X.

X.The Pueblo.Almost on the banks of the lake, in the midst of meadows and streams, is the pueblo of San Diego. It exports sugar, rice, coffee, and fruits, or sells these articles of merchandise at low prices to Chinese traders.When, on a clear day, the children climb to the top stage of the moss-grown and vine-clad church tower, there are joyous exclamations. Each picks out his own little roof ofnipa, tile, zinc, or palm. Beyond they see the rio, a monstrous crystal serpent asleep on a carpet of green. Trunks of palm trees, dipping and swaying, join the two banks, and if, as bridges, they leave much to be desired for trembling old men and poor women who must cross with heavy baskets on their heads, on the other hand they make fine gymnastic apparatus for the young.But what besides the rio the children never fail to talk about is a certain wooded peninsula in this sea of cultivated land. Its ancient trees never die, unless the lightning strikes their high tops. Dust gathers layer on layer in their hollow trunks, the rain makes soil of it, the birds bring seeds, a tropical vegetation grows there in wild freedom: bushes, briers, curtains of netted bind-weed, spring from the roots, reach from tree to tree, hang swaying from the branches, and Flora, as if yet unsatisfied, sows on the trees themselves; mosses and fungi live on the creased bark, and graceful aerial guests pierce with their tendrils the hospitable branches.This wood is the subject of a legend.When the pueblo was but a group of poor cabins, there arrived one day a strange old Spaniard with marvellous eyes, who scarcely spoke the Tagal. He wished to buy lands having thermal springs, and did so, paying in money, dress, and jewelry. Suddenly he disappeared, leaving no trace. The people of the pueblo had begun to think of him as a magician, when one day his body was found hanging high to the branch of a giant fig tree. After it had been buried at the foot of the tree, no one cared much to venture in that quarter.A few months later there arrived a young Spanish halfbreed, who claimed to be the old man’s son. He settled, and gave himself to agriculture. Don Saturnino was taciturn and of violent temper, but very industrious. Late in life he married a woman of Manila, who bore him Don Rafael, the father ofCrisóstomo.Don Rafael, from his youth, was much beloved. He rapidly developed his father’s lands, the population multiplied, the Chinese came, the hamlet grew to a pueblo, the native curate died and was replaced by Father Dámaso. And all this time the people respected the sepulchre of the old Spaniard, and held it in superstitious awe. Sometimes, armed with sticks and stones, the children dared run near it to gather wild fruits; but while they were busy at this, or stood gazing at the bit of rope still dangling from the limb, a stone or two would fall from no one knew where. Then with cries of “The old man! the old man!” they threw down sticks and fruit, ran in all directions, between the rocks and bushes, and did not stop till they were out of the woods, all pale and breathless, some crying, few daring to laugh.XI.The Sovereigns.Who was the ruler of the pueblo? Not Don Rafael during his lifetime, though he possessed the most land, and nearly every one owed him. As he was modest, and gave little value to his deeds, no party formed around him, and we have seen how he was deserted and attacked when his fortunes fell.Was it Captain Tiago? It is true his arrival was always heralded with music, he was given banquets by his debtors, and loaded with presents; but he was laughed at in secret, and called Sacristan Tiago.Was it by chance the town mayor, the gobernadorcillo? Alas! he was an unfortunate, who governed not, but obeyed; did not dispose, but was disposed of. And yet he had to answer to the alcalde for all these dispositions, as if they emanated from his own brain. Be it said in his favor that he had neither stolen nor usurped his honors, but that they cost him five thousand pesos and much humiliation.Perhaps then it was God? But to most of these good people, God seemed one of those poor kings surrounded by favorites to whom their subjects always take their supplications, never to them.No, San Diego was a sort of modern Rome. The curate was the pope at the Vatican; the alférez of the civil guard, the King in the Quirinal. Here as there, difficulties arose from the situation.The present curate, Brother Bernardo Salvi, was theyoung and silent Franciscan we have already seen. In mode of life and in appearance he was very unlike his predecessor, Brother Dámaso. He seemed ill, was always thoughtful, accomplished strictly his religious duties, and was careful of his reputation. Through his zeal, almost all his parishioners had speedily become members of the Third Order of St. Francis, to the great dismay of the rival order, that of the Holy Rosary. Four or five scapularies were suspended around every neck, knotted cords encircled all the waists, and the innumerable processions of the order were a joy to see. The head sacristan took in a small fortune, selling—or giving as alms, to put it more correctly—all the paraphernalia necessary to save the soul and combat the devil. It is well known that this evil spirit, who once dared attack God face to face, and accuse His divine word, as the book of Job tells us, is now so cowardly and feeble that he flees at sight of a bit of painted cloth, and fears a knotted cord.Brother Salvi again greatly differed from Brother Dámaso—who set everything right with fists or ferrule, believing it the only way to reach the Indian—in that he punished with fines the faults of his subordinates, rarely striking them.From his struggles with the curate, the alférez had a bad reputation among the devout, which he deserved, and shared with his wife, a hideous and vile old Filipino woman named Doña Consolacion. The husband avenged his conjugal woes on himself by drinking like a fish; on his subordinates, by making them exercise in the sun; and most frequently on his wife, by kicks and drubbings. The two fought famously between themselves, but were of one mind when it was a question of the curate. Inspired by his wife, the officer ordered that no one be abroad in the streets after nine at night. The priest, who did not like this restriction, retorted in lengthy sermons, whenever thealférez went to church. Like all impenitents, the alférez did not mend his ways for that, but went out swearing under his breath, arrested the first sacristan he met, and made him clean the yard of the barracks. So the war went on. All this, however, did not prevent the alférez and the curate chatting courteously enough when they met.And they were the rulers of the pueblo of San Diego.XII.All Saints’ Day.The cemetery of San Diego is in the midst of rice-fields. It is approached by a narrow path, powdery on sunny days, navigable on rainy. A wooden gate and a wall half stone, half bamboo stalks, succeed in keeping out men, but not the curate’s goats, nor the pigs of his neighbors. In the middle of the enclosure is a stone pedestal supporting a great wooden cross. Storms have bent the strip of tin on which were the I. N. R. I., and the rain has washed off the letters. At the foot of the cross is a confused heap of bones and skulls thrown out by the grave-digger. Everywhere grow in all their vigor the bitter-sweet and rose-bay. Some tiny flowerets, too, tint the ground—blossoms which, like the mounded bones, are known to their Creator only. They are like little pale smiles, and their odor scents of the tomb. Grass and climbing plants fill the corners, cover the walls, adorning this otherwise bare ugliness; they even penetrate the tombs, through earthquake fissures, and fill their yawning gaps.At this hour two men are digging near the crumbling wall. One, the grave-digger, works with the utmost indifference, throwing aside a skull as a gardener would a stone. The other is preoccupied; he perspires, he breathes hard.“Oh!” he says at length in Tagalo. “Hadn’t we better dig in some other place? This grave is too recent.”“All the graves are the same, one is as recent as another.”“I can’t endure this!”“What a woman! You should go and be a clerk! If you had dug up, as I did, a boy of twenty days, at night, in the rain——”“Uh-h-h! And why did you do that?”The grave-digger seemed surprised.“Why? How do I know, I was ordered to.”“Who ordered you?”At this question the grave-digger straightened himself, and examined the rash young man from head to foot.“Come! come! You’re curious as a Spaniard. A Spaniard asked me the same question, but in secret. I’m going to say to you what I said to him: the curate ordered it.”“Oh! and what did you do with the body?”“The devil! if I didn’t know you, I should take you for the police. The curate told me to bury it in the Chinese cemetery, but it’s a long way there, and the body was heavy. ‘Better be drowned,’ I said to myself, ‘than lie with the Chinese,’ and I threw it into the lake.”“No, no, stop digging!” interrupted the younger man, with a cry of horror, and throwing down his spade he sprang out of the grave.The grave-digger watched him run off signing himself, laughed, and went to work again.The cemetery began to fill with men and women in mourning. Some of them came for a moment to the open grave, discussed some matter, seemed not to be agreed, and separated, kneeling here and there. Others were lighting candles; all began to pray devoutly. One heard sighing and sobs, and over all a confused murmur of “requiem æternam.”A little old man, with piercing eyes, entered uncovered. At sight of him some laughed, others frowned. The oldman seemed to take no account of this. He went to the heap of skulls, knelt, and searched with his eyes. Then with the greatest care he lifted the skulls one by one, wrinkling his brows, shaking his head, and looking on all sides. At length he rose and approached the grave-digger.“Ho!” said he.The other raised his eyes.“Did you see a beautiful skull, white as the inside of a cocoanut?”The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.“Look,” said the old man, showing a piece of money; “it’s all I have, but I’ll give it to you if you find it.”The gleam of silver made the man reflect. He looked toward the heap and said:“It isn’t there? No? Then I don’t know where it is.”“You don’t know? When those who owe me pay, I’ll give you more. ’Twas the skull of my wife, and if you find it——”“It isn’t there? Then I know nothing about it, but I can give you another.”“You are like the grave you dig,” cried the old man, furious. “You know not the value of what you destroy! For whom is thisgrave?”“How do I know? For a dead man!” replied the other with temper.“Like the grave, like the grave,” the old man repeated with a dry laugh. “You know neither what you cast out nor what you keep. Dig! dig!” And he went toward the gate.Meanwhile the grave-digger had finished his task, and two mounds of fresh, reddish earth rose beside the grave. Drawing from his pocket some buyo, he regarded dully what was going on around him, sat down, and began to chew.At that moment a carriage, which had apparently madea long journey, stopped at the entrance to the cemetery. Ibarra got out, followed by an old servant, and silently made his way along the path.“It is there, behind the great cross, señor,” said the servant, as they approached the spot where the grave-digger was sitting.Arrived at the cross, the old servant looked on all sides, and became greatly confused. “It was there,” he muttered; “no, there, but the ground has been broken.”Ibarra looked at him in anguish.The servant appealed to the grave-digger.“Where is the grave that was marked with a cross like this?” he demanded; and stooping, he traced a Byzantine cross on the ground.“Were there flowers growing on it?”“Yes, jasmine and pansies.”The grave-digger scratched his ear and said with a yawn:“Well, the cross I burned.”“Burned! and why?”“Because the curate ordered it.”Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.“But at least you can show us the grave.”“The body’s no longer there,” said the grave-digger calmly.“What are you saying!”“Yes,” the man went on, with a smile, “I put a woman in its place, eight days ago.”“Are you mad?” cried the servant; “it isn’t a year since he was buried.”“Father Dámaso ordered it; he told me to take the body to the Chinese cemetery; I——”He got no farther, and started back in terror at sight ofCrisóstomo’sface.Crisóstomoseized his arm. “And you did it?” he demanded, in a terrible voice.“Don’t be angry, señor,” replied the grave-digger, pale and trembling. “I didn’t bury him with the Chinese. Better be drowned than that, I thought to myself, and I threw him into the water.”Ibarra stared at him like a madman. “You’re only a poor fool!” he said at length, and pushing him away, he rushed headlong for the gate, stumbling over graves and bones, and painfully followed by the old servant.“That’s what the dead bring us,” grumbled the gravedigger. “The curate orders me to dig the man up, and this fellow breaks my arm for doing it. That’s the way with the Spaniards. I shall lose my place!”XIII.The Little Sacristans.The little old man of the cemetery wandered absent-minded along the streets.He was a character of the pueblo. He had once been a student in philosophy, but abandoned his course at the demands of his mother. The good woman, finding that her son had talent, feared lest he become a savant and forget God; she let him choose, therefore, between studying for the priesthood and leaving the college of San José. He was in love, took the latter course, and married. Widowed and orphaned within a year, he found in books a deliverance from sadness, idleness, and thegallera. Unhappily he studied too much, bought too many books, neglected to care for his fortune, and came to financial ruin. Some people called him Don Astasio, or Tasio the philosopher; others, and by far the greater number, Tasio the fool.The afternoon threatened a tempest. Pale flashes of lightning illumined the leaden sky; the atmosphere was heavy and close.Arrived at the church door, Tasio entered and spoke to two little boys, one ten years old perhaps, the other seven.“Coming with me?” he asked. “Your mother has ready a dinner fit for curates.”“The head sacristan won’t let us leave yet,” said the elder. “We’re going into the tower to ring the bells.”“Take care! don’t go too near the bells in the storm,”said Tasio, and, head down, he went off, thinking, toward the outskirts of the town.Soon the rain came down in torrents, the thunder echoed clap on clap, each detonation preceded by an awful zig-zag of fire. The tempest grew in fury, and, scarce able to ride on the shifting wind, the plaintive voices of the bells rang out a lamentation.The boys were in the tower, the younger, timid, in spite of his great black eyes, hugging close to his brother. They resembled one another, but the elder had the stronger and more thoughtful face. Their dress was poor, patched, and darned. The wind beat in the rain a little, where they were, and set the flame of their candle dancing.“Pull your rope, Crispin,” said the elder to his little brother.Crispin pulled, and heard a feeble plaint, quickly silenced by a thunder crash. “If we were only home with mama,” he mourned, “I shouldn’t be afraid.”The other did not answer. He watched the candle melt, and seemed thoughtful.“At least, no one there would call me a thief; mama would not have it. If she knew they had beaten me——” The elder gave the great cord a sharp pull; a deep, sonorous tone trembled out.“Pay what they say I stole! Pay it, brother!”“Are you mad, Crispin? Mama would have nothing to eat; they say you stole two onces, and two onces make thirty-two pesos.”The little fellow counted thirty-two on his fingers.“Six hands and two fingers. And each finger makes a peso, and each peso how many cuartos?”“A hundred sixty.”“And how much is a hundred sixty?”“Thirty-two hands.”Crispin regarded his little paws.“Thirty-two hands,” he said,“and each finger a cuarto! O mama! how many cuartos! and with them one could buy shoes, and a hat for the sun, and an umbrella for the rain, and clothes for mama.”Crispin became pensive.“What I’m afraid of is that mama will be angry with you when she hears about it.”“You think so?” said Crispin, surprised. “But I’ve never had a cuarto except the one they gave me at Easter. Mama won’t believe I stole; she won’t believe it!”“But if the curate says so——”Crispin began to cry, and said through his sobs:“Then go alone, I won’t go. Tell mama I’m sick.”“Crispin, don’t cry,” said his brother. “If mama seems to believe what they say, you’ll tell her that the sacristan lies, that the curate believes him, that they say we are thieves because our father——”A head came out of the shadows in the little stairway, and as if it had been Medusa’s, it froze the words on the children’s lips.The head was long and lean, with a shock of black hair. Blue glasses concealed one sightless eye. It was the chief sacristan who had thus stolen upon the children.“You, Basilio, are fined two réales for not ringing regularly. And you, Crispin, stay to-night till you find what you’ve stolen.”“We have permission,” began Basilio; “our mother expects us at nine.”“You won’t go at nine o’clock either; you shall stay till ten.”“But, señor, after nine one can’t pass through the streets——”“Are you trying to dictate to me?” demanded the sacristan, and he seized Crispin’s arm.“Señor, we have not seen our mother for a week,” entreated Basilio, taking hold of his brother as if to protect him.With a stroke on the cheek the sacristan made him let go, and dragged off Crispin, who commenced to cry, let himself fall, tried to cling to the floor, and besought Basilio to keep him. But the sacristan, dragging the child, disappeared in the shadows.Basilio stood mute. He heard his little brother’s body strike against the stairs; he heard a cry, blows, heart-rending words, growing fainter and fainter, lost at last in the distance.“When shall I be strong enough?” he murmured, and dashed down the stairs.He reached the choir and listened. He could still hear his little brother’s voice; then over the cry, “Mama!—Brother!” a door shut. Trembling, damp with sweat, holding his mouth with his hand to stifle a cry, he stood a moment looking about in the dim church. The doors were closed, the windows barred. He went back to the tower, did not stop at the second stage, where the bells were rung, but climbed to the third, loosed the ropes that held the tongues of the bells, then went down again, pale, his eyes gleaming, but without tears.The rain commenced to slacken and the sky to clear. Basilio knotted the ropes, fastened an end to a beam of the balcony, and, forgetting to blow out the candle, glided down into the darkness.Some minutes later voices were heard in a street of the pueblo, and two rifle shots rang out; but it raised no alarm, and all again became silent.XIV.Sisa.Nearly an hour’s walk from the pueblo lived the mother of Basilio and Crispin, wife of a man who passed his time in lounging or watching cock-fights while she struggled to bring up their children. The husband and wife saw each other rarely, and their interviews were painful. To feed his vices, he had robbed her of her few trinkets, and when the unhappy Sisa had nothing more with which to satisfy his caprices he began to abuse her. Without much strength of will, dowered with more heart than reason, she only knew how to love and to weep. Her husband was a god, her children were angels. He, who knew how much he was adored and feared, like other false gods, grew more and more arbitrary and cruel.The stars were glittering in the sky cleared by the tempest. Sisa sat on the wooden bench, her chin in her hand, watching some branches smoulder on her hearth of uncut stones. On these stones was a little pan where rice was cooking, and among the cinders were three dry sardines.She was still young, and one saw she had been beautiful. Her eyes, which, with her soul, she had given to her sons, were fine, deep, and fringed with dark lashes; her face was regular; her skin pure olive. In spite of her youth, suffering, hunger sometimes, had begun to hollow her cheeks. Her abundant hair, once her glory, was still carefully dressed—but from habit, not coquetry.All day Sisa had been thinking of the pleasure coming atnight. She picked the finest tomatoes in her garden—favorite dish of little Crispin; from her neighbor, Tasio, she got a fillet of wild boar and a wild duck’s thigh for Basilio, and she chose and cooked the whitest rice on the threshing-floor.Alas! the father arrived. Good-by to the dinner! He ate the rice, the filet of wild boar, the duck’s thigh, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, happy to see her husband satisfied, and so much happier that, having eaten, he remembered he had children and asked where they were. The poor mother smiled. She had promised herself to eat nothing—there was not enough left for three; but the father had thought of his sons, that was better than food.Sisa, left alone, wept a little; but she thought of her children, and dried her tears. She cooked the little rice she had left, and the three sardines.Attentive to every sound, she now sat listening: a footfall strong and regular, it was Basilio’s; light and unsteady, Crispin’s.But the children did not come.To pass the time, she hummed a song. Her voice was beautiful, and when her children heard her sing “Kundiman” they cried, without knowing why. To-night her voice trembled, and the notes came tardily.She went to the door and scanned the road. A black dog was there, searching about. It frightened Sisa, and she threw a stone, sending the dog off howling.Sisa was not superstitious, but she had so often heard of black dogs and presentiments that terror seized her. She shut the door in haste and sat down by the light. She prayed to the Virgin, to God Himself, to take care of her boys, and most for the little Crispin. Then, drawn away from prayer by her sole preoccupation, she thought no longer of aught but her children, of all their ways, which seemedto her so pleasing. Then the terror returned. Vision or reality, Crispin stood by the hearth, where he often sat to chatter to her. He said nothing, but looked at her with great, pensive eyes, and smiled.“Mother, open! Open the door, mother!” said Basilio’s voice outside.Sisa shuddered, and the vision disappeared.XV.Basilio.Life is a Dream.Basilio had scarcely strength to enter and fall into his mother’s arms. A strange cold enveloped Sisa when she saw him come alone. She wished to speak, but found no words; to caress her son, but found no force. Yet at the sight of blood on his forehead, her voice came, and she cried in a tone which seemed to tell of a breaking heartstring:“My children!”“Don’t be frightened, mama; Crispin stayed at the convent.”“At the convent? He stayed at the convent? Living?”The child raised his eyes to hers.“Ah!” she cried, passing from the greatest anguish to the utmost joy. She wept, embraced her child, covered with kisses his wounded forehead.“And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?”Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.“O God! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!” murmured the mother.She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:“Why,” she asked, “did Crispin stay at the convent?”Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the story of the lost money; he said nothing of thetorture of his little brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.“Accuse my good Crispin! It’s because we are poor, and the poor must bear everything,” murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.“But you have not eaten,” said the mother. “Here are sardines and rice.”“I’m not hungry, mama; I only want some water.”“Yes, eat,” said the mother. “I know you don’t like dry sardines, and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child.”“My father came?” and Basilio instinctively examined his mother’s face and hands.The question pained the mother; she sighed.“You won’t eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late.”Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother, who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother’s side, trembling with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas and he slept.In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.“What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?”“I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn’t it? Say it was nothing but a dream!”“What were you dreaming?”He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.“Tell me the dream,” said Sisa, when he had lain down again. “I cannot sleep.”“It is gone now, mama; I don’t remember it all.”Sisa did not insist: she attached no importance to dreams.“Mama,” said Basilio after a moment of silence, “I’mnot sleepy either. I had a project last evening. I don’t want to be a sacristan.”“What?”“Listen, mama. The son of Don Rafael came home from Spain to-day; he should be as kind as his father. Well, to-morrow I find Crispin, get my pay, and say I’m not going to be a sacristan. Then I’ll go see Don Crisóstomo and ask him to make me a buffalo-keeper. Crispin could go on studying with old Tasio. Tasio’s better than the curate thinks; I’ve often seen him praying in the church when no one else was there. What shall I lose in not being a sacristan? One earns little and loses it all in fines. I’ll be a herdsman, mama, and take good care of the cows andcarabaos, and make my master love me; then perhaps he’ll let us have a cow to milk: Crispin loves milk. And I could fish in the rivers and go hunting when I get big. And by and by perhaps I could have a little land and sow sugar-cane. We could all live together, then. And old Tasio says Crispin is very bright. By and by we would send him to study at Manila, and I would work for him. Shall we, mama? He might be a doctor; what do you say?”“What can I say, except that you are right,” answered Sisa, kissing her son.Basilio went on with his projects, talking with the confidence of a child. Sisa said yes to everything. But little by little sleep came back to the child’s lids, and this time he did not cry in his dreams: that Ole-Luk-Oie, of whom Andersen tells us, unfurled over his head the umbrella with its lining of gay pictures. But the mother, past the age of careless slumbers, did not sleep.XVI.At the Manse.It was seven o’clock when Brother Salvi finished his last mass. He took off his priestly robes without a word to any one.“Look out!” whispered the sacristans; “it is going to rain fines! And all for the fault of those children!”The father came out of the sacristy and crossed to the manse. On the porch six or seven women sat waiting for him, and a man was walking to and fro. The woman rose, and one bent to kiss his hand, but the priest made such a gesture of impatience that she stopped short.“He must have lost a real miser,” she cried mockingly, when he had passed. “This is something unheard of: refuse his hand to the zealous Sister Rufa?”“He was not in the confessional this morning,” said a toothless old woman, Sister Sipa. “I wanted to confess, so as to get some indulgences.”“I have gained three plenary indulgences,” said a young woman of pleasing face, “and applied them all to the soul of my husband.”“You have done wrong,” said Sister Rufa, “one plenary is enough; you should not squander the holy indulgences. Do as I do.”“I said to myself, the more there are the better,” replied young sister Juana, smiling; “but what do you do?”Sister Rufa did not respond at once; she chewed herbuyo,and scanned her audience attentively; at length she decided to speak.“Well, this is what I do. Suppose I gain a year of indulgences; I say: Blessed Señor Saint Dominic, have the kindness to see if there is some one in purgatory who has need of precisely a year. Then I play heads or tails. If it falls heads, no; if tails, yes. If it falls heads, I keep the indulgence, and so I make groups of a hundred years, for which there is always use. It’s a pity one can’t loan indulgences at interest. But do as I do, it’s the best plan.”At this point Sisa appeared. She said good morning to the women, and entered the manse.“She’s gone in, let us go too,” said the sisters, and they followed her.Sisa felt her heart beat violently. She did not know what to say to the curate in defence of her child. She had risen at daybreak, picked all the fine vegetables left in her garden, and arranged them in a basket with platane leaves and flowers, and had been to the river to get a fresh salad ofpakô. Then, dressed in the best she had, the basket on her head, without waking her son, she had set out for the pueblo.She went slowly through the manse, listening if by chance she might hear a well-known voice, fresh and childish. But she met no one, heard nothing, and went on to the kitchen.The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely answering her greetings.“Where may I put these vegetables?” she asked, without showing offence.“There—wherever you want to,” replied the cook curtly.Sisa, half-smiling, placed all in order on the table, and laid on top the flowers and the tender shoots of thepakô; then she asked a servant who seemed more friendly than the cook:“Do you know if Crispin is in the sacristy?”The servant looked at her in surprise.“Crispin?” said he, wrinkling his brows; “isn’t he at home?”“Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here.”“Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of things he’d stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. The guards must be on their way to your house by this time.”Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips moved in vain.“Go find your children,” said the cook. “Everybody sees you’re a faithful woman; the children are like their father!”Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.“Don’t cry here,” said the cook still more roughly, “the curate is ill; don’t bother him! Go cry in the street!”The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate’s illness. Once on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden resolution, moved rapidly away.XVII.Story of a Schoolmaster.The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not been shaken by yesterday’s tempest. At the first gleam of light which wakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the bounds of the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are the barks of fishermen drawing in their nets;cascosandparaosshaking out their sails.From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. One is Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.“This is the place,” said the stranger, “where the gravedigger brought us, Lieutenant Guevara and me.”Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.When the first horror at the story of his father’s desecrated grave had passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Private wrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of the country: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughters of Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a charge against the Church, and Crisóstomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knew how in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most of his fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was all here. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally, and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich, andtherefore powerful still—and he was young. Ibarra had taken up his life again as he had found it.His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man’s hand.“Do not thank me,” said the other; “I owe everything to your father. I came here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work, furnished the poor children with books. How far away that good time seems!”“And now?”“Ah! now we get along as best we can.”Ibarra was silent.“How many pupils have you?”“More than two hundred on the list—in the classes, fifty-five.”“And how is that?”The schoolmaster smiled sadly.“It is a long story.”“Don’t think I ask from curiosity,” said Ibarra. “I have thought much about it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father’s ideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myself with his spirit. That is why I ask this question.”“The country will bless your memory, señor, if you carry out the splendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles I meet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The children read, write, learn by heart passages, sometimes whole books, in Castilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is such a school to the children of our peasants!”“You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?”“I have none,” said the young man; “one cannot struggle alone against so many needs and against certain influences. I tried to remedy the evil of which I just spoke; I tried to carry out the order of the Government, and beganto teach the children Spanish. The beginning was excellent, but one day Brother Dámaso sent for me. I went up immediately, and I said good-day to him in Castilian. Without replying, he burst into laughter. At length he said, with a sidelong glance: ‘Whatbuenos dias! buenos dias!It’s very pretty. You know Spanish?’ and he began to laugh again.”Ibarra could not repress a smile.“You laugh,” said the teacher, “and I, too, now; but I assure you I had no desire to then. I started to reply, I don’t know what, but Brother Dámaso interrupted:“‘Don’t wear clothes that are not your own,’ he said in Tagal; ‘be content to speak your own language. Do you know about Ciruela? Well, Ciruela was a master who could neither read nor write, yet he kept school.’ And he left the room, slamming the door behind him. What was I to do? What could I, against him, the highest authority of the pueblo, moral, political, and civil; backed by his order, feared by the Government, rich, powerful, always obeyed and believed. To withstand him was to lose my place, and break off my career without hope of another. Every one would have sided with the priest. I should have been called proud, insolent, no Christian, perhaps even anti-Spanish andfilibustero. Heaven forgive me if I denied my conscience and my reason, but I was born here, must live here, I have a mother, and I abandoned myself to my fate, as a cadaver to the wave that rolls it.”“And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?”“I was rash enough to try two more experiments, one after our change of curates; but both proved offensive to the same authority. Since then I have done my best to convert the poor babies into parrots.”“Well, I have cheerful news for you,” said Ibarra. “Iam soon to present to the Government a project that will help you out of your difficulties, if it is approved.”The school-teacher shook his head.“You will see, Señor Ibarra, that your projects—I’ve heard something of them—will no more be realized than were mine!”XVIII.The Story of a Mother.Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experienced one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner, we fly toward it without stopping to question.Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed now by a band ofgarzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One of the guards beckoned her.Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her throat parch.“Speak the truth, or we’ll tie you to this tree and shoot you,” said one of the guards.Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.“You are the mother of the thieves?”“The mother of the thieves?” repeated Sisa, without comprehending.“Where is the money your sons brought home last night?”“Ah! the money——”“Give us the money, and we’ll let you alone.”“Señores,” said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again, “my boys do not steal, even when they’re hungry; we are used to suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a réal, do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves.”“Well then,” said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa’s, “follow us!”“I—follow you?” And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms of the guards. “Oh, have pity on me! I’m very poor, I’ve nothing to give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my miserable cabin, but let me—let me—die here in peace!”“March! do you hear? and if you don’t go without making trouble, we’ll tie your hands.”“Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least,” she cried, as they laid hold of her.The soldiers spoke together apart.“Very well,” said one, “when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on now, and quick!”Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face, in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable; every one, even her husband,had abandoned her; but until now she had always felt herself respected.As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked on all sides, seeking some succor in nature—death in the river would be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light in the darkness of her soul.“Afterward,” she said to herself,—“afterward, we will go to live in the heart of the forest.”She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:“We are at the pueblo,” she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened, in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two women she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her eyes on the ground.At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes, and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:“Where did you find her? Did you get the money?”Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way under her feet.“This way!” cried a guard.Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. A gate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still more imperious checked her.While she sought to find whence the voice came, she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes, took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, and chickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothes or clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.“Where is the sergeant?” demanded one of the guards angrily. “Has the alférez been informed?”A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would take any trouble for the poor woman.Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner, her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alférez arrived. He refused to believe the curate’s accusations.“Bah! monks’ tricks!” said he; and ordered that the woman be released and the affair dropped.“If he wants to find what he’s lost,” he added, “let him complain to the nuncio! That’s all I have to say.”Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of the barracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fast as she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyes fixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not a cloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves of the trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin, ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ran to old Tasio’s, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poor thing went back and commenced to call, “Basilio! Crispin!” standing still, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweet murmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred by the breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude.She called anew, mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took a sinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them, then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have said the light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the night before—she and Basilio—and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboo fence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio’s blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent over and continued to look at this rag from her child’s clothing, raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the human larynx would hardly know how to produce.The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her sleep, and an angel’s wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the beings of great Nature.Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisóstomo presented himself at the home of his fiancée; the curate arrived at thesame moment. The house was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.“The winds blow fresh,” said the curate; “aren’t you afraid of taking cold?”“I don’t feel the wind, father,” said Maria.“We Filipinos,” said Crisóstomo, “find this season of autumn and spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between, is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go.”The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the festival of its patron saint, which was near.“Speaking of fêtes,” said Crisóstomo to the curate, “we hope you will join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to start for the fishing-ground before sunrise,” he went on to the curate, “and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo.”The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final arrangements.As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.“Who are you?” asked Crisóstomo.“You would not know my name, señor; I have been trying to see you for three days.”“And what do you want?”“Señor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will help me find them. I want your aid.”“Come with me,” said Ibarra.The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness of the unlighted streets.

X.The Pueblo.Almost on the banks of the lake, in the midst of meadows and streams, is the pueblo of San Diego. It exports sugar, rice, coffee, and fruits, or sells these articles of merchandise at low prices to Chinese traders.When, on a clear day, the children climb to the top stage of the moss-grown and vine-clad church tower, there are joyous exclamations. Each picks out his own little roof ofnipa, tile, zinc, or palm. Beyond they see the rio, a monstrous crystal serpent asleep on a carpet of green. Trunks of palm trees, dipping and swaying, join the two banks, and if, as bridges, they leave much to be desired for trembling old men and poor women who must cross with heavy baskets on their heads, on the other hand they make fine gymnastic apparatus for the young.But what besides the rio the children never fail to talk about is a certain wooded peninsula in this sea of cultivated land. Its ancient trees never die, unless the lightning strikes their high tops. Dust gathers layer on layer in their hollow trunks, the rain makes soil of it, the birds bring seeds, a tropical vegetation grows there in wild freedom: bushes, briers, curtains of netted bind-weed, spring from the roots, reach from tree to tree, hang swaying from the branches, and Flora, as if yet unsatisfied, sows on the trees themselves; mosses and fungi live on the creased bark, and graceful aerial guests pierce with their tendrils the hospitable branches.This wood is the subject of a legend.When the pueblo was but a group of poor cabins, there arrived one day a strange old Spaniard with marvellous eyes, who scarcely spoke the Tagal. He wished to buy lands having thermal springs, and did so, paying in money, dress, and jewelry. Suddenly he disappeared, leaving no trace. The people of the pueblo had begun to think of him as a magician, when one day his body was found hanging high to the branch of a giant fig tree. After it had been buried at the foot of the tree, no one cared much to venture in that quarter.A few months later there arrived a young Spanish halfbreed, who claimed to be the old man’s son. He settled, and gave himself to agriculture. Don Saturnino was taciturn and of violent temper, but very industrious. Late in life he married a woman of Manila, who bore him Don Rafael, the father ofCrisóstomo.Don Rafael, from his youth, was much beloved. He rapidly developed his father’s lands, the population multiplied, the Chinese came, the hamlet grew to a pueblo, the native curate died and was replaced by Father Dámaso. And all this time the people respected the sepulchre of the old Spaniard, and held it in superstitious awe. Sometimes, armed with sticks and stones, the children dared run near it to gather wild fruits; but while they were busy at this, or stood gazing at the bit of rope still dangling from the limb, a stone or two would fall from no one knew where. Then with cries of “The old man! the old man!” they threw down sticks and fruit, ran in all directions, between the rocks and bushes, and did not stop till they were out of the woods, all pale and breathless, some crying, few daring to laugh.

Almost on the banks of the lake, in the midst of meadows and streams, is the pueblo of San Diego. It exports sugar, rice, coffee, and fruits, or sells these articles of merchandise at low prices to Chinese traders.

When, on a clear day, the children climb to the top stage of the moss-grown and vine-clad church tower, there are joyous exclamations. Each picks out his own little roof ofnipa, tile, zinc, or palm. Beyond they see the rio, a monstrous crystal serpent asleep on a carpet of green. Trunks of palm trees, dipping and swaying, join the two banks, and if, as bridges, they leave much to be desired for trembling old men and poor women who must cross with heavy baskets on their heads, on the other hand they make fine gymnastic apparatus for the young.

But what besides the rio the children never fail to talk about is a certain wooded peninsula in this sea of cultivated land. Its ancient trees never die, unless the lightning strikes their high tops. Dust gathers layer on layer in their hollow trunks, the rain makes soil of it, the birds bring seeds, a tropical vegetation grows there in wild freedom: bushes, briers, curtains of netted bind-weed, spring from the roots, reach from tree to tree, hang swaying from the branches, and Flora, as if yet unsatisfied, sows on the trees themselves; mosses and fungi live on the creased bark, and graceful aerial guests pierce with their tendrils the hospitable branches.

This wood is the subject of a legend.

When the pueblo was but a group of poor cabins, there arrived one day a strange old Spaniard with marvellous eyes, who scarcely spoke the Tagal. He wished to buy lands having thermal springs, and did so, paying in money, dress, and jewelry. Suddenly he disappeared, leaving no trace. The people of the pueblo had begun to think of him as a magician, when one day his body was found hanging high to the branch of a giant fig tree. After it had been buried at the foot of the tree, no one cared much to venture in that quarter.

A few months later there arrived a young Spanish halfbreed, who claimed to be the old man’s son. He settled, and gave himself to agriculture. Don Saturnino was taciturn and of violent temper, but very industrious. Late in life he married a woman of Manila, who bore him Don Rafael, the father ofCrisóstomo.

Don Rafael, from his youth, was much beloved. He rapidly developed his father’s lands, the population multiplied, the Chinese came, the hamlet grew to a pueblo, the native curate died and was replaced by Father Dámaso. And all this time the people respected the sepulchre of the old Spaniard, and held it in superstitious awe. Sometimes, armed with sticks and stones, the children dared run near it to gather wild fruits; but while they were busy at this, or stood gazing at the bit of rope still dangling from the limb, a stone or two would fall from no one knew where. Then with cries of “The old man! the old man!” they threw down sticks and fruit, ran in all directions, between the rocks and bushes, and did not stop till they were out of the woods, all pale and breathless, some crying, few daring to laugh.

XI.The Sovereigns.Who was the ruler of the pueblo? Not Don Rafael during his lifetime, though he possessed the most land, and nearly every one owed him. As he was modest, and gave little value to his deeds, no party formed around him, and we have seen how he was deserted and attacked when his fortunes fell.Was it Captain Tiago? It is true his arrival was always heralded with music, he was given banquets by his debtors, and loaded with presents; but he was laughed at in secret, and called Sacristan Tiago.Was it by chance the town mayor, the gobernadorcillo? Alas! he was an unfortunate, who governed not, but obeyed; did not dispose, but was disposed of. And yet he had to answer to the alcalde for all these dispositions, as if they emanated from his own brain. Be it said in his favor that he had neither stolen nor usurped his honors, but that they cost him five thousand pesos and much humiliation.Perhaps then it was God? But to most of these good people, God seemed one of those poor kings surrounded by favorites to whom their subjects always take their supplications, never to them.No, San Diego was a sort of modern Rome. The curate was the pope at the Vatican; the alférez of the civil guard, the King in the Quirinal. Here as there, difficulties arose from the situation.The present curate, Brother Bernardo Salvi, was theyoung and silent Franciscan we have already seen. In mode of life and in appearance he was very unlike his predecessor, Brother Dámaso. He seemed ill, was always thoughtful, accomplished strictly his religious duties, and was careful of his reputation. Through his zeal, almost all his parishioners had speedily become members of the Third Order of St. Francis, to the great dismay of the rival order, that of the Holy Rosary. Four or five scapularies were suspended around every neck, knotted cords encircled all the waists, and the innumerable processions of the order were a joy to see. The head sacristan took in a small fortune, selling—or giving as alms, to put it more correctly—all the paraphernalia necessary to save the soul and combat the devil. It is well known that this evil spirit, who once dared attack God face to face, and accuse His divine word, as the book of Job tells us, is now so cowardly and feeble that he flees at sight of a bit of painted cloth, and fears a knotted cord.Brother Salvi again greatly differed from Brother Dámaso—who set everything right with fists or ferrule, believing it the only way to reach the Indian—in that he punished with fines the faults of his subordinates, rarely striking them.From his struggles with the curate, the alférez had a bad reputation among the devout, which he deserved, and shared with his wife, a hideous and vile old Filipino woman named Doña Consolacion. The husband avenged his conjugal woes on himself by drinking like a fish; on his subordinates, by making them exercise in the sun; and most frequently on his wife, by kicks and drubbings. The two fought famously between themselves, but were of one mind when it was a question of the curate. Inspired by his wife, the officer ordered that no one be abroad in the streets after nine at night. The priest, who did not like this restriction, retorted in lengthy sermons, whenever thealférez went to church. Like all impenitents, the alférez did not mend his ways for that, but went out swearing under his breath, arrested the first sacristan he met, and made him clean the yard of the barracks. So the war went on. All this, however, did not prevent the alférez and the curate chatting courteously enough when they met.And they were the rulers of the pueblo of San Diego.

Who was the ruler of the pueblo? Not Don Rafael during his lifetime, though he possessed the most land, and nearly every one owed him. As he was modest, and gave little value to his deeds, no party formed around him, and we have seen how he was deserted and attacked when his fortunes fell.

Was it Captain Tiago? It is true his arrival was always heralded with music, he was given banquets by his debtors, and loaded with presents; but he was laughed at in secret, and called Sacristan Tiago.

Was it by chance the town mayor, the gobernadorcillo? Alas! he was an unfortunate, who governed not, but obeyed; did not dispose, but was disposed of. And yet he had to answer to the alcalde for all these dispositions, as if they emanated from his own brain. Be it said in his favor that he had neither stolen nor usurped his honors, but that they cost him five thousand pesos and much humiliation.

Perhaps then it was God? But to most of these good people, God seemed one of those poor kings surrounded by favorites to whom their subjects always take their supplications, never to them.

No, San Diego was a sort of modern Rome. The curate was the pope at the Vatican; the alférez of the civil guard, the King in the Quirinal. Here as there, difficulties arose from the situation.

The present curate, Brother Bernardo Salvi, was theyoung and silent Franciscan we have already seen. In mode of life and in appearance he was very unlike his predecessor, Brother Dámaso. He seemed ill, was always thoughtful, accomplished strictly his religious duties, and was careful of his reputation. Through his zeal, almost all his parishioners had speedily become members of the Third Order of St. Francis, to the great dismay of the rival order, that of the Holy Rosary. Four or five scapularies were suspended around every neck, knotted cords encircled all the waists, and the innumerable processions of the order were a joy to see. The head sacristan took in a small fortune, selling—or giving as alms, to put it more correctly—all the paraphernalia necessary to save the soul and combat the devil. It is well known that this evil spirit, who once dared attack God face to face, and accuse His divine word, as the book of Job tells us, is now so cowardly and feeble that he flees at sight of a bit of painted cloth, and fears a knotted cord.

Brother Salvi again greatly differed from Brother Dámaso—who set everything right with fists or ferrule, believing it the only way to reach the Indian—in that he punished with fines the faults of his subordinates, rarely striking them.

From his struggles with the curate, the alférez had a bad reputation among the devout, which he deserved, and shared with his wife, a hideous and vile old Filipino woman named Doña Consolacion. The husband avenged his conjugal woes on himself by drinking like a fish; on his subordinates, by making them exercise in the sun; and most frequently on his wife, by kicks and drubbings. The two fought famously between themselves, but were of one mind when it was a question of the curate. Inspired by his wife, the officer ordered that no one be abroad in the streets after nine at night. The priest, who did not like this restriction, retorted in lengthy sermons, whenever thealférez went to church. Like all impenitents, the alférez did not mend his ways for that, but went out swearing under his breath, arrested the first sacristan he met, and made him clean the yard of the barracks. So the war went on. All this, however, did not prevent the alférez and the curate chatting courteously enough when they met.

And they were the rulers of the pueblo of San Diego.

XII.All Saints’ Day.The cemetery of San Diego is in the midst of rice-fields. It is approached by a narrow path, powdery on sunny days, navigable on rainy. A wooden gate and a wall half stone, half bamboo stalks, succeed in keeping out men, but not the curate’s goats, nor the pigs of his neighbors. In the middle of the enclosure is a stone pedestal supporting a great wooden cross. Storms have bent the strip of tin on which were the I. N. R. I., and the rain has washed off the letters. At the foot of the cross is a confused heap of bones and skulls thrown out by the grave-digger. Everywhere grow in all their vigor the bitter-sweet and rose-bay. Some tiny flowerets, too, tint the ground—blossoms which, like the mounded bones, are known to their Creator only. They are like little pale smiles, and their odor scents of the tomb. Grass and climbing plants fill the corners, cover the walls, adorning this otherwise bare ugliness; they even penetrate the tombs, through earthquake fissures, and fill their yawning gaps.At this hour two men are digging near the crumbling wall. One, the grave-digger, works with the utmost indifference, throwing aside a skull as a gardener would a stone. The other is preoccupied; he perspires, he breathes hard.“Oh!” he says at length in Tagalo. “Hadn’t we better dig in some other place? This grave is too recent.”“All the graves are the same, one is as recent as another.”“I can’t endure this!”“What a woman! You should go and be a clerk! If you had dug up, as I did, a boy of twenty days, at night, in the rain——”“Uh-h-h! And why did you do that?”The grave-digger seemed surprised.“Why? How do I know, I was ordered to.”“Who ordered you?”At this question the grave-digger straightened himself, and examined the rash young man from head to foot.“Come! come! You’re curious as a Spaniard. A Spaniard asked me the same question, but in secret. I’m going to say to you what I said to him: the curate ordered it.”“Oh! and what did you do with the body?”“The devil! if I didn’t know you, I should take you for the police. The curate told me to bury it in the Chinese cemetery, but it’s a long way there, and the body was heavy. ‘Better be drowned,’ I said to myself, ‘than lie with the Chinese,’ and I threw it into the lake.”“No, no, stop digging!” interrupted the younger man, with a cry of horror, and throwing down his spade he sprang out of the grave.The grave-digger watched him run off signing himself, laughed, and went to work again.The cemetery began to fill with men and women in mourning. Some of them came for a moment to the open grave, discussed some matter, seemed not to be agreed, and separated, kneeling here and there. Others were lighting candles; all began to pray devoutly. One heard sighing and sobs, and over all a confused murmur of “requiem æternam.”A little old man, with piercing eyes, entered uncovered. At sight of him some laughed, others frowned. The oldman seemed to take no account of this. He went to the heap of skulls, knelt, and searched with his eyes. Then with the greatest care he lifted the skulls one by one, wrinkling his brows, shaking his head, and looking on all sides. At length he rose and approached the grave-digger.“Ho!” said he.The other raised his eyes.“Did you see a beautiful skull, white as the inside of a cocoanut?”The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.“Look,” said the old man, showing a piece of money; “it’s all I have, but I’ll give it to you if you find it.”The gleam of silver made the man reflect. He looked toward the heap and said:“It isn’t there? No? Then I don’t know where it is.”“You don’t know? When those who owe me pay, I’ll give you more. ’Twas the skull of my wife, and if you find it——”“It isn’t there? Then I know nothing about it, but I can give you another.”“You are like the grave you dig,” cried the old man, furious. “You know not the value of what you destroy! For whom is thisgrave?”“How do I know? For a dead man!” replied the other with temper.“Like the grave, like the grave,” the old man repeated with a dry laugh. “You know neither what you cast out nor what you keep. Dig! dig!” And he went toward the gate.Meanwhile the grave-digger had finished his task, and two mounds of fresh, reddish earth rose beside the grave. Drawing from his pocket some buyo, he regarded dully what was going on around him, sat down, and began to chew.At that moment a carriage, which had apparently madea long journey, stopped at the entrance to the cemetery. Ibarra got out, followed by an old servant, and silently made his way along the path.“It is there, behind the great cross, señor,” said the servant, as they approached the spot where the grave-digger was sitting.Arrived at the cross, the old servant looked on all sides, and became greatly confused. “It was there,” he muttered; “no, there, but the ground has been broken.”Ibarra looked at him in anguish.The servant appealed to the grave-digger.“Where is the grave that was marked with a cross like this?” he demanded; and stooping, he traced a Byzantine cross on the ground.“Were there flowers growing on it?”“Yes, jasmine and pansies.”The grave-digger scratched his ear and said with a yawn:“Well, the cross I burned.”“Burned! and why?”“Because the curate ordered it.”Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.“But at least you can show us the grave.”“The body’s no longer there,” said the grave-digger calmly.“What are you saying!”“Yes,” the man went on, with a smile, “I put a woman in its place, eight days ago.”“Are you mad?” cried the servant; “it isn’t a year since he was buried.”“Father Dámaso ordered it; he told me to take the body to the Chinese cemetery; I——”He got no farther, and started back in terror at sight ofCrisóstomo’sface.Crisóstomoseized his arm. “And you did it?” he demanded, in a terrible voice.“Don’t be angry, señor,” replied the grave-digger, pale and trembling. “I didn’t bury him with the Chinese. Better be drowned than that, I thought to myself, and I threw him into the water.”Ibarra stared at him like a madman. “You’re only a poor fool!” he said at length, and pushing him away, he rushed headlong for the gate, stumbling over graves and bones, and painfully followed by the old servant.“That’s what the dead bring us,” grumbled the gravedigger. “The curate orders me to dig the man up, and this fellow breaks my arm for doing it. That’s the way with the Spaniards. I shall lose my place!”

The cemetery of San Diego is in the midst of rice-fields. It is approached by a narrow path, powdery on sunny days, navigable on rainy. A wooden gate and a wall half stone, half bamboo stalks, succeed in keeping out men, but not the curate’s goats, nor the pigs of his neighbors. In the middle of the enclosure is a stone pedestal supporting a great wooden cross. Storms have bent the strip of tin on which were the I. N. R. I., and the rain has washed off the letters. At the foot of the cross is a confused heap of bones and skulls thrown out by the grave-digger. Everywhere grow in all their vigor the bitter-sweet and rose-bay. Some tiny flowerets, too, tint the ground—blossoms which, like the mounded bones, are known to their Creator only. They are like little pale smiles, and their odor scents of the tomb. Grass and climbing plants fill the corners, cover the walls, adorning this otherwise bare ugliness; they even penetrate the tombs, through earthquake fissures, and fill their yawning gaps.

At this hour two men are digging near the crumbling wall. One, the grave-digger, works with the utmost indifference, throwing aside a skull as a gardener would a stone. The other is preoccupied; he perspires, he breathes hard.

“Oh!” he says at length in Tagalo. “Hadn’t we better dig in some other place? This grave is too recent.”

“All the graves are the same, one is as recent as another.”

“I can’t endure this!”

“What a woman! You should go and be a clerk! If you had dug up, as I did, a boy of twenty days, at night, in the rain——”

“Uh-h-h! And why did you do that?”

The grave-digger seemed surprised.

“Why? How do I know, I was ordered to.”

“Who ordered you?”

At this question the grave-digger straightened himself, and examined the rash young man from head to foot.

“Come! come! You’re curious as a Spaniard. A Spaniard asked me the same question, but in secret. I’m going to say to you what I said to him: the curate ordered it.”

“Oh! and what did you do with the body?”

“The devil! if I didn’t know you, I should take you for the police. The curate told me to bury it in the Chinese cemetery, but it’s a long way there, and the body was heavy. ‘Better be drowned,’ I said to myself, ‘than lie with the Chinese,’ and I threw it into the lake.”

“No, no, stop digging!” interrupted the younger man, with a cry of horror, and throwing down his spade he sprang out of the grave.

The grave-digger watched him run off signing himself, laughed, and went to work again.

The cemetery began to fill with men and women in mourning. Some of them came for a moment to the open grave, discussed some matter, seemed not to be agreed, and separated, kneeling here and there. Others were lighting candles; all began to pray devoutly. One heard sighing and sobs, and over all a confused murmur of “requiem æternam.”

A little old man, with piercing eyes, entered uncovered. At sight of him some laughed, others frowned. The oldman seemed to take no account of this. He went to the heap of skulls, knelt, and searched with his eyes. Then with the greatest care he lifted the skulls one by one, wrinkling his brows, shaking his head, and looking on all sides. At length he rose and approached the grave-digger.

“Ho!” said he.

The other raised his eyes.

“Did you see a beautiful skull, white as the inside of a cocoanut?”

The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.

“Look,” said the old man, showing a piece of money; “it’s all I have, but I’ll give it to you if you find it.”

The gleam of silver made the man reflect. He looked toward the heap and said:

“It isn’t there? No? Then I don’t know where it is.”

“You don’t know? When those who owe me pay, I’ll give you more. ’Twas the skull of my wife, and if you find it——”

“It isn’t there? Then I know nothing about it, but I can give you another.”

“You are like the grave you dig,” cried the old man, furious. “You know not the value of what you destroy! For whom is thisgrave?”

“How do I know? For a dead man!” replied the other with temper.

“Like the grave, like the grave,” the old man repeated with a dry laugh. “You know neither what you cast out nor what you keep. Dig! dig!” And he went toward the gate.

Meanwhile the grave-digger had finished his task, and two mounds of fresh, reddish earth rose beside the grave. Drawing from his pocket some buyo, he regarded dully what was going on around him, sat down, and began to chew.

At that moment a carriage, which had apparently madea long journey, stopped at the entrance to the cemetery. Ibarra got out, followed by an old servant, and silently made his way along the path.

“It is there, behind the great cross, señor,” said the servant, as they approached the spot where the grave-digger was sitting.

Arrived at the cross, the old servant looked on all sides, and became greatly confused. “It was there,” he muttered; “no, there, but the ground has been broken.”

Ibarra looked at him in anguish.

The servant appealed to the grave-digger.

“Where is the grave that was marked with a cross like this?” he demanded; and stooping, he traced a Byzantine cross on the ground.

“Were there flowers growing on it?”

“Yes, jasmine and pansies.”

The grave-digger scratched his ear and said with a yawn:

“Well, the cross I burned.”

“Burned! and why?”

“Because the curate ordered it.”

Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.

“But at least you can show us the grave.”

“The body’s no longer there,” said the grave-digger calmly.

“What are you saying!”

“Yes,” the man went on, with a smile, “I put a woman in its place, eight days ago.”

“Are you mad?” cried the servant; “it isn’t a year since he was buried.”

“Father Dámaso ordered it; he told me to take the body to the Chinese cemetery; I——”

He got no farther, and started back in terror at sight ofCrisóstomo’sface.Crisóstomoseized his arm. “And you did it?” he demanded, in a terrible voice.

“Don’t be angry, señor,” replied the grave-digger, pale and trembling. “I didn’t bury him with the Chinese. Better be drowned than that, I thought to myself, and I threw him into the water.”

Ibarra stared at him like a madman. “You’re only a poor fool!” he said at length, and pushing him away, he rushed headlong for the gate, stumbling over graves and bones, and painfully followed by the old servant.

“That’s what the dead bring us,” grumbled the gravedigger. “The curate orders me to dig the man up, and this fellow breaks my arm for doing it. That’s the way with the Spaniards. I shall lose my place!”

XIII.The Little Sacristans.The little old man of the cemetery wandered absent-minded along the streets.He was a character of the pueblo. He had once been a student in philosophy, but abandoned his course at the demands of his mother. The good woman, finding that her son had talent, feared lest he become a savant and forget God; she let him choose, therefore, between studying for the priesthood and leaving the college of San José. He was in love, took the latter course, and married. Widowed and orphaned within a year, he found in books a deliverance from sadness, idleness, and thegallera. Unhappily he studied too much, bought too many books, neglected to care for his fortune, and came to financial ruin. Some people called him Don Astasio, or Tasio the philosopher; others, and by far the greater number, Tasio the fool.The afternoon threatened a tempest. Pale flashes of lightning illumined the leaden sky; the atmosphere was heavy and close.Arrived at the church door, Tasio entered and spoke to two little boys, one ten years old perhaps, the other seven.“Coming with me?” he asked. “Your mother has ready a dinner fit for curates.”“The head sacristan won’t let us leave yet,” said the elder. “We’re going into the tower to ring the bells.”“Take care! don’t go too near the bells in the storm,”said Tasio, and, head down, he went off, thinking, toward the outskirts of the town.Soon the rain came down in torrents, the thunder echoed clap on clap, each detonation preceded by an awful zig-zag of fire. The tempest grew in fury, and, scarce able to ride on the shifting wind, the plaintive voices of the bells rang out a lamentation.The boys were in the tower, the younger, timid, in spite of his great black eyes, hugging close to his brother. They resembled one another, but the elder had the stronger and more thoughtful face. Their dress was poor, patched, and darned. The wind beat in the rain a little, where they were, and set the flame of their candle dancing.“Pull your rope, Crispin,” said the elder to his little brother.Crispin pulled, and heard a feeble plaint, quickly silenced by a thunder crash. “If we were only home with mama,” he mourned, “I shouldn’t be afraid.”The other did not answer. He watched the candle melt, and seemed thoughtful.“At least, no one there would call me a thief; mama would not have it. If she knew they had beaten me——” The elder gave the great cord a sharp pull; a deep, sonorous tone trembled out.“Pay what they say I stole! Pay it, brother!”“Are you mad, Crispin? Mama would have nothing to eat; they say you stole two onces, and two onces make thirty-two pesos.”The little fellow counted thirty-two on his fingers.“Six hands and two fingers. And each finger makes a peso, and each peso how many cuartos?”“A hundred sixty.”“And how much is a hundred sixty?”“Thirty-two hands.”Crispin regarded his little paws.“Thirty-two hands,” he said,“and each finger a cuarto! O mama! how many cuartos! and with them one could buy shoes, and a hat for the sun, and an umbrella for the rain, and clothes for mama.”Crispin became pensive.“What I’m afraid of is that mama will be angry with you when she hears about it.”“You think so?” said Crispin, surprised. “But I’ve never had a cuarto except the one they gave me at Easter. Mama won’t believe I stole; she won’t believe it!”“But if the curate says so——”Crispin began to cry, and said through his sobs:“Then go alone, I won’t go. Tell mama I’m sick.”“Crispin, don’t cry,” said his brother. “If mama seems to believe what they say, you’ll tell her that the sacristan lies, that the curate believes him, that they say we are thieves because our father——”A head came out of the shadows in the little stairway, and as if it had been Medusa’s, it froze the words on the children’s lips.The head was long and lean, with a shock of black hair. Blue glasses concealed one sightless eye. It was the chief sacristan who had thus stolen upon the children.“You, Basilio, are fined two réales for not ringing regularly. And you, Crispin, stay to-night till you find what you’ve stolen.”“We have permission,” began Basilio; “our mother expects us at nine.”“You won’t go at nine o’clock either; you shall stay till ten.”“But, señor, after nine one can’t pass through the streets——”“Are you trying to dictate to me?” demanded the sacristan, and he seized Crispin’s arm.“Señor, we have not seen our mother for a week,” entreated Basilio, taking hold of his brother as if to protect him.With a stroke on the cheek the sacristan made him let go, and dragged off Crispin, who commenced to cry, let himself fall, tried to cling to the floor, and besought Basilio to keep him. But the sacristan, dragging the child, disappeared in the shadows.Basilio stood mute. He heard his little brother’s body strike against the stairs; he heard a cry, blows, heart-rending words, growing fainter and fainter, lost at last in the distance.“When shall I be strong enough?” he murmured, and dashed down the stairs.He reached the choir and listened. He could still hear his little brother’s voice; then over the cry, “Mama!—Brother!” a door shut. Trembling, damp with sweat, holding his mouth with his hand to stifle a cry, he stood a moment looking about in the dim church. The doors were closed, the windows barred. He went back to the tower, did not stop at the second stage, where the bells were rung, but climbed to the third, loosed the ropes that held the tongues of the bells, then went down again, pale, his eyes gleaming, but without tears.The rain commenced to slacken and the sky to clear. Basilio knotted the ropes, fastened an end to a beam of the balcony, and, forgetting to blow out the candle, glided down into the darkness.Some minutes later voices were heard in a street of the pueblo, and two rifle shots rang out; but it raised no alarm, and all again became silent.

The little old man of the cemetery wandered absent-minded along the streets.

He was a character of the pueblo. He had once been a student in philosophy, but abandoned his course at the demands of his mother. The good woman, finding that her son had talent, feared lest he become a savant and forget God; she let him choose, therefore, between studying for the priesthood and leaving the college of San José. He was in love, took the latter course, and married. Widowed and orphaned within a year, he found in books a deliverance from sadness, idleness, and thegallera. Unhappily he studied too much, bought too many books, neglected to care for his fortune, and came to financial ruin. Some people called him Don Astasio, or Tasio the philosopher; others, and by far the greater number, Tasio the fool.

The afternoon threatened a tempest. Pale flashes of lightning illumined the leaden sky; the atmosphere was heavy and close.

Arrived at the church door, Tasio entered and spoke to two little boys, one ten years old perhaps, the other seven.

“Coming with me?” he asked. “Your mother has ready a dinner fit for curates.”

“The head sacristan won’t let us leave yet,” said the elder. “We’re going into the tower to ring the bells.”

“Take care! don’t go too near the bells in the storm,”said Tasio, and, head down, he went off, thinking, toward the outskirts of the town.

Soon the rain came down in torrents, the thunder echoed clap on clap, each detonation preceded by an awful zig-zag of fire. The tempest grew in fury, and, scarce able to ride on the shifting wind, the plaintive voices of the bells rang out a lamentation.

The boys were in the tower, the younger, timid, in spite of his great black eyes, hugging close to his brother. They resembled one another, but the elder had the stronger and more thoughtful face. Their dress was poor, patched, and darned. The wind beat in the rain a little, where they were, and set the flame of their candle dancing.

“Pull your rope, Crispin,” said the elder to his little brother.

Crispin pulled, and heard a feeble plaint, quickly silenced by a thunder crash. “If we were only home with mama,” he mourned, “I shouldn’t be afraid.”

The other did not answer. He watched the candle melt, and seemed thoughtful.

“At least, no one there would call me a thief; mama would not have it. If she knew they had beaten me——” The elder gave the great cord a sharp pull; a deep, sonorous tone trembled out.

“Pay what they say I stole! Pay it, brother!”

“Are you mad, Crispin? Mama would have nothing to eat; they say you stole two onces, and two onces make thirty-two pesos.”

The little fellow counted thirty-two on his fingers.

“Six hands and two fingers. And each finger makes a peso, and each peso how many cuartos?”

“A hundred sixty.”

“And how much is a hundred sixty?”

“Thirty-two hands.”

Crispin regarded his little paws.

“Thirty-two hands,” he said,“and each finger a cuarto! O mama! how many cuartos! and with them one could buy shoes, and a hat for the sun, and an umbrella for the rain, and clothes for mama.”

Crispin became pensive.

“What I’m afraid of is that mama will be angry with you when she hears about it.”

“You think so?” said Crispin, surprised. “But I’ve never had a cuarto except the one they gave me at Easter. Mama won’t believe I stole; she won’t believe it!”

“But if the curate says so——”

Crispin began to cry, and said through his sobs:

“Then go alone, I won’t go. Tell mama I’m sick.”

“Crispin, don’t cry,” said his brother. “If mama seems to believe what they say, you’ll tell her that the sacristan lies, that the curate believes him, that they say we are thieves because our father——”

A head came out of the shadows in the little stairway, and as if it had been Medusa’s, it froze the words on the children’s lips.

The head was long and lean, with a shock of black hair. Blue glasses concealed one sightless eye. It was the chief sacristan who had thus stolen upon the children.

“You, Basilio, are fined two réales for not ringing regularly. And you, Crispin, stay to-night till you find what you’ve stolen.”

“We have permission,” began Basilio; “our mother expects us at nine.”

“You won’t go at nine o’clock either; you shall stay till ten.”

“But, señor, after nine one can’t pass through the streets——”

“Are you trying to dictate to me?” demanded the sacristan, and he seized Crispin’s arm.

“Señor, we have not seen our mother for a week,” entreated Basilio, taking hold of his brother as if to protect him.

With a stroke on the cheek the sacristan made him let go, and dragged off Crispin, who commenced to cry, let himself fall, tried to cling to the floor, and besought Basilio to keep him. But the sacristan, dragging the child, disappeared in the shadows.

Basilio stood mute. He heard his little brother’s body strike against the stairs; he heard a cry, blows, heart-rending words, growing fainter and fainter, lost at last in the distance.

“When shall I be strong enough?” he murmured, and dashed down the stairs.

He reached the choir and listened. He could still hear his little brother’s voice; then over the cry, “Mama!—Brother!” a door shut. Trembling, damp with sweat, holding his mouth with his hand to stifle a cry, he stood a moment looking about in the dim church. The doors were closed, the windows barred. He went back to the tower, did not stop at the second stage, where the bells were rung, but climbed to the third, loosed the ropes that held the tongues of the bells, then went down again, pale, his eyes gleaming, but without tears.

The rain commenced to slacken and the sky to clear. Basilio knotted the ropes, fastened an end to a beam of the balcony, and, forgetting to blow out the candle, glided down into the darkness.

Some minutes later voices were heard in a street of the pueblo, and two rifle shots rang out; but it raised no alarm, and all again became silent.

XIV.Sisa.Nearly an hour’s walk from the pueblo lived the mother of Basilio and Crispin, wife of a man who passed his time in lounging or watching cock-fights while she struggled to bring up their children. The husband and wife saw each other rarely, and their interviews were painful. To feed his vices, he had robbed her of her few trinkets, and when the unhappy Sisa had nothing more with which to satisfy his caprices he began to abuse her. Without much strength of will, dowered with more heart than reason, she only knew how to love and to weep. Her husband was a god, her children were angels. He, who knew how much he was adored and feared, like other false gods, grew more and more arbitrary and cruel.The stars were glittering in the sky cleared by the tempest. Sisa sat on the wooden bench, her chin in her hand, watching some branches smoulder on her hearth of uncut stones. On these stones was a little pan where rice was cooking, and among the cinders were three dry sardines.She was still young, and one saw she had been beautiful. Her eyes, which, with her soul, she had given to her sons, were fine, deep, and fringed with dark lashes; her face was regular; her skin pure olive. In spite of her youth, suffering, hunger sometimes, had begun to hollow her cheeks. Her abundant hair, once her glory, was still carefully dressed—but from habit, not coquetry.All day Sisa had been thinking of the pleasure coming atnight. She picked the finest tomatoes in her garden—favorite dish of little Crispin; from her neighbor, Tasio, she got a fillet of wild boar and a wild duck’s thigh for Basilio, and she chose and cooked the whitest rice on the threshing-floor.Alas! the father arrived. Good-by to the dinner! He ate the rice, the filet of wild boar, the duck’s thigh, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, happy to see her husband satisfied, and so much happier that, having eaten, he remembered he had children and asked where they were. The poor mother smiled. She had promised herself to eat nothing—there was not enough left for three; but the father had thought of his sons, that was better than food.Sisa, left alone, wept a little; but she thought of her children, and dried her tears. She cooked the little rice she had left, and the three sardines.Attentive to every sound, she now sat listening: a footfall strong and regular, it was Basilio’s; light and unsteady, Crispin’s.But the children did not come.To pass the time, she hummed a song. Her voice was beautiful, and when her children heard her sing “Kundiman” they cried, without knowing why. To-night her voice trembled, and the notes came tardily.She went to the door and scanned the road. A black dog was there, searching about. It frightened Sisa, and she threw a stone, sending the dog off howling.Sisa was not superstitious, but she had so often heard of black dogs and presentiments that terror seized her. She shut the door in haste and sat down by the light. She prayed to the Virgin, to God Himself, to take care of her boys, and most for the little Crispin. Then, drawn away from prayer by her sole preoccupation, she thought no longer of aught but her children, of all their ways, which seemedto her so pleasing. Then the terror returned. Vision or reality, Crispin stood by the hearth, where he often sat to chatter to her. He said nothing, but looked at her with great, pensive eyes, and smiled.“Mother, open! Open the door, mother!” said Basilio’s voice outside.Sisa shuddered, and the vision disappeared.

Nearly an hour’s walk from the pueblo lived the mother of Basilio and Crispin, wife of a man who passed his time in lounging or watching cock-fights while she struggled to bring up their children. The husband and wife saw each other rarely, and their interviews were painful. To feed his vices, he had robbed her of her few trinkets, and when the unhappy Sisa had nothing more with which to satisfy his caprices he began to abuse her. Without much strength of will, dowered with more heart than reason, she only knew how to love and to weep. Her husband was a god, her children were angels. He, who knew how much he was adored and feared, like other false gods, grew more and more arbitrary and cruel.

The stars were glittering in the sky cleared by the tempest. Sisa sat on the wooden bench, her chin in her hand, watching some branches smoulder on her hearth of uncut stones. On these stones was a little pan where rice was cooking, and among the cinders were three dry sardines.

She was still young, and one saw she had been beautiful. Her eyes, which, with her soul, she had given to her sons, were fine, deep, and fringed with dark lashes; her face was regular; her skin pure olive. In spite of her youth, suffering, hunger sometimes, had begun to hollow her cheeks. Her abundant hair, once her glory, was still carefully dressed—but from habit, not coquetry.

All day Sisa had been thinking of the pleasure coming atnight. She picked the finest tomatoes in her garden—favorite dish of little Crispin; from her neighbor, Tasio, she got a fillet of wild boar and a wild duck’s thigh for Basilio, and she chose and cooked the whitest rice on the threshing-floor.

Alas! the father arrived. Good-by to the dinner! He ate the rice, the filet of wild boar, the duck’s thigh, and the tomatoes. Sisa said nothing, happy to see her husband satisfied, and so much happier that, having eaten, he remembered he had children and asked where they were. The poor mother smiled. She had promised herself to eat nothing—there was not enough left for three; but the father had thought of his sons, that was better than food.

Sisa, left alone, wept a little; but she thought of her children, and dried her tears. She cooked the little rice she had left, and the three sardines.

Attentive to every sound, she now sat listening: a footfall strong and regular, it was Basilio’s; light and unsteady, Crispin’s.

But the children did not come.

To pass the time, she hummed a song. Her voice was beautiful, and when her children heard her sing “Kundiman” they cried, without knowing why. To-night her voice trembled, and the notes came tardily.

She went to the door and scanned the road. A black dog was there, searching about. It frightened Sisa, and she threw a stone, sending the dog off howling.

Sisa was not superstitious, but she had so often heard of black dogs and presentiments that terror seized her. She shut the door in haste and sat down by the light. She prayed to the Virgin, to God Himself, to take care of her boys, and most for the little Crispin. Then, drawn away from prayer by her sole preoccupation, she thought no longer of aught but her children, of all their ways, which seemedto her so pleasing. Then the terror returned. Vision or reality, Crispin stood by the hearth, where he often sat to chatter to her. He said nothing, but looked at her with great, pensive eyes, and smiled.

“Mother, open! Open the door, mother!” said Basilio’s voice outside.

Sisa shuddered, and the vision disappeared.

XV.Basilio.Life is a Dream.Basilio had scarcely strength to enter and fall into his mother’s arms. A strange cold enveloped Sisa when she saw him come alone. She wished to speak, but found no words; to caress her son, but found no force. Yet at the sight of blood on his forehead, her voice came, and she cried in a tone which seemed to tell of a breaking heartstring:“My children!”“Don’t be frightened, mama; Crispin stayed at the convent.”“At the convent? He stayed at the convent? Living?”The child raised his eyes to hers.“Ah!” she cried, passing from the greatest anguish to the utmost joy. She wept, embraced her child, covered with kisses his wounded forehead.“And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?”Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.“O God! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!” murmured the mother.She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:“Why,” she asked, “did Crispin stay at the convent?”Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the story of the lost money; he said nothing of thetorture of his little brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.“Accuse my good Crispin! It’s because we are poor, and the poor must bear everything,” murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.“But you have not eaten,” said the mother. “Here are sardines and rice.”“I’m not hungry, mama; I only want some water.”“Yes, eat,” said the mother. “I know you don’t like dry sardines, and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child.”“My father came?” and Basilio instinctively examined his mother’s face and hands.The question pained the mother; she sighed.“You won’t eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late.”Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother, who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother’s side, trembling with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas and he slept.In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.“What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?”“I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn’t it? Say it was nothing but a dream!”“What were you dreaming?”He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.“Tell me the dream,” said Sisa, when he had lain down again. “I cannot sleep.”“It is gone now, mama; I don’t remember it all.”Sisa did not insist: she attached no importance to dreams.“Mama,” said Basilio after a moment of silence, “I’mnot sleepy either. I had a project last evening. I don’t want to be a sacristan.”“What?”“Listen, mama. The son of Don Rafael came home from Spain to-day; he should be as kind as his father. Well, to-morrow I find Crispin, get my pay, and say I’m not going to be a sacristan. Then I’ll go see Don Crisóstomo and ask him to make me a buffalo-keeper. Crispin could go on studying with old Tasio. Tasio’s better than the curate thinks; I’ve often seen him praying in the church when no one else was there. What shall I lose in not being a sacristan? One earns little and loses it all in fines. I’ll be a herdsman, mama, and take good care of the cows andcarabaos, and make my master love me; then perhaps he’ll let us have a cow to milk: Crispin loves milk. And I could fish in the rivers and go hunting when I get big. And by and by perhaps I could have a little land and sow sugar-cane. We could all live together, then. And old Tasio says Crispin is very bright. By and by we would send him to study at Manila, and I would work for him. Shall we, mama? He might be a doctor; what do you say?”“What can I say, except that you are right,” answered Sisa, kissing her son.Basilio went on with his projects, talking with the confidence of a child. Sisa said yes to everything. But little by little sleep came back to the child’s lids, and this time he did not cry in his dreams: that Ole-Luk-Oie, of whom Andersen tells us, unfurled over his head the umbrella with its lining of gay pictures. But the mother, past the age of careless slumbers, did not sleep.

Life is a Dream.

Life is a Dream.

Basilio had scarcely strength to enter and fall into his mother’s arms. A strange cold enveloped Sisa when she saw him come alone. She wished to speak, but found no words; to caress her son, but found no force. Yet at the sight of blood on his forehead, her voice came, and she cried in a tone which seemed to tell of a breaking heartstring:

“My children!”

“Don’t be frightened, mama; Crispin stayed at the convent.”

“At the convent? He stayed at the convent? Living?”

The child raised his eyes to hers.

“Ah!” she cried, passing from the greatest anguish to the utmost joy. She wept, embraced her child, covered with kisses his wounded forehead.

“And why are you hurt, my son? Did you fall?”

Basilio told her he had been challenged by the guard, ran, was shot at, and a ball had grazed his forehead.

“O God! I thank Thee that Thou didst save him!” murmured the mother.

She went for lint and vinegar water, and while she bandaged his wound:

“Why,” she asked, “did Crispin stay at the convent?”

Basilio looked at her, kissed her, then little by little told the story of the lost money; he said nothing of thetorture of his little brother. Mother and child mingled their tears.

“Accuse my good Crispin! It’s because we are poor, and the poor must bear everything,” murmured Sisa. Both were silent a moment.

“But you have not eaten,” said the mother. “Here are sardines and rice.”

“I’m not hungry, mama; I only want some water.”

“Yes, eat,” said the mother. “I know you don’t like dry sardines, and I had something else for you; but your father came, my poor child.”

“My father came?” and Basilio instinctively examined his mother’s face and hands.

The question pained the mother; she sighed.

“You won’t eat? Then we must go to bed; it is late.”

Sisa barred the door and covered the fire. Basilio murmured his prayers, and crept on the mat near his mother, who was still on her knees. She was warm, he was cold. He thought of his little brother, who had hoped to sleep this night close to his mother’s side, trembling with fear in some dark corner of the convent. He heard his cries as he had heard them in the tower; but Nature soon confused his ideas and he slept.

In the middle of the night Sisa wakened him.

“What is it, Basilio? Why are you crying?”

“I was dreaming. O mama! it was a dream, wasn’t it? Say it was nothing but a dream!”

“What were you dreaming?”

He did not answer, but sat up to dry his tears.

“Tell me the dream,” said Sisa, when he had lain down again. “I cannot sleep.”

“It is gone now, mama; I don’t remember it all.”

Sisa did not insist: she attached no importance to dreams.

“Mama,” said Basilio after a moment of silence, “I’mnot sleepy either. I had a project last evening. I don’t want to be a sacristan.”

“What?”

“Listen, mama. The son of Don Rafael came home from Spain to-day; he should be as kind as his father. Well, to-morrow I find Crispin, get my pay, and say I’m not going to be a sacristan. Then I’ll go see Don Crisóstomo and ask him to make me a buffalo-keeper. Crispin could go on studying with old Tasio. Tasio’s better than the curate thinks; I’ve often seen him praying in the church when no one else was there. What shall I lose in not being a sacristan? One earns little and loses it all in fines. I’ll be a herdsman, mama, and take good care of the cows andcarabaos, and make my master love me; then perhaps he’ll let us have a cow to milk: Crispin loves milk. And I could fish in the rivers and go hunting when I get big. And by and by perhaps I could have a little land and sow sugar-cane. We could all live together, then. And old Tasio says Crispin is very bright. By and by we would send him to study at Manila, and I would work for him. Shall we, mama? He might be a doctor; what do you say?”

“What can I say, except that you are right,” answered Sisa, kissing her son.

Basilio went on with his projects, talking with the confidence of a child. Sisa said yes to everything. But little by little sleep came back to the child’s lids, and this time he did not cry in his dreams: that Ole-Luk-Oie, of whom Andersen tells us, unfurled over his head the umbrella with its lining of gay pictures. But the mother, past the age of careless slumbers, did not sleep.

XVI.At the Manse.It was seven o’clock when Brother Salvi finished his last mass. He took off his priestly robes without a word to any one.“Look out!” whispered the sacristans; “it is going to rain fines! And all for the fault of those children!”The father came out of the sacristy and crossed to the manse. On the porch six or seven women sat waiting for him, and a man was walking to and fro. The woman rose, and one bent to kiss his hand, but the priest made such a gesture of impatience that she stopped short.“He must have lost a real miser,” she cried mockingly, when he had passed. “This is something unheard of: refuse his hand to the zealous Sister Rufa?”“He was not in the confessional this morning,” said a toothless old woman, Sister Sipa. “I wanted to confess, so as to get some indulgences.”“I have gained three plenary indulgences,” said a young woman of pleasing face, “and applied them all to the soul of my husband.”“You have done wrong,” said Sister Rufa, “one plenary is enough; you should not squander the holy indulgences. Do as I do.”“I said to myself, the more there are the better,” replied young sister Juana, smiling; “but what do you do?”Sister Rufa did not respond at once; she chewed herbuyo,and scanned her audience attentively; at length she decided to speak.“Well, this is what I do. Suppose I gain a year of indulgences; I say: Blessed Señor Saint Dominic, have the kindness to see if there is some one in purgatory who has need of precisely a year. Then I play heads or tails. If it falls heads, no; if tails, yes. If it falls heads, I keep the indulgence, and so I make groups of a hundred years, for which there is always use. It’s a pity one can’t loan indulgences at interest. But do as I do, it’s the best plan.”At this point Sisa appeared. She said good morning to the women, and entered the manse.“She’s gone in, let us go too,” said the sisters, and they followed her.Sisa felt her heart beat violently. She did not know what to say to the curate in defence of her child. She had risen at daybreak, picked all the fine vegetables left in her garden, and arranged them in a basket with platane leaves and flowers, and had been to the river to get a fresh salad ofpakô. Then, dressed in the best she had, the basket on her head, without waking her son, she had set out for the pueblo.She went slowly through the manse, listening if by chance she might hear a well-known voice, fresh and childish. But she met no one, heard nothing, and went on to the kitchen.The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely answering her greetings.“Where may I put these vegetables?” she asked, without showing offence.“There—wherever you want to,” replied the cook curtly.Sisa, half-smiling, placed all in order on the table, and laid on top the flowers and the tender shoots of thepakô; then she asked a servant who seemed more friendly than the cook:“Do you know if Crispin is in the sacristy?”The servant looked at her in surprise.“Crispin?” said he, wrinkling his brows; “isn’t he at home?”“Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here.”“Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of things he’d stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. The guards must be on their way to your house by this time.”Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips moved in vain.“Go find your children,” said the cook. “Everybody sees you’re a faithful woman; the children are like their father!”Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.“Don’t cry here,” said the cook still more roughly, “the curate is ill; don’t bother him! Go cry in the street!”The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate’s illness. Once on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden resolution, moved rapidly away.

It was seven o’clock when Brother Salvi finished his last mass. He took off his priestly robes without a word to any one.

“Look out!” whispered the sacristans; “it is going to rain fines! And all for the fault of those children!”

The father came out of the sacristy and crossed to the manse. On the porch six or seven women sat waiting for him, and a man was walking to and fro. The woman rose, and one bent to kiss his hand, but the priest made such a gesture of impatience that she stopped short.

“He must have lost a real miser,” she cried mockingly, when he had passed. “This is something unheard of: refuse his hand to the zealous Sister Rufa?”

“He was not in the confessional this morning,” said a toothless old woman, Sister Sipa. “I wanted to confess, so as to get some indulgences.”

“I have gained three plenary indulgences,” said a young woman of pleasing face, “and applied them all to the soul of my husband.”

“You have done wrong,” said Sister Rufa, “one plenary is enough; you should not squander the holy indulgences. Do as I do.”

“I said to myself, the more there are the better,” replied young sister Juana, smiling; “but what do you do?”

Sister Rufa did not respond at once; she chewed herbuyo,and scanned her audience attentively; at length she decided to speak.

“Well, this is what I do. Suppose I gain a year of indulgences; I say: Blessed Señor Saint Dominic, have the kindness to see if there is some one in purgatory who has need of precisely a year. Then I play heads or tails. If it falls heads, no; if tails, yes. If it falls heads, I keep the indulgence, and so I make groups of a hundred years, for which there is always use. It’s a pity one can’t loan indulgences at interest. But do as I do, it’s the best plan.”

At this point Sisa appeared. She said good morning to the women, and entered the manse.

“She’s gone in, let us go too,” said the sisters, and they followed her.

Sisa felt her heart beat violently. She did not know what to say to the curate in defence of her child. She had risen at daybreak, picked all the fine vegetables left in her garden, and arranged them in a basket with platane leaves and flowers, and had been to the river to get a fresh salad ofpakô. Then, dressed in the best she had, the basket on her head, without waking her son, she had set out for the pueblo.

She went slowly through the manse, listening if by chance she might hear a well-known voice, fresh and childish. But she met no one, heard nothing, and went on to the kitchen.

The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely answering her greetings.

“Where may I put these vegetables?” she asked, without showing offence.

“There—wherever you want to,” replied the cook curtly.

Sisa, half-smiling, placed all in order on the table, and laid on top the flowers and the tender shoots of thepakô; then she asked a servant who seemed more friendly than the cook:

“Do you know if Crispin is in the sacristy?”

The servant looked at her in surprise.

“Crispin?” said he, wrinkling his brows; “isn’t he at home?”

“Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here.”

“Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of things he’d stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. The guards must be on their way to your house by this time.”

Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips moved in vain.

“Go find your children,” said the cook. “Everybody sees you’re a faithful woman; the children are like their father!”

Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.

“Don’t cry here,” said the cook still more roughly, “the curate is ill; don’t bother him! Go cry in the street!”

The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate’s illness. Once on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden resolution, moved rapidly away.

XVII.Story of a Schoolmaster.The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not been shaken by yesterday’s tempest. At the first gleam of light which wakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the bounds of the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are the barks of fishermen drawing in their nets;cascosandparaosshaking out their sails.From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. One is Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.“This is the place,” said the stranger, “where the gravedigger brought us, Lieutenant Guevara and me.”Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.When the first horror at the story of his father’s desecrated grave had passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Private wrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of the country: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughters of Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a charge against the Church, and Crisóstomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knew how in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most of his fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was all here. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally, and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich, andtherefore powerful still—and he was young. Ibarra had taken up his life again as he had found it.His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man’s hand.“Do not thank me,” said the other; “I owe everything to your father. I came here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work, furnished the poor children with books. How far away that good time seems!”“And now?”“Ah! now we get along as best we can.”Ibarra was silent.“How many pupils have you?”“More than two hundred on the list—in the classes, fifty-five.”“And how is that?”The schoolmaster smiled sadly.“It is a long story.”“Don’t think I ask from curiosity,” said Ibarra. “I have thought much about it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father’s ideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myself with his spirit. That is why I ask this question.”“The country will bless your memory, señor, if you carry out the splendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles I meet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The children read, write, learn by heart passages, sometimes whole books, in Castilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is such a school to the children of our peasants!”“You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?”“I have none,” said the young man; “one cannot struggle alone against so many needs and against certain influences. I tried to remedy the evil of which I just spoke; I tried to carry out the order of the Government, and beganto teach the children Spanish. The beginning was excellent, but one day Brother Dámaso sent for me. I went up immediately, and I said good-day to him in Castilian. Without replying, he burst into laughter. At length he said, with a sidelong glance: ‘Whatbuenos dias! buenos dias!It’s very pretty. You know Spanish?’ and he began to laugh again.”Ibarra could not repress a smile.“You laugh,” said the teacher, “and I, too, now; but I assure you I had no desire to then. I started to reply, I don’t know what, but Brother Dámaso interrupted:“‘Don’t wear clothes that are not your own,’ he said in Tagal; ‘be content to speak your own language. Do you know about Ciruela? Well, Ciruela was a master who could neither read nor write, yet he kept school.’ And he left the room, slamming the door behind him. What was I to do? What could I, against him, the highest authority of the pueblo, moral, political, and civil; backed by his order, feared by the Government, rich, powerful, always obeyed and believed. To withstand him was to lose my place, and break off my career without hope of another. Every one would have sided with the priest. I should have been called proud, insolent, no Christian, perhaps even anti-Spanish andfilibustero. Heaven forgive me if I denied my conscience and my reason, but I was born here, must live here, I have a mother, and I abandoned myself to my fate, as a cadaver to the wave that rolls it.”“And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?”“I was rash enough to try two more experiments, one after our change of curates; but both proved offensive to the same authority. Since then I have done my best to convert the poor babies into parrots.”“Well, I have cheerful news for you,” said Ibarra. “Iam soon to present to the Government a project that will help you out of your difficulties, if it is approved.”The school-teacher shook his head.“You will see, Señor Ibarra, that your projects—I’ve heard something of them—will no more be realized than were mine!”

The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not been shaken by yesterday’s tempest. At the first gleam of light which wakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the bounds of the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are the barks of fishermen drawing in their nets;cascosandparaosshaking out their sails.

From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. One is Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.

“This is the place,” said the stranger, “where the gravedigger brought us, Lieutenant Guevara and me.”

Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.

When the first horror at the story of his father’s desecrated grave had passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Private wrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of the country: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughters of Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a charge against the Church, and Crisóstomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knew how in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most of his fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was all here. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally, and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich, andtherefore powerful still—and he was young. Ibarra had taken up his life again as he had found it.

His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man’s hand.

“Do not thank me,” said the other; “I owe everything to your father. I came here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work, furnished the poor children with books. How far away that good time seems!”

“And now?”

“Ah! now we get along as best we can.”

Ibarra was silent.

“How many pupils have you?”

“More than two hundred on the list—in the classes, fifty-five.”

“And how is that?”

The schoolmaster smiled sadly.

“It is a long story.”

“Don’t think I ask from curiosity,” said Ibarra. “I have thought much about it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father’s ideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myself with his spirit. That is why I ask this question.”

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

“You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?”

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

Ibarra could not repress a smile.

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

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

“And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?”

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

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

The school-teacher shook his head.

“You will see, Señor Ibarra, that your projects—I’ve heard something of them—will no more be realized than were mine!”

XVIII.The Story of a Mother.Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experienced one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner, we fly toward it without stopping to question.Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed now by a band ofgarzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One of the guards beckoned her.Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her throat parch.“Speak the truth, or we’ll tie you to this tree and shoot you,” said one of the guards.Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.“You are the mother of the thieves?”“The mother of the thieves?” repeated Sisa, without comprehending.“Where is the money your sons brought home last night?”“Ah! the money——”“Give us the money, and we’ll let you alone.”“Señores,” said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again, “my boys do not steal, even when they’re hungry; we are used to suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a réal, do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves.”“Well then,” said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa’s, “follow us!”“I—follow you?” And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms of the guards. “Oh, have pity on me! I’m very poor, I’ve nothing to give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my miserable cabin, but let me—let me—die here in peace!”“March! do you hear? and if you don’t go without making trouble, we’ll tie your hands.”“Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least,” she cried, as they laid hold of her.The soldiers spoke together apart.“Very well,” said one, “when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on now, and quick!”Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face, in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable; every one, even her husband,had abandoned her; but until now she had always felt herself respected.As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked on all sides, seeking some succor in nature—death in the river would be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light in the darkness of her soul.“Afterward,” she said to herself,—“afterward, we will go to live in the heart of the forest.”She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:“We are at the pueblo,” she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened, in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two women she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her eyes on the ground.At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes, and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:“Where did you find her? Did you get the money?”Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way under her feet.“This way!” cried a guard.Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. A gate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still more imperious checked her.While she sought to find whence the voice came, she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes, took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, and chickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothes or clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.“Where is the sergeant?” demanded one of the guards angrily. “Has the alférez been informed?”A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would take any trouble for the poor woman.Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner, her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alférez arrived. He refused to believe the curate’s accusations.“Bah! monks’ tricks!” said he; and ordered that the woman be released and the affair dropped.“If he wants to find what he’s lost,” he added, “let him complain to the nuncio! That’s all I have to say.”Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of the barracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fast as she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyes fixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not a cloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves of the trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin, ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ran to old Tasio’s, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poor thing went back and commenced to call, “Basilio! Crispin!” standing still, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweet murmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred by the breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude.She called anew, mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took a sinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them, then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have said the light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the night before—she and Basilio—and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboo fence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio’s blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent over and continued to look at this rag from her child’s clothing, raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the human larynx would hardly know how to produce.The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her sleep, and an angel’s wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the beings of great Nature.Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisóstomo presented himself at the home of his fiancée; the curate arrived at thesame moment. The house was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.“The winds blow fresh,” said the curate; “aren’t you afraid of taking cold?”“I don’t feel the wind, father,” said Maria.“We Filipinos,” said Crisóstomo, “find this season of autumn and spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between, is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go.”The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the festival of its patron saint, which was near.“Speaking of fêtes,” said Crisóstomo to the curate, “we hope you will join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to start for the fishing-ground before sunrise,” he went on to the curate, “and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo.”The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final arrangements.As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.“Who are you?” asked Crisóstomo.“You would not know my name, señor; I have been trying to see you for three days.”“And what do you want?”“Señor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will help me find them. I want your aid.”“Come with me,” said Ibarra.The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness of the unlighted streets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Speak the truth, or we’ll tie you to this tree and shoot you,” said one of the guards.

Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.

“You are the mother of the thieves?”

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

“Where is the money your sons brought home last night?”

“Ah! the money——”

“Give us the money, and we’ll let you alone.”

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

“Well then,” said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa’s, “follow us!”

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

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

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

The soldiers spoke together apart.

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

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

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

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

She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:

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

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

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

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

“Where did you find her? Did you get the money?”

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

“This way!” cried a guard.

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

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

“Where is the sergeant?” demanded one of the guards angrily. “Has the alférez been informed?”

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

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

“Bah! monks’ tricks!” said he; and ordered that the woman be released and the affair dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The winds blow fresh,” said the curate; “aren’t you afraid of taking cold?”

“I don’t feel the wind, father,” said Maria.

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

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

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

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

As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.

“Who are you?” asked Crisóstomo.

“You would not know my name, señor; I have been trying to see you for three days.”

“And what do you want?”

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

“Come with me,” said Ibarra.

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

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