and even Linares, knocked at her door, but Maria Clara did not move. There was a rattle in her throat.

Hours passed. The pleasures of the table ended, and dancing followed. Her little candle burned out, but the maiden lay quietly on the floor, the rays of moonlight shining upon her at the foot of an image of the Mother of Jesus.

Gradually the noises in the house died away, the lights were put out, and Aunt Isabel again knocked at the door of her room.

"Let us leave her; she is sleeping," said her aunt. "At her age, with nothing to trouble her, she sleeps like a corpse."

When all was again silent, Maria arose slowly and glanced around her. She saw the azotea and the small climbing plants bathed in the melancholy light of the moon.

"A peaceful future! Sleeping like a corpse!" she murmured in a low voice, and turned toward the azotea.

The city was quiet. Only the noise of an occasional carriage passing over the wooden bridge could be heard in the stillness of the night, while the tranquil waters of the river were reflecting the moonlight.

The maiden raised her eyes to the pure, sapphire-colored sky. Slowly she took off her rings, her hair-combs, her earrings, and her breast-pin, and placing them upon the balustrade of the azotea she looked out toward the river.

A banca, loaded with rice grass, stopped at the foot of the landing on the bank of the river at the rear of the house. One of the two men who were propelling the boat went up the stone steps, leaped over the wall, and a few seconds afterward, steps were heard coming up the azotea.

Maria Clara saw him stop on discovering her, but it was for only a moment. The man advanced slowly and at about three steps from the maiden, stopped again. Maria Clara stepped back.

"Crisostomo!" she gasped, full of terror.

"Yes, I am Crisostomo!" replied the young man, in a grave voice. "An enemy, a man who has good reason to hate me, Elias, has helped me out of the prison into which my friends had thrown me."

Silence followed these words. Maria Clara bowed her head and allowed both her hands to drop at her side.

Ibarra continued:

"Beside the dead body of my mother, I swore to make you happy, whatever might be my destiny. You can break your oath; she was not your mother. But I, who am her son, I hold her memory sacred, and, running great risk, I have come here to fulfill my oath. Fortune permits me to speak with you personally. Maria, we shall not see each other again. You are young and perhaps some day your conscience may accuse you.... I come to tell you, before leaving, that I forgive you. Now, may you be happy, and good-bye!"

Ibarra tried to leave, but the maiden stopped him.

"Crisostomo!" she said. "God has sent you to save me from desperation.... Hear me and judge me!"

Ibarra wished to withdraw gently from her.

"I have not come," said he, "to call you to account.... I have come to give you peace."

"I do not want the peace which you give me. I will give myself peace. You despise me, and your contempt will make my life bitter till death."

Ibarra saw the poor girl's desperation, and asked her what she desired.

"That you may believe that I have always loved you."

Crisostomo smiled bitterly.

"Ah! You doubt me, you doubt the friend of your infancy, who has never hidden a single thought from you," exclaimed she in grief. "I understand you. When you know my history, the history which they revealed to me during my illness, you will pity me and you will no longer answer my grief with that bitter smile. Why did you not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor? You and I would have been happier then."

Maria Clara rested a moment and then continued:

"You have doubted me; you have wished my mother to pardon me. During one of those nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my true father, and forbade me to love you ... unless my true father should pardon you for the offense you committed against him."

Ibarra recoiled and looked in terror at the maiden.

"Yes," she continued. "This man told me that he could not permit our marriage, since his conscience would not allow it, and he would find himself compelled to publish the truth at the risk of causing a great scandal, because my father is ..."

And she whispered a name in the young man's ear in a scarcely audible voice.

"What was I to do? Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of the man who innocently supposes himself my father, and the good name of my real father? Could I do that without you despising me for it?"

"But the proof? Have you proof? You need proof!" exclaimed Crisostomo, deeply agitated.

The maiden drew two letters from her bosom.

"Two of my mother's letters: two letters written in remorse before I was born. Take them, read them and you will see how she cursed me and desired my death, which my father in vain tried to cause by drugs. These letters were forgotten in the house where he lived; a man found them and kept them. They would only give them to me in exchange for your letter ... to make certain, as they said, that I would not marry you without the consent of my father. From the time that I began to carry them in my bosom instead of your letter, my heart was chilled. I sacrificed you, I sacrificed my love.... What would not a person do for a dead mother and two living fathers? Did I suspect the use to which they were going to put your letter?"

Ibarra was prostrated. Maria Clara went on:

"What was there left for me? Could I tell you who was my father? Could I ask you to seek the pardon of him who had so much desired my death, and who made your father suffer? There was nothing left for me but to keep the secret to myself, and to die suffering.... Now, my friend, you know the sad history of your poor Maria. Will you still have that contemptuous smile for her?"

"Maria, you are a saint."

"I am happy now that you believe me."

"However," added the young man, changing his tone. "I have heard that you are about to marry."

"Yes," sobbed the maiden. "My father asked this sacrifice of me. He has fed me and loved me, and it was not his duty. I pay him this debt of gratitude which I owe him by assuring him peace through this new relative, but ..."

"But?"

"I shall not forget the oaths of fidelity which I made to you."

"What do you think of doing?" asked Ibarra, trying to read her eyes.

"The future is obscure and Destiny is hidden in darkness. I do not know what I am to do; but I know that I can love only once, and that without love I never will belong to any one. And you, what is to become of you?"

"I am nothing but a fugitive.... I am fleeing. In a very short time, they will discover my escape, Maria...."

Maria Clara clasped her arms about her lover's neck, kissed his lips repeatedly, hugged him, and then, abruptly breaking away from him, said:

"Flee! flee! Adios!"

Ibarra looked at her, his eyes sparkling, but she motioned and he went away, staggering like a drunken man. Again he leaped over the wall and entered the banca. Maria Clara, leaning on the door casing, watched him depart.

Elias took off his hat and bowed profoundly.



CHAPTER XL

THE PURSUIT ON THE LAKE.

"Listen, Senor, to my plan," said Elias, as they directed the banca toward San Miguel. "I will for the present hide you in the house of my friend in Mandaluyong. I will bring you all your money, which I have saved and kept for you at the foot of the old baliti tree, in the mysterious tomb of your grandfather. You shall leave the country."

"To go to a strange land?" interrupted Ibarra.

"To live in peace the remaining days of your life. You have friends in Spain, you are rich, you can get yourself pardoned. By all means, a foreign land is better for you than your own country."

Crisostomo did not reply. He meditated in silence.

Just then they reached the Pasig and the banca was headed up the stream. Over the Bridge of Spain a horse-man was galloping at high speed, and a prolonged, sharp whistle was heard.

"Elias," replied Ibarra, "you owe your misfortunes to my family; you have saved my life twice; I owe you not only gratitude, but also restitution of your fortune. You advise me to go to a foreign land and live; then come with me and we will live like brothers. Here, you, too, are miserable."

Elias sadly replied:

"Impossible! It is true that I can neither love nor be happy in my country; but I can suffer and die in it, and perhaps die for it; that would be something. Let my country's misfortune be my own misfortune. Since no noble thought unites us, and since our hearts do not beat in harmony at the mention of a single word, at least, let a common misery unite me to my fellow countrymen; at least, let me weep with them over our grief; let the same misery oppress all our hearts."

"Then why do you advise me to leave?"

"Because in other lands you can be happy, and I cannot; because you are not made to suffer, and because you would hate your country, if some day you should see the cause of your misfortune: and to hate one's own country is the greatest misery."

"You are unjust to me," exclaimed Ibarra, with bitter reproach. "You forget that I have scarcely arrived here, and that I have already sought its welfare."

"Do not be offended, Senor. I am not reproaching you. Would to God that all might imitate you. But I do not ask for the impossible and you should not be offended if I tell you that your heart deceives you. You love your country because your father has taught you to love it; you love it because you had in it your love, your fortune, your youth; because it smiled on you, and because it has not until now done you an injustice. You love your country as we all love that which makes us happy. But, on that day when you see yourself poor, ragged, hungry, persecuted, denounced and betrayed by your very countrymen, on that day you will curse yourself, your country and all."

"Your words grieve me," said Ibarra, resentfully.

Elias bowed his head, meditated and replied:

"I wish to set you right, Senor, and to avoid a miserable future for you. You remember the time when I was talking to you in this same banca and under the light of the same moon. It was a month ago, a few days more or less. Then you were happy. The plea of the unfortunates did not reach you. You disdained their complaints because they were complaints from criminals. You gave ear to their enemies, and, in spite of my reasons and pleas, you put yourself on the side of their oppressors. On you depended at that time whether I should turn criminal or allow my life to be taken in fulfillment of my sacred pledge. God has not permitted it, because the old chief of the bandits has been killed. A month has passed and now you think differently."

"You are right, Elias, but man is influenced by changes in circumstances. Then I was blind, and obstinate. What did I know? Now misfortune has torn the veil from my eyes. The solitude and misery of my prison life have taught me; now I see the horrible cancer which is sapping the life of society, which hangs to its flesh and which requires violent extirpation. They have opened my eyes; they have made me see the ulcer; they force me to become a criminal. I will be a filibustero, but a true filibustero. I will call upon all the unfortunates, on all who have beating hearts within their breasts, on all who sent you to me.... No, no! I will not be criminal! It is never a crime to fight for one's country! We for three centuries have given them our hand, we have asked them for their love, we have anxiously wished to call them our brothers. How have they replied? With insults and jests, denying us even the quality of being human beings. There is no God, there is no hope, there is no humanity. There is nothing but the right of force."

Ibarra was excited. His whole body was trembling.

They passed by the Governor General's palace, and believed they saw agitation and movement among the guards.

"Have they discovered our flight?" murmured Elias. "Lie down, Senor, so that I can cover you up with the grass, for, when we cross over to the side of the river near the powder house, the sentry may be surprised at seeing two of us in this small banca."

As Elias had foreseen, the sentry stopped him and asked him where he came from.

"From Manila, with grass for the magistrates and curates," replied he, imitating the accent of one from Pandakan.

A sergeant came out and was informed what was going on.

"Sulung!" (Go on!) said he. "I warn you not to receive any one in your banca. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and hand him over to me I will give you a good reward."

"All right, Senor. What is his description?"

"He wears a frock coat and speaks Spanish. With that much, be on the watch!"

The banca went on. Elias turned his face and saw the shadow of the sentry, still standing on the bank of the river.

"We will lose several minutes," said he, in a low voice. "We will have to go up the Beata river in order to carry out my pretense of being from Pena Francia."

The town was sleeping in the light of the moon. Crisostomo arose to admire the sepulchral peace of Nature. The river was narrow and its banks formed a plain planted with rice.

Elias threw the load on the bank, picked up a piece of bamboo and drew out from under the grass in the banca some empty sacks. They went on rowing.

"You are master of your own will, Senor, and of your own future," said he to Crisostomo, who kept silent. "But if you will permit me to offer a suggestion, I say to you: Look well at what you are going to do. You are about to start a war, for you have money, talent, and you will quickly find aid, for, unfortunately, many are discontented. Furthermore, in this fight, which you are to begin, those who are going to suffer most are the defenseless, the innocent. The same sentiments which a month ago prompted me to come to you and ask for reforms, are those which now move me to ask you to reflect. The country, Senor, is not thinking of separating itself from the mother country. It asks only a little liberty, a little justice, a little love. The discontented will assist you, the criminals and the desperate, but the people will hold aloof. You are mistaken if, seeing everything dark, you believe that the country is desperate. The country suffers, yes, but it still hopes, believe me, and will only rise in revolt when it has lost patience; that is, when those who govern wish it—which is still far off. I myself would not follow you. I shall never take recourse to these extreme remedies while I see hope in men."

"Then I will go without you!" replied Crisostomo, resolutely.

"Is it your firm decision?"

"Yes, my firm and only decision: I call to witness the memory of my father! I cannot allow them to deprive me of peace and happiness with impunity, I who have desired only my country's welfare, I who have respected all and have suffered on account of a hypocritical religion, on account of love for my country. How have they responded to me? By burying me in an infamous prison and by prostituting my fiancee. No, not to avenge myself would be a crime. It would be encouraging them to commit new injustices. No! it would be cowardice, it would be pusillanimity to weep and groan while there is life and vigor, when to insult and challenge are added scoffery and contemptuous ridicule! I will arouse this ignorant people, I will make them see their misery—this people who do not think of each other as brothers, who are mere wolves devouring each other. I will tell them to rise against this oppression and appeal to the eternal right of mankind to conquer their liberty!"

"Innocent people will suffer."

"All the better! Can you lead me to the mountain?"

"Till you are safe!" replied Elias.

They again went up the Pasig. They spoke from time to time of indifferent things.

"Santa Ana!" murmured Ibarra. "Do you recognize that house?"

They passed by the country house of the Jesuits.

"There I passed many happy and joyful years!" sighed Elias. "In my time we used to come here every month ... then I was like the others. I had fortune, family; I was dreaming and planning a future for myself. In those days I used to visit my sister in the neighboring convent. She made me a present of a piece of her own handiwork. A girl friend used to accompany her, a beautiful girl. All has passed like a dream."

They remained silent till they arrived at Malapad-na-bato. Those who have glided over the bosom of the Pasig on one of those magical nights when the moon pours forth its melancholy poetry from the pure blue of the sky, when the darkness hides the misery of men and silence drowns the harsh accents of their voices, when Nature alone speaks—those who have seen such nights on the Pasig will understand the feelings which filled the hearts of both young men.

In Malapad-na-bato the carbineer was half asleep, and, seeing that the banca was empty and offered no booty for him to seize, according to the traditional custom of his corps and the use made of that position, he readily let them pass on.

Nor did the Civil Guard at Pasig suspect anything, and they were not molested.

It was just beginning to dawn when they reached the lake, calm and smooth as a gigantic mirror. The moon was growing dim and the Orient was rosy with the tints of morning. At a distance, a mass of grey could be discerned advancing toward the banca.

"The falua (or Government steamboat) is coming," murmured Elias. "Lie down and I will cover you with these sacks."

The outline of the vessel became more clear and perceptible.

"She is putting in between the beach and us," observed Elias uneasily.

And then he changed the course of the banca a little, rowing toward Binangonan. To his great surprise he noticed that the falua was also changing its course, while a voice cried out to him.

Elias stopped and meditated. The shore of the lake was very far off, and they would soon be in the range of the rifles on the falua. He thought of returning to the Pasig. His banca was swifter than the falua. But fate was against him! Another boat was coming up the Pasig, and they could see the helmets and shining bayonets of the Civil Guards.

"We are caught!" he murmured, turning pale.

He looked at his robust arms and taking the only course which remained to him, he began to row with all his strength toward the Island of Talim. In the meantime, the sun had risen.

The banca glided along rapidly. Elias saw some men standing up on the falua, making signals to him.

"Do you know how to manage a banca?" he asked Ibarra.

"Yes; why?"

"Because we are lost if I do not leap into the water and make them lose the trail. They will follow me. I swim and dive well.... I will take them away from you, and then you can save yourself."

"No; you remain and we will sell our lives dearly."

"Useless! We have no arms, and with those rifles they will kill us like birds."

At that moment a chiss was heard in the water like the fall of a hot body, and was followed immediately by a report.

"Do you see?" said Elias, putting his paddle in the banca. "We will see each other again at the tomb of your grandfather on Nochebeuna (Christmas eve.) Save yourself."

"And you?"

"God has taken me through greater dangers."

Elias took off his camisa. A ball grazed his hands and the report sounded out. Without being disturbed, he stretched out his hand to Ibarra, who was still in the bottom of the boat. Then he arose and leaped into the water, pushing away the small craft with his foot.

A number of cries were heard. Soon at some distance the head of the young man appeared above the water as if to get breath, dropping out of sight at the next instant.

"There, there he is!" cried a number of voices, and the balls from their rifles whistled again.

The falua and the other banca took up the chase. A light track of foam marked his course, every moment leading farther and farther away from Ibarra's banca, which drifted along as if abandoned. Every time that the swimmer raised his head to breathe the Civil Guards and the men on board the falua discharged their guns at him.

The pursuit continued. Ibarra's little banca was already far off. The swimmer was approaching the shore of the lake and was now some fifty yards distant from it. The rowers were already tired, but Elias was not, for his head often appeared above the water and each time in a different direction so as to disconcert his pursuers. No longer was there a light trail to betray the course of the diver. For the last time they saw him near the shore, some ten yards off, and they opened fire.... Then minutes and minutes passed. Nothing appeared again on the tranquil surface of the lake.

Half an hour afterward one of the rowers pretended to have discovered signs of blood in the water near the shore, but his companions shook their heads in a manner which might mean either yes or no.



CHAPTER XLI

FATHER DAMASO EXPLAINS.

In vain the costly wedding gifts were heaped upon the table. Neither the diamonds in their blue velvet caskets, nor the embroidered pina, nor the pieces of silk had any attractions for Maria Clara. The maiden looked at the paper which gave the account of Ibarra's death, drowned in the lake, but she neither saw nor read it.

Of a sudden, she felt two hands over her eyes. They held her fast while a joyous voice, Father Damaso's, said to her:

"Who am I? Who am I?"

Maria Clara jumped from her seat and looked at him with terror in her eyes.

"You little goose, were you frightened, eh? You were not expecting me? Well, I have come from the provinces to attend your wedding."

And coming up to her again with a smile of satisfaction, he stretched out his hand to her. Maria Clara approached timidly and, raising it to her lips, kissed it.

"What is the matter with you, Maria?" asked the Franciscan, losing his gay smile, and becoming very uneasy. "Your hand is cold, you are pale.... Are you ill, my little girl?"

And Father Damaso drew her up to him with a fondness of which no one would have thought him capable. He grasped both the maiden's hands and gave her a questioning look.

"Haven't you any confidence in your godfather?" he asked in a reproachful tone. "Come, sit down here and tell me your little troubles, just as you used to do when you were a child, when you wanted wax-candles to make wax figures. You surely know that I have always loved you.... I have never scolded you...."

Father Damaso's voice ceased to be brusque; its modulations were even caressing. Maria Clara began to weep.

"Are you weeping, my child? Why are you weeping? Have you quarrelled with Linares?"

Maria Clara covered her eyes with her hands.

"No! It is not he now!" cried the maiden.

Father Damaso looked at her full of surprise.

"Do you not want to entrust your secrets to me? Have I not always managed to satisfy your smallest caprices?"

The young woman raised her eyes full of tears toward him. She looked at him for some time, and then began to weep bitterly.

"Do not cry so, my child, for your tears pain me! Tell me your troubles. You will see how your godfather loves you."

Maria Clara approached him slowly and fell on her knees at his feet. Then raising her face, bathed in tears, she said to him in a low voice, scarcely audible:

"Do you still love me?"

"Child!"

"Then ... protect my father, and break off the marriage!"

Then she related her last interview with Ibarra, omitting the reference to her birth.

Father Damaso could scarcely believe what he heard.

"While he lived," continued the maiden, "I intended to fight, to wait, to trust. I wanted to live to hear him spoken of ... but now that they have killed him, now there is no reason for my living and suffering."

She said this slowly, in a low voice, calmly and without a tear.

"But, you goose; isn't Linares a thousand times better than....?"

"When he was living, I could have married ... I was thinking of fleeing afterward ... my father wanted nothing more than the relative. Now that he is dead, no other man will call me his wife.... While he lived, I could have debased myself and still had the consolation of knowing that he existed and perhaps was thinking of me. Now that he is dead ... the convent or the tomb."

Her voice had a firmness in its accent which took away Father Damaso's joy and set him to thinking.

"Did you love him so much as that?" he asked, stammering.

Maria Clara did not reply. Father Damaso bowed his head upon his breast and remained silent.

"My child!" he exclaimed, his voice breaking. "Forgive me for making you unhappy without knowing it. I was thinking of your future; I wanted you to be happy. How could I permit you to marry a native; how could I see you an unhappy wife and a miserable mother? I could not get your love out of your head, and I opposed it with all my strength. All that I have done has been for you, for you alone. If you had become his wife, you would have wept afterward on account of the condition of your husband, exposed to all kinds of vengeance, without any means of defense. As a mother, you would have wept over the fortune of your sons; if you educated them, you would prepare a sad future for them, you would have made them enemies of the Church and would have seen them hanged or exiled; if you left them ignorant, you would have seen them oppressed and degraded. I could not consent to it! This is why I sought as a husband for you one who might make you the happy mother of sons born not to obey but to command, not to suffer but to punish. I knew that your friend was good from infancy. I liked him as I had liked his father, but I hated them both when I saw that they were going to make you unhappy, because I love you, I idolize you, I love you as my daughter. I have nothing dearer than you. I have seen you grow. No hour passes but I think of you; I dream of you; you are my only joy."

And Father Damaso began to weep like a child.

"Well, then, if you love me do not make me eternally unhappy. He no longer lives; I want to be a nun."

The old man rested his head on his hand.

"To be a nun, to be a nun!" he repeated. "You do not know, my child, the life, the misery, which is hidden behind the walls of the convent. You do not know it! I prefer a thousand times to see you unhappy in the world than to see you unhappy in the cloister. Here your complaints can be heard, there you will have only the walls. You are beautiful, very beautiful, and you were not born for it, you were not born to be the bride of Christ! Believe me, my child, time will blot it all out. Later you will forget, you will love your husband ... Linares."

"Either the convent or ... death!" repeated Maria Clara.

"The convent, the convent or death!" exclaimed Father Damaso. "Maria, I am already old, I will not be able to watch you or your happiness much longer.... Choose another course, seek another love, another young man, whoever he may be, but not the convent."

"The convent or death!"

"My God, my God!" cried the priest, covering his head with his hands. "Thou punisheth me. So be it! But watch over my child."

And turning to the young woman: "You want to be a nun? You shall be one. I do not want you to die."

Maria Clara took his two hands, clasped them in her own and kissed them as she knelt.

"Godfather, my godfather!" she repeated.

Immediately, Father Damaso went out, sad, with drooping head and sighing.

"God, O God! Thou existeth, for Thou punisheth. But avenge Thyself on me and do not harm the innocent. Save my child!"



NOTES

[1] Street in Manila.

[2] Archbishop and author of theological works.

[3] Roof of the first story used as a veranda.

[4] Petty governor, the highest local official.

[5] Trellis work made of reeds.

[6] Local commander of the Civil Guard.

[7] A narrow canoe.

[8] A drink made of honey and ginger.

[9] A light, early breakfast.

[10] A native fruit.

[11] A Chinese gambling game.

[12] A little white, pearl-like substance sometimes found in the cacao tree, which is supposed to be a lucky omen.

[13] Little mestizos or half breeds. Used in contempt.

[14] A reply which accords with the Spanish idea of politeness but rather ludicrously used in this instance.

[15] A popular Spanish song handed down from the time of Riego's uprising in Spain.

[16] Volunteer police.

[17] A wrong pronunciation of the Spanish Peninsula meaning Spain.

[18] A costly and rich wood like ebony.

[19] Certificate of identification required of all Filipinos under Spanish domination.

[20] Warning cry of a coachman, meaning "turn."

[21] Author here shows difficulty in establishing American sovereignty over islands by military forces.

[22] A plant (Desmodium caresceus), the dry seeds of which cling to the clothing.

[23] Both words mean mistress.

THE END