XLII.The Family of Elias.“It is about sixty years since my grandfather was employed as accountant by a Spanish merchant. Although still young, he was married, and had a son. One night the warehouse took fire, and was burned with the surrounding property. The loss was great, incendiarism was suspected, and my grandfather was accused. He had no money to pay for his defence, and he was convicted and condemned to be publicly flogged in the streets of his pueblo. Attached to a horse, he was beaten as he passed each street corner by men, his brothers. The curates, you know, advocate nothing but blows for the discipline of the Indian. When the unhappy man, marked forever with infamy, was liberated, his poor young wife went about seeking work to keep alive her disabled husband and their little child. Failing in this, she was forced to see them suffer, or to live herself a life of shame.”Ibarra rose to his feet.“Oh, don’t be disturbed! There was no longer honor or dishonor for her or hers. When the husband’s wounds were healed, they went to hide themselves in the mountains, where they lived for a time, shunned and feared. But my grandfather, less courageous than his wife, could not endure this existence and hung himself. When his body was found, by chance, my grandmother was accused for not reporting his death, and was in turn condemned to be flogged; but in consideration of her state her punishment was deferred.She gave birth to another son, unhappily sound and strong; two months later her sentence was carried out. Then she took her two children and fled into a neighboring province.“The elder of the sons remembered that he had once been happy. As soon as he was old enough he became a tulisan to avenge his wrongs, and the name of Bâlat spread terror in many provinces. The younger son, endowed by nature with a gentle disposition, stayed with his mother, both living on the fruits of the forest and dressing in the cast-off rags of those charitable enough to give. At length the famous Bâlat fell into the hands of justice, and paid a dreadful penalty for his crimes, to that society which had never done anything to teach him better than to commit them. One morning the young brother, who had been in the forest gathering fruits, came back to find the dead body of his mother in front of their cabin, the horror-stricken eyes staring upward; and following them with his own, the unhappy boy saw suspended from a limb the bloody head of his brother.”“My God!” cried Ibarra.“It is perhaps the cry that escaped the lips of my father,” said Elias coldly. “Like a condemned criminal, he fled across mountains and valleys. When he thought himself far enough away to have lost his identity, he found work with a rich man of the province of Tayabas. His industry and the sweetness of his disposition gained him favor. Here he stayed, economized, got a little capital, and as he was yet young, thought to be happy. He won the love of a girl of the pueblo, but delayed asking for her hand, fearing that his past might be uncovered. At length, when love’s indiscretion bore fruit, to save her reputation he was obliged to risk everything. He asked to marry her, his papers were demanded, and the truth was learned. Asthe father was rich, he instituted a prosecution. The unhappy young man made no defence, and was sent to the garrison.“Our mother bore twins, my sister and me. She died while we were yet young, and we were told that our father was dead also. As our grandfather was rich, we had a happy childhood; we were always together, and loved each other as only twins can. I was sent very early to the college of the Jesuits, and my sister to La Concordia, that we might not be completely separated. In time we returned to take possession of our grandfather’s property. We had many servants and rich fields. We were both happy, and my sister was affianced to a man she adored.“By my haughtiness, perhaps, and for pecuniary reasons, I had won the dislike of a distant relative. He threw in my face the obscurity of our origin and the dishonor of our race. Believing it calumny, I demanded satisfaction; the tomb where so many miseries sleep was opened, and the truth came forth to confound me. To crown all, there had been with us many years an old servant, who had suffered all my caprices without complaint. I do not know how our relative found it out, but he brought the old man before the court and made him declare the truth: he was our father. Our happiness was ended. I gave up my inheritance, my sister lost her fiancé, and with our father we left the pueblo, to live where he might. The thought of the unhappiness he had brought upon us shortened our father’s days, and my sister and I were left alone. She could not forget her lover, and little by little I saw her droop. One day she disappeared, and I searched everywhere for her in vain. Six months afterward, I learned that at the time I lost her there had been found on the lake shore of Calamba the body of a young woman drowned or assassinated. A knife, they said, was buried in her breast. From what they toldme of her dress and her beauty, I recognized my sister. Since then I have wandered from province to province, my reputation and my story following in time. Many things are attributed to me, often unjustly, but I continue my way and take little account of men. You have my story, and that of one of the judgments of our brothers!”Elias rowed on in a silence which was for some time unbroken.“I believe you are not wrong when you say that justice should interest herself in the education of criminals,” said Crisóstomo at length; “but it is impossible, it is Utopia; where get the money necessary to create so many new offices?”“Why not use the priests, who vaunt their mission of peace and love? Can it be more meritorious to sprinkle a child’s head with water than to wake, in the darkened conscience of a criminal, that spark lighted by God in every soul to guide it in the search for truth? Can it be more humane to accompany a condemned man to the gallows than to help him in the hard path that leads from vice to virtue? And the spies, the executioners, the guards, do not they too cost money?”“My friend, if I believed all this, what could I do?”“Alone, nothing; but if the people sustained you?”“I shall never be the one to lead the people when they try to obtain by force what the Government does not think it time to give them. If I should see the people armed, I should range myself on the side of the Government. I do not recognize my country in a mob. I desire her good; that is why I build a school. I seek this good through instruction; without light there is no route.”“Without struggle, no liberty; without liberty, no light. You say you know your country little. I believe you. You do not see the conflict coming, the cloud on the horizon:the struggle begun in the sphere of the mind is going to descend to the arena of blood. Listen to the voice of God; woe to those who resist it! History shall not be theirs!”Elias was transfigured. He stood uncovered, his manly face illumined by the white light of the moon. He shook his mane of hair and continued:“Do you not see how everything is waking? The sleep has lasted centuries, but some day the lightning will strike, and the bolt, instead of bringing ruin, will bring life. Do you not see minds in travail with new tendencies, and know that these tendencies, diverse now, will some day be guided by God into one way? God has not failed other peoples; He will not fail us!”The words were followed by solemn silence. The boat, drawn on by the waves, was nearing the bank. Elias was the first to speak.“What shall I say to those who sent me?”“That they must wait. I pity their situation, but progress is slow, and there is always much of our own fault in our misfortunes.”Elias said no more. He lowered his eyes and continued to row. When the boat touched the shore, he took leave of Ibarra.“I thank you, señor,” he said, “for your kindness to me, and, in your own interest, I ask you to forget me from this day.”When Ibarra was gone, Elias guided his boat toward a clump of reeds along the shore. His attention seemed absorbed in the thousands of diamonds that rose with the oar, and fell back and disappeared in the mystery of the gentle azure waves. When he touched land, a man came out from among the reeds.“What shall I say to the captain?” he asked.“Tell him Elias, if he lives, will keep his word,” replied the helmsman sadly.“And when will you join us?”“When your captain thinks the hour has come.”“That is well; adieu!”“If I live!” repeated Elias, under his breath.XLIII.Il Buon Di si Conosce da Mattina.While Ibarra and Elias were on the lake, old Tasio, ill in his solitary little house, and Don Filipo, who had come to see him, were also talking of the country. For several days the old philosopher, or fool—as you find him—prostrated by a rapidly increasing feebleness, had not left his bed.“The country,” he was saying to Don Filipo, “isn’t what it was twenty years ago.”“Do you think so?”“Don’t you see it?” asked the old man, sitting up. “Ah! you did not know the past. Hear the students of to-day talking. New names are spoken under the arches that once heard only those of Saint Thomas, Suarez, Amat, and the other idols of my day. In vain the monks cry from the chair against the demoralization of the times; in vain the convents extend their ramifications to strangle the new ideas. The roots of a tree may influence the parasites growing on it, but they are powerless against the bird, which, from the branches, mounts triumphant toward the sky!”The old man spoke with animation, and his eye shone.“And yet the new germ is very feeble,” said the lieutenant. “If they all set about it, the progress already so dearly paid for may yet be choked.”“Choke it? Who? The weak dwarf, man, to choke progress, the powerful child of time and energy? Whenhas he done that? He has tried dogma, the scaffold, and the stake, butE pur si muoveis the device of progress. Wills are thwarted, individuals sacrificed. What does that mean to progress? She goes her way, and the blood of those who fall enriches the soil whence spring her new shoots. The Dominicans themselves do not escape this law, and they are beginning to imitate the Jesuits, their irreconcilable enemies.”“Do you hold that the Jesuits move with progress?” asked the astonished Don Filipo. “Then why are they so attacked in Europe?”“I reply as did once an ecclesiastic of old,” said the philosopher, laying his head back on the pillow and putting on his mocking air, “that there are three ways of moving with progress: ahead, beside, behind; the first guide, the second follow, the third are dragged. The Jesuits are of these last. At present, in the Philippines, we are about three centuries behind the van of the general movement. The Jesuits, who in Europe are the reaction, viewed from here represent progress. For instance, the Philippines owe to them the introduction of the natural sciences, the soul of the nineteenth century. As for ourselves, at this moment we are entering a period of strife: strife between the past which grapples to itself the tumbling feudal castle, and the future whose song may be heard afar off, bringing us from distant lands the tidings of good news.”The old man stopped, but seeing the expression of Don Filipo he smiled and went on.“I can almost divine what you are thinking.”“Can you?”“You are thinking that I may easily be wrong; to-day I have the fever, and I am never infallible. But it is permitted us to dream. Why not make the dreams agreeable in the last hours of life? You are right: I do dream! Ouryoung men think of nothing but loves and pleasures; our men of riper years have no activity but in vice, serve only to corrupt youth with their example; youth spends its best years without ideal, and childhood wakes to life in rust and darkness. It is well to die. Claudite jam rivos, pueri.”“Is it time for your medicine?” asked Don Filipo, seeing the cloud on the old man’s face.“The parting have no need of medicine, but those who stay. In a few days I shall be gone. The Philippines are in the shadows.”XLIV.La Gallera.To keep holy the afternoon of Sunday in Spain, one goes ordinarily to the plaza de toros; in the Philippines, to the gallera. Cock-fights, introduced in the country about a century ago, are to-day one of the vices of the people. The Chinese can more easily deprive themselves of opium than the Filipinos of this bloody sport.The poor, wishing to get money without work, risks here the little he has; the rich seeks a distraction at the price of whatever loose coin feasts and masses leave him. The education of their cocks costs both much pains, often more than that of their sons.Since the Government permits and almost recommends it, let us take our part in the sport, sure of meeting friends.The gallera of San Diego, like most others, is divided into three courts. In the entry is taken the sa pintû, that is, the price of admission. Of this price the Government has a share, and its revenues from this source are some hundred thousand pesos a year. It is said this license fee of vice serves to build schools, open roads, span rivers, and establish prizes for the encouragement of industry. Blessed be vice when it produces so happy results! In this entry are found girls selling buyo, cigars, and cakes. Here gather numerous children, brought by their fathers or uncles, whose duty it is to initiate them into the ways of life.In the second court are most of the cocks. Here the contracts are made, amid recriminations, oaths, and peals of laughter. One caresses his cock, while another counts the scales on the feet of his, and extends the wings. See this fellow, rage in his face and heart, carrying by the legs his cock, deplumed and dead. The animal which for months has been tended night and day, on which such brilliant hopes were built, will bring a peseta and make a stew. Sic transit gloria mundi! The ruined man goes home to his anxious wife and ragged children. He has lost at once his cock and the price of his industry. Here the least intelligent discuss the sport; those least given to thought extend the wings of cocks, feel their muscles, weigh, and ponder. Some are dressed in elegance, followed and surrounded by the partisans of their cocks; others, ragged and dirty, the stigma of vice on their blighted faces, follow anxiously the movements of the rich; the purse may get empty, the passion remains. Here not a face that is not animated; in this the Filipino is not indolent, nor apathetic, nor silent; all is movement, passion. One would say they were all devoured by a thirst always more and more excited by muddy water.From this court one passes to the pit, a circle with seats terraced to the roof, filled during the combats with a mass of men and children; scarcely ever does a woman risk herself so far. Here it is that destiny distributes smiles and tears, hunger and joyous feasts.Entering, we recognize at once the gobernadorcillo, Captain Basilio, and José, the man with the scar, so cast down by the death of his brother. And here comes Captain Tiago, dressed like the sporting man, in a canton flannel shirt, woollen trousers, and a jipijapa hat. He is followed by two servants with his cocks. A combat is soon arranged between one of these and a famous cock of Captain Basilio’s.The news spreads, and a crowd gathers round, examining, considering, forecasting, betting.While men were searching their pockets for their last cuarto, or in lieu of it were engaging their word, promising to sell the carabao, the next crop, and so forth, two young fellows, brothers apparently, looked on with envious eyes. José watched them by stealth, smiling evilly. Then making the pesos sound in his pocket, he passed the brothers, looking the other way and crying:“I pay fifty; fifty against twenty for the lásak!”The brothers looked at each other discontentedly.“I told you not to risk all the money,” said the elder. “If you had listened to me——”The younger approached José and timidly touched his arm.“What! It’s you?” he cried, turning and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition?”“He won’t do it. But if you would lend us something, as you say you know us——”José shook his head, shifted his position, and replied:“Yes, I know you; you are Társilo and Bruno; and I know that your valiant father died from the club strokes of these soldiers. I know you don’t think of vengeance——”“Don’t concern yourself with our history,” said the elder brother, joining them; “that brings misfortune. If we hadn’t a sister, we should have been hanged long ago!”“Hanged! Only cowards are hanged. Besides, the mountain isn’t so far.”“A hundred against fifty for the bûlik!” cried some one passing.“Loan us four pesos—three—two,” begged Bruno. José again shook his head.“Sh! the money isn’t mine. Don Crisóstomo gave it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see youare not like your father; he was courageous. The man who is not must not expect to divert himself.” And he moved away.“See!” said Bruno, “he’s talking with Pedro; he’s giving him a lot of money!” And in truth José was counting silver pieces into the palm of Sisa’s husband.Társilo was moody and thoughtful; with his shirt sleeve he wiped the sweat from his forehead.“Brother,” said Bruno, “I’m going, if you don’t; our father must be avenged!”“Wait,” said Társilo, gazing into his eyes—they were both pale—“I’m going with you. You are right: our father must be avenged!” But he did not move, and again wiped his brow.“What are you waiting for?” demanded Bruno impatiently.“Don’t you think—our poor sister——”“Bah! Isn’t Don Crisóstomo the chief, and haven’t we seen him with the governor-general? What risk do we run?”“And if we die?”“Did not our poor father die under their clubs?”“You are right!”The brothers set out to find José, but hesitation again possessed Társilo.“No; come away! we’re going to ruin ourselves!” he cried.“Go on if you want to. I shall accept!”“Bruno!”Unhappily a man came up and asked:“Are you betting? I’m for the lásak.”“How much?” demanded Bruno.The man counted his pieces.“I have two hundred; fifty against forty!”“No!” said Bruno resolutely.“Good! Fifty against thirty!”“Double it if you will.”“A hundred against sixty, then!”“Agreed! Wait while I go for the money,” and turning to his brother he said:“Go away if you want to; I shall stay!”Társilo reflected. He loved Bruno, and he loved sport.“I am with you,” he said. They found José.“Uncle,” said Társilo, “how much will you give?” “I’ve told you already; if you will promise to find others to help surprise the quarters, I’ll give you thirty pesos each, and ten to each companion. If all goes well, they will each receive a hundred, and you double. Don Crisóstomo is rich!”“Agreed!” cried Bruno; “give us the money!”“I knew you were like your father! Come this way, so that those who killed him cannot hear us,” said José. And drawing them into a corner, he added as he counted out the money:“Don Crisóstomo has come and brought the arms. To-morrow night at eight o’clock meet me in the cemetery. I will give you the final word. Go find your companions.” And he left them.The brothers appeared to have exchanged rôles. Társilo now seemed undisturbed; Bruno was pale. They went back to the crowd, which was leaving the circle for the raised seats. Little by little the place became silent. Only the soltadores were left in the ring holding two cocks, with exaggerated care, looking out for wounds. The silence became solemn; the spectators became mere caricatures of men; the fight was about to begin.XLV.A Call.Two days later Brother Salvi presented himself at the house of Captain Tiago. The Franciscan was more gaunt and pale than usual; but as he went up the steps a strange light shone in his eyes, and his lips parted in a strange smile. Captain Tiago kissed his hand, and took his hat and cane, smiling beatifically.“I bring good news,” said the curate as he entered the drawing-room; “good news for everybody. I have letters from Manila confirming the one Señor Ibarra brought me, so that I believe, Don Santiago, the obstacle is quite removed.”Maria Clara, seated at the piano, made a movement to rise, but her strength failed her and she had to sit down again. Linares grew pale; Captain Tiago lowered his eyes.“The young man seems to me very sympathetic,” said the curate. “At first I misjudged him. He is impulsive, but when he commits a fault, he knows so well how to atone for it that one is forced to forgive him. If it were not for Father Dámaso——” And the curate flashed a glance at Maria Clara. She was listening with all her being, but did not take her eyes off her music, in spite of the pinches that were expressing Sinang’s joy. Had they been alone they would have danced.“But Father Dámaso has said,” continued the curate, without losing sight of Maria Clara, “that as godfather he couldnot permit; but, indeed, I believe if Señor Ibarra will ask his pardon everything will arrange itself.”Maria rose, made an excuse, and with Victorina left the room.“And if Father Dámaso does not pardon him?” asked Don Santiago in a low voice.“Then Maria Clara must decide. But I believe the matter can be arranged.”The sound of an arrival was heard, and Ibarra entered. His coming made a strange impression. Captain Tiago did not know whether to smile or weep. Father Salvi rose and offered his hand so affectionately that Crisóstomo could scarcely repress a look of surprise.“Where have you been all day?” demanded wicked Sinang. “We asked each other: ‘What can have taken that soul newly rescued from perdition?’ and each of us had her opinion.”“And am I to know what each opinion was?”“No, not yet! Tell me where you went, so I can see who made the best guess.”“That’s a secret too; but I can tell you by yourself if these gentlemen will permit.”“Certainly, certainly?” said Father Salvi. Sinang drew Crisóstomo to the other end of the great room.“Tell me, little friend,” said he, “is Maria angry with me?”“I don’t know. She says you had best forget her, and then she cries. This morning when we were wondering where you were I said to tease her: ‘Perhaps he has gone a-courting.’ But she was quite grave, and said: ‘It is God’s will!’”“Tell Maria I must see her alone,” said Ibarra, troubled.“It will be difficult, but I’ll try to manage it.”“And when shall I know?”“To-morrow. But you are going without telling me the secret!”“So I am. Well, I went to the pueblo of Los Baños to see about some cocoanut trees!”“What a secret!” cried Sinang aloud in a tone of a usurer despoiled.“Take care, I really don’t want you to speak of it.”“I’ve no desire to,” said Sinang scornfully. “If it had been really of importance I should have told my friends; but cocoanuts, cocoanuts, who cares about cocoanuts!” and she ran off to find Maria.Conversation languished, and Ibarra soon took his leave. Captain Tiago was torn between the bitter and the sweet. Linares said nothing. Only the curate affected gayety and recounted tales.XLVI.A Conspiracy.The bell was announcing the time of prayer the evening after. At its sound every one stopped his work and uncovered. The laborer coming from the fields checked his song; the woman in the streets crossed herself; the man caressed his cock and said the Angelus, that chance might favor him. And yet the curate, to the great scandal of pious old ladies, was running through the street toward the house of the alférez. He dashed up the steps and knocked impatiently. The alférez opened.“Ah, father, I was just going to see you; your young buck——”“I’ve something very important——” began the breathless curate.“I can’t allow the fences to be broken; if he comes back, I shall fire on him.”“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”“Señor alférez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”“What?”The curate pointed to the door, which the alférez closed in his customary fashion.“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”“And this time it is——”The curate approached him and spoke low.“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”The alférez shrugged his shoulders.“Are you speaking of Elias?”“No, no! I’m speaking of a great peril!”“Well, finish then!” cried the exasperated alférez.The curate lowered his voice mysteriously:“I have discovered a conspiracy!”The alférez gave a spring and looked at the curate in stupefaction.“A terrible conspiracy, well organized, that is to break out to-night!”The alférez rushed across the room, took down his sabre from the wall, and grasped his revolver.“Whom shall I arrest?” he cried.“Be calm! There is plenty of time, thanks to the haste with which I came. At eight o’clock——”“They shall be shot, all of them!”“Listen! It is a secret of the confessional, discovered to me by a woman. At eight o’clock they are to surprise the barracks, sack the convent, and assassinate all the Spaniards.”The alférez stood dumbfounded.“Be ready for them; ambush your soldiers; send me four guards for the convent! You will earn your promotion to-night! I only ask you to make it known that it was I who warned you.”“It shall be known, father; it shall be known, and, perhaps, it will bring down a mitre!” replied the alférez, his eyes on the sleeves of his uniform.While this conversation was in progress, Elias was running toward the house of Ibarra. He entered and was shown to the laboratory, where Crisóstomo was passing the time until the hour of his appointment with Maria Clara.“Ah! It is you, Elias?” he said, without noticing the tremor of the helmsman. “See here! I’ve just made a discovery: this piece of bamboo is non-combustible.”“Señor, there is no time to talk of that; take your papers and flee!”Ibarra looked up amazed, and, seeing the gravity of the helmsman’s face, let fall the piece of bamboo.“Leave nothing behind that could compromise you, and may an hour from this time find you in a safer place than this!”“What does all this mean?”“That there is a conspiracy on foot which will be attributed to you. I have this moment been talking with a man hired to take part in it.”“Did he tell you who paid him?”“He said it was you.”Ibarra stared in stupid amazement.“Señor, youhaven’ta moment to lose. The plot is to be carried out to-night.”Crisóstomo still gazed at Elias, as if he did not understand.“I learned of it too late; I don’t know the leaders; I can do nothing. Save yourself, señor!”“Where can I go? I am due now at Captain Tiago’s,” said Ibarra, beginning to come out of his trance.“To another pueblo, to Manila, anywhere! Destroy your papers! Fly, and await events!”“And Maria Clara? No! Better die!”Elias wrung his hands.“Prepare for the accusation, at all events. Destroy your papers!”“Aid me then,” said Crisóstomo, in almost helpless bewilderment. “They are in these cabinets. My father’s letters might compromise me. You will know them by theaddresses.” And he tore open one drawer after another. Elias worked to better purpose, choosing here, rejecting there. Suddenly he stopped, his pupils dilated; he turned a paper over and over in his hand, then in a trembling voice he asked:“Your family knew Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”“He was my great-grandfather.”“Your great-grandfather?” repeated Elias, livid.“Yes,” said Ibarra mechanically, and totally unobservant of Elias. “The name was too long; we cut it.”“Was he a Basque?” asked Elias slowly.“Yes; but what ails you?” said Crisóstomo, looking round and recoiling before the hard face and clenched fists of Elias.“Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was? Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the wretch who caused all our misfortune! I have long been searching for his descendants; God has delivered you into my hands! Look at me! Do you think I have suffered? And you live, and you love, and have a fortune and a home; you live, you live!” and, beside himself, he ran toward a collection of arms on the wall. But no sooner had he reached down two poniards than he dropped them, looking blindly at Ibarra, who stood rigid.“What was I going to do?” he said under his breath, and he fled like a madman.XLVII.The Catastrophe.Captain Tiago, Aunt Isabel, and Linares were dining. Maria Clara had said she was not hungry, and was at the piano with Sinang. The two girls had arranged this moment for meeting Ibarra away from too watchful eyes. The clock struck eight.“He’s coming! Listen!” cried the laughing Sinang.He entered, white and sad. Maria Clara, in alarm, started toward him, but before any one could speak a fusilade sounded in the street; then random pistol shots, and cries and clamor. Crisóstomo seemed glued to the floor. The diners came running in crying: “The tulisanes! The tulisanes!” Aunt Isabel fell on her knees half dead from fright, Captain Tiago was weeping. Some one rushed about fastening the windows. The tumult continued outside; then little by little there fell a dreadful silence. Presently the alférez was heard crying out as he ran through the street:“Father Salvi! Father Salvi!”“Mercy!” exclaimed Aunt Isabel. “The alférez is asking for confession!”“The alférez is wounded!” murmured Linares, with an expression of the utmost relief.“The tulisanes have killed the alférez! Maria, Sinang, into your chamber! Barricade the door!”In spite of the protests of Aunt Isabel, Ibarra went out into the street. Everything seemed turning round and round him; his ears rang; he could scarcely move his limbs.Spots of blood, flashes of light and darkness alternated before his eyes. The streets were deserted, but the barracks were in confusion, and voices came from the tribunal, that of the alférez dominating all the others. Ibarra passed unchallenged, and reached his home, where his servants were anxiously watching for him.“Saddle me the best horse and go to bed,” he said to them.He entered his cabinet and began to pack a valise. He had put in his money and jewels and Maria’s picture and was gathering up his papers when there came three resounding knocks at the house door.“Open in the name of the King! Open or we force the door!” said an imperious voice. Ibarra armed himself and looked toward the window; then changed his mind, threw down his revolver, and went to the door. Three guards immediately seized him.“I make you prisoner in the name of the King!” said the sergeant.“Why?”“You will learn at the tribunal; I am forbidden to talk with you.”“I am at your disposition. It will not be for, I suppose, long.”“If you promise not to try to escape us, we may leave your hands free; the alférez grants you that favor.”Crisóstomo took his hat and followed the guards, leaving his servants in consternation.Elias, after leaving the house of Ibarra, ran like a madman, not knowing whither. He crossed the fields and reached the wood. He was fleeing from men and their habitations; he was fleeing from light; the moon made him suffer. He buried himself in the mysterious silence of the wood. The birds stirred, wakened from their sleep; owlsflew from branch to branch, screeching or looking at him with great, round eyes. Elias did not see or hear them; he thought he was followed by the irate shades of his ancestors. From every branch hung the bleeding head of Bâlat. At the foot of every tree he stumbled against the cold body of his grandmother; among the shadows swung the skeleton of his infamous grandfather; and the skeleton, the body, and the bleeding head cried out: “Coward! Coward!”He ran on. He left the mountain and went down to the lake, moving feverishly along the shore; his wandering eyes became fixed upon a point on the tranquil surface, and there, surrounded by a silver nimbus and rocked by the tide, stood a shade which he seemed to recognize. Yes, that was her hair, so long and beautiful; yes, that was her breast, gaping from the poniard stroke. And the wretched man, kneeling in the sand, stretched out his arms to the cherished vision:“Thou! Thou, too!” he cried.His eyes fixed on the apparition, he rose, entered the water and descended the gentle slope of the beach. Already he was far from the bank; the waves lapped his waist; but he went on fascinated. The water reached his breast. Did he know it? Suddenly a volley tore the air; the night was so calm that the rifle shots sounded clear and sharp. He stopped, listened, came to himself; the shade vanished; the dream was gone. He perceived that he was in the lake, level with his eyes across the tranquil water he saw the lights in the poor cabins of fishermen. Everything came back to him. He made for the shore and went rapidly toward the pueblo.San Diego was deserted; the houses were closed; even the dogs had hidden themselves. The glittering light that bathed everything detached the shadows boldly, making the solitude still more dreary.Fearing to encounter the guards, Elias scaled fences and hedges, and so, making his way through the gardens, reached the home of Ibarra. The servants were around the door lamenting the arrest of their master. Elias learned what had happened, and made feint of going away, but returned to the back of the house, jumped the wall, climbed into a window and made his way to the laboratory. He saw the papers, the arms taken down, the bags of money and jewels, Maria’s picture, and had a vision of Ibarra surprised by the soldiers. He meditated a moment and decided to bury the things of value in the garden. He gathered them up, went to the window, and saw gleaming in the moonlight the casques and bayonets of the guard. His plans were quickly laid. He hid about his person the money and jewels, and, after an instant’s hesitation, the picture of Maria. Then, heaping all the papers in the middle of the room, he saturated them with oil from a lamp, threw the lighted candle in the midst, and sprang out of the window. It was none too soon: the guards were forcing entrance against the protests of the servants.But dense smoke made its way through the house and tongues of flame began to break out. Soldiers and servants together cried fire and rushed toward the cabinet, but the flames had reached the chemicals, and their explosion drove every one back. The water the servants could bring was useless, and the house stood so apart that their cries brought no aid. The flames leaped upward amid great spirals of smoke; the house, long respected by the elements, was now their prisoner.XLVIII.Gossip.It was not yet dawn. The street in which were the barracks and tribunal was still deserted; none of its houses gave a sign of life. Suddenly the shutter of a window opened with a bang and a child’s head appeared, looking in all directions, the little neck stretched to its utmost—plas! It was the sound of a smart slap in contact with the fresh human skin. The child screwed up his face, shut his eyes, and disappeared from the window, which was violently closed again.But the example had been given: the two bangs of the shutter had been heard. Another window opened, this time with precaution, and the wrinkled and toothless head of an old woman looked stealthily out. It was Sister Putá, the old dame who had caused such a commotion during Father Dámaso’s sermon. Children and old women are the representatives of curiosity in the world; the children want to know, the old women to live over again. The old sister stayed longer than the child, and gazed into the distance with contracted brows. Timidly a skylight opened in the house opposite, giving passage to the head and shoulders of sister Rufa. The two old women looked across at each other, smiled, exchanged gestures, and signed themselves.“Since the sack of the pueblo by Bâlat I’ve not known such a night!” said Sister Putá.“What a firing! They say it was the band of old Pablo.”“Tulisanes? Impossible! I heard it was the cuadrillerosagainst the guards; that’s why Don Filipo was arrested.”“They say at least fourteen are dead.”Other windows opened and people were seen exchanging greetings and gossip.By the light of the dawn, which promised a splendid day, soldiers could now be seen dimly at the end of the street, like gray silhouettes coming and going.“Do you know what it was?” asked a man, with a villainous face.“Yes, the cuadrilleros.”“No, señor, a revolt!”“What revolt? The curate against the alférez?”“Oh, no; nothing of that kind. It was an uprising of the Chinese.”“The Chinese!” repeated all the listeners, with great disappointment.“That’s why we don’t see one!”“They are all dead!”“I—I suspected they had something on foot!”“I saw it, too. Last night——”“What a pity they are all dead before Christmas!” cried Sister Rufa. “We shall not get their presents!”The streets began to show signs of life. First the dogs, pigs, and chickens began to circulate; then some little ragged boys, keeping hold of each other’s hands, ventured to approach the barracks. Two or three old women crept after them, their heads wrapt in handkerchiefs knotted under their chins, pretending to tell their beads, so as not to be driven back by the soldiers. When it was certain that one might come and go without risking a pistol shot, the men commenced to stroll out. Affecting indifference and stroking their cocks, they finally got as far as the tribunal.Every quarter hour a new version of the affair was circulated.Ibarra with his servants had tried to carry off Maria Clara, and in defending her,CaptainTiago had been wounded. The number of dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. At half-past seven the version which received most credit was clear and detailed.“I’ve just come from the tribunal,” said a passer, “where I saw Don Filipo and Don Crisóstomo prisoners. Well, Bruno, son of the man who was beaten to death, has confessed everything. You know, Captain Tiago is to marry his daughter to the young Spaniard. Don Crisóstomo wanted revenge, and planned to massacre all the Spaniards. His band attacked the convent and the barracks. They say many of them escaped. The guards burned Don Crisóstomo’s house, and if he hadn’t been arrested, they would have burned him, too.”“They burned the house?”“You can still see the smoke from here,” said the narrator.Everybody looked: a column of smoke was rising against the sky. Then the comments began, some pitying, some accusing.“Poor young man!” cried the husband of Sister Putá.“What!” cried the sister. “You are ready to defend a man that heaven has so plainly punished? You’ll find yourself arrested too. You uphold a falling house!”The husband was silent; the argument had told.“Yes,” went on the old woman. “After striking down Father Dámaso, there was nothing left but to kill Father Salvi!”“But you can’t deny he was a good child.”“Yes, he was good,” replied the old woman; “but he went to Europe, and those who go to Europe come back heretics, the curates say.”“Oho!” said the husband, taking his advantage. “Andthe curate, and all the curates, and the archbishop, and the pope, aren’t they all Spaniards? What? And are they heretics?”Happily for Sister Putá, the conversation was cut short. A servant came running, pale and horror-stricken.“A man hung—in our neighbor’s garden!” she gasped.A man hung! Nobody stirred.“Let’s come and see,” said the old man, rising.“Don’t go near him,” cried Sister Putá, “’twill bring us misfortune. If he’s hung, so much the worse for him!”“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go and inform them at the tribunal; he may not be dead.” And the old man went off, the women, even Sister Putá, following at a distance, full of fear, but also of curiosity.Hanging from the branch of a sandal tree in the garden a human body met their gaze. The brave man examined it.“We must wait for the authorities; he’s been dead a long time,” he said.Little by little the women drew near.“It’s the new neighbor,” they whispered. “See the scar on his face?”In half an hour the authorities arrived.“People are in a great hurry to die!” said the directorcillo, cocking his pen behind his ear, and he began his investigation.Meanwhile a peasant wearing a great salakat on his head and having his neck muffled was examining the body and the cord. He noticed several evidences that the man was dead before he was hung. The curious countryman noticed also that the clothing seemed recently torn and was covered with dust.“What are you looking at?” demanded the directorcillo, who had gathered all his evidence.“I was looking, señor, to see if I knew him,” stammeredthe man, half uncovering, in which he managed to lower his salakat even farther over his eyes.“But didn’t you hear that it is a certain José? You must be asleep!”Everybody laughed. The confused countryman stammered something else and went away. When he had reached a safe distance, he took off his disguise and resumed the stature and gait of Elias.
XLII.The Family of Elias.“It is about sixty years since my grandfather was employed as accountant by a Spanish merchant. Although still young, he was married, and had a son. One night the warehouse took fire, and was burned with the surrounding property. The loss was great, incendiarism was suspected, and my grandfather was accused. He had no money to pay for his defence, and he was convicted and condemned to be publicly flogged in the streets of his pueblo. Attached to a horse, he was beaten as he passed each street corner by men, his brothers. The curates, you know, advocate nothing but blows for the discipline of the Indian. When the unhappy man, marked forever with infamy, was liberated, his poor young wife went about seeking work to keep alive her disabled husband and their little child. Failing in this, she was forced to see them suffer, or to live herself a life of shame.”Ibarra rose to his feet.“Oh, don’t be disturbed! There was no longer honor or dishonor for her or hers. When the husband’s wounds were healed, they went to hide themselves in the mountains, where they lived for a time, shunned and feared. But my grandfather, less courageous than his wife, could not endure this existence and hung himself. When his body was found, by chance, my grandmother was accused for not reporting his death, and was in turn condemned to be flogged; but in consideration of her state her punishment was deferred.She gave birth to another son, unhappily sound and strong; two months later her sentence was carried out. Then she took her two children and fled into a neighboring province.“The elder of the sons remembered that he had once been happy. As soon as he was old enough he became a tulisan to avenge his wrongs, and the name of Bâlat spread terror in many provinces. The younger son, endowed by nature with a gentle disposition, stayed with his mother, both living on the fruits of the forest and dressing in the cast-off rags of those charitable enough to give. At length the famous Bâlat fell into the hands of justice, and paid a dreadful penalty for his crimes, to that society which had never done anything to teach him better than to commit them. One morning the young brother, who had been in the forest gathering fruits, came back to find the dead body of his mother in front of their cabin, the horror-stricken eyes staring upward; and following them with his own, the unhappy boy saw suspended from a limb the bloody head of his brother.”“My God!” cried Ibarra.“It is perhaps the cry that escaped the lips of my father,” said Elias coldly. “Like a condemned criminal, he fled across mountains and valleys. When he thought himself far enough away to have lost his identity, he found work with a rich man of the province of Tayabas. His industry and the sweetness of his disposition gained him favor. Here he stayed, economized, got a little capital, and as he was yet young, thought to be happy. He won the love of a girl of the pueblo, but delayed asking for her hand, fearing that his past might be uncovered. At length, when love’s indiscretion bore fruit, to save her reputation he was obliged to risk everything. He asked to marry her, his papers were demanded, and the truth was learned. Asthe father was rich, he instituted a prosecution. The unhappy young man made no defence, and was sent to the garrison.“Our mother bore twins, my sister and me. She died while we were yet young, and we were told that our father was dead also. As our grandfather was rich, we had a happy childhood; we were always together, and loved each other as only twins can. I was sent very early to the college of the Jesuits, and my sister to La Concordia, that we might not be completely separated. In time we returned to take possession of our grandfather’s property. We had many servants and rich fields. We were both happy, and my sister was affianced to a man she adored.“By my haughtiness, perhaps, and for pecuniary reasons, I had won the dislike of a distant relative. He threw in my face the obscurity of our origin and the dishonor of our race. Believing it calumny, I demanded satisfaction; the tomb where so many miseries sleep was opened, and the truth came forth to confound me. To crown all, there had been with us many years an old servant, who had suffered all my caprices without complaint. I do not know how our relative found it out, but he brought the old man before the court and made him declare the truth: he was our father. Our happiness was ended. I gave up my inheritance, my sister lost her fiancé, and with our father we left the pueblo, to live where he might. The thought of the unhappiness he had brought upon us shortened our father’s days, and my sister and I were left alone. She could not forget her lover, and little by little I saw her droop. One day she disappeared, and I searched everywhere for her in vain. Six months afterward, I learned that at the time I lost her there had been found on the lake shore of Calamba the body of a young woman drowned or assassinated. A knife, they said, was buried in her breast. From what they toldme of her dress and her beauty, I recognized my sister. Since then I have wandered from province to province, my reputation and my story following in time. Many things are attributed to me, often unjustly, but I continue my way and take little account of men. You have my story, and that of one of the judgments of our brothers!”Elias rowed on in a silence which was for some time unbroken.“I believe you are not wrong when you say that justice should interest herself in the education of criminals,” said Crisóstomo at length; “but it is impossible, it is Utopia; where get the money necessary to create so many new offices?”“Why not use the priests, who vaunt their mission of peace and love? Can it be more meritorious to sprinkle a child’s head with water than to wake, in the darkened conscience of a criminal, that spark lighted by God in every soul to guide it in the search for truth? Can it be more humane to accompany a condemned man to the gallows than to help him in the hard path that leads from vice to virtue? And the spies, the executioners, the guards, do not they too cost money?”“My friend, if I believed all this, what could I do?”“Alone, nothing; but if the people sustained you?”“I shall never be the one to lead the people when they try to obtain by force what the Government does not think it time to give them. If I should see the people armed, I should range myself on the side of the Government. I do not recognize my country in a mob. I desire her good; that is why I build a school. I seek this good through instruction; without light there is no route.”“Without struggle, no liberty; without liberty, no light. You say you know your country little. I believe you. You do not see the conflict coming, the cloud on the horizon:the struggle begun in the sphere of the mind is going to descend to the arena of blood. Listen to the voice of God; woe to those who resist it! History shall not be theirs!”Elias was transfigured. He stood uncovered, his manly face illumined by the white light of the moon. He shook his mane of hair and continued:“Do you not see how everything is waking? The sleep has lasted centuries, but some day the lightning will strike, and the bolt, instead of bringing ruin, will bring life. Do you not see minds in travail with new tendencies, and know that these tendencies, diverse now, will some day be guided by God into one way? God has not failed other peoples; He will not fail us!”The words were followed by solemn silence. The boat, drawn on by the waves, was nearing the bank. Elias was the first to speak.“What shall I say to those who sent me?”“That they must wait. I pity their situation, but progress is slow, and there is always much of our own fault in our misfortunes.”Elias said no more. He lowered his eyes and continued to row. When the boat touched the shore, he took leave of Ibarra.“I thank you, señor,” he said, “for your kindness to me, and, in your own interest, I ask you to forget me from this day.”When Ibarra was gone, Elias guided his boat toward a clump of reeds along the shore. His attention seemed absorbed in the thousands of diamonds that rose with the oar, and fell back and disappeared in the mystery of the gentle azure waves. When he touched land, a man came out from among the reeds.“What shall I say to the captain?” he asked.“Tell him Elias, if he lives, will keep his word,” replied the helmsman sadly.“And when will you join us?”“When your captain thinks the hour has come.”“That is well; adieu!”“If I live!” repeated Elias, under his breath.
“It is about sixty years since my grandfather was employed as accountant by a Spanish merchant. Although still young, he was married, and had a son. One night the warehouse took fire, and was burned with the surrounding property. The loss was great, incendiarism was suspected, and my grandfather was accused. He had no money to pay for his defence, and he was convicted and condemned to be publicly flogged in the streets of his pueblo. Attached to a horse, he was beaten as he passed each street corner by men, his brothers. The curates, you know, advocate nothing but blows for the discipline of the Indian. When the unhappy man, marked forever with infamy, was liberated, his poor young wife went about seeking work to keep alive her disabled husband and their little child. Failing in this, she was forced to see them suffer, or to live herself a life of shame.”
Ibarra rose to his feet.
“Oh, don’t be disturbed! There was no longer honor or dishonor for her or hers. When the husband’s wounds were healed, they went to hide themselves in the mountains, where they lived for a time, shunned and feared. But my grandfather, less courageous than his wife, could not endure this existence and hung himself. When his body was found, by chance, my grandmother was accused for not reporting his death, and was in turn condemned to be flogged; but in consideration of her state her punishment was deferred.She gave birth to another son, unhappily sound and strong; two months later her sentence was carried out. Then she took her two children and fled into a neighboring province.
“The elder of the sons remembered that he had once been happy. As soon as he was old enough he became a tulisan to avenge his wrongs, and the name of Bâlat spread terror in many provinces. The younger son, endowed by nature with a gentle disposition, stayed with his mother, both living on the fruits of the forest and dressing in the cast-off rags of those charitable enough to give. At length the famous Bâlat fell into the hands of justice, and paid a dreadful penalty for his crimes, to that society which had never done anything to teach him better than to commit them. One morning the young brother, who had been in the forest gathering fruits, came back to find the dead body of his mother in front of their cabin, the horror-stricken eyes staring upward; and following them with his own, the unhappy boy saw suspended from a limb the bloody head of his brother.”
“My God!” cried Ibarra.
“It is perhaps the cry that escaped the lips of my father,” said Elias coldly. “Like a condemned criminal, he fled across mountains and valleys. When he thought himself far enough away to have lost his identity, he found work with a rich man of the province of Tayabas. His industry and the sweetness of his disposition gained him favor. Here he stayed, economized, got a little capital, and as he was yet young, thought to be happy. He won the love of a girl of the pueblo, but delayed asking for her hand, fearing that his past might be uncovered. At length, when love’s indiscretion bore fruit, to save her reputation he was obliged to risk everything. He asked to marry her, his papers were demanded, and the truth was learned. Asthe father was rich, he instituted a prosecution. The unhappy young man made no defence, and was sent to the garrison.
“Our mother bore twins, my sister and me. She died while we were yet young, and we were told that our father was dead also. As our grandfather was rich, we had a happy childhood; we were always together, and loved each other as only twins can. I was sent very early to the college of the Jesuits, and my sister to La Concordia, that we might not be completely separated. In time we returned to take possession of our grandfather’s property. We had many servants and rich fields. We were both happy, and my sister was affianced to a man she adored.
“By my haughtiness, perhaps, and for pecuniary reasons, I had won the dislike of a distant relative. He threw in my face the obscurity of our origin and the dishonor of our race. Believing it calumny, I demanded satisfaction; the tomb where so many miseries sleep was opened, and the truth came forth to confound me. To crown all, there had been with us many years an old servant, who had suffered all my caprices without complaint. I do not know how our relative found it out, but he brought the old man before the court and made him declare the truth: he was our father. Our happiness was ended. I gave up my inheritance, my sister lost her fiancé, and with our father we left the pueblo, to live where he might. The thought of the unhappiness he had brought upon us shortened our father’s days, and my sister and I were left alone. She could not forget her lover, and little by little I saw her droop. One day she disappeared, and I searched everywhere for her in vain. Six months afterward, I learned that at the time I lost her there had been found on the lake shore of Calamba the body of a young woman drowned or assassinated. A knife, they said, was buried in her breast. From what they toldme of her dress and her beauty, I recognized my sister. Since then I have wandered from province to province, my reputation and my story following in time. Many things are attributed to me, often unjustly, but I continue my way and take little account of men. You have my story, and that of one of the judgments of our brothers!”
Elias rowed on in a silence which was for some time unbroken.
“I believe you are not wrong when you say that justice should interest herself in the education of criminals,” said Crisóstomo at length; “but it is impossible, it is Utopia; where get the money necessary to create so many new offices?”
“Why not use the priests, who vaunt their mission of peace and love? Can it be more meritorious to sprinkle a child’s head with water than to wake, in the darkened conscience of a criminal, that spark lighted by God in every soul to guide it in the search for truth? Can it be more humane to accompany a condemned man to the gallows than to help him in the hard path that leads from vice to virtue? And the spies, the executioners, the guards, do not they too cost money?”
“My friend, if I believed all this, what could I do?”
“Alone, nothing; but if the people sustained you?”
“I shall never be the one to lead the people when they try to obtain by force what the Government does not think it time to give them. If I should see the people armed, I should range myself on the side of the Government. I do not recognize my country in a mob. I desire her good; that is why I build a school. I seek this good through instruction; without light there is no route.”
“Without struggle, no liberty; without liberty, no light. You say you know your country little. I believe you. You do not see the conflict coming, the cloud on the horizon:the struggle begun in the sphere of the mind is going to descend to the arena of blood. Listen to the voice of God; woe to those who resist it! History shall not be theirs!”
Elias was transfigured. He stood uncovered, his manly face illumined by the white light of the moon. He shook his mane of hair and continued:
“Do you not see how everything is waking? The sleep has lasted centuries, but some day the lightning will strike, and the bolt, instead of bringing ruin, will bring life. Do you not see minds in travail with new tendencies, and know that these tendencies, diverse now, will some day be guided by God into one way? God has not failed other peoples; He will not fail us!”
The words were followed by solemn silence. The boat, drawn on by the waves, was nearing the bank. Elias was the first to speak.
“What shall I say to those who sent me?”
“That they must wait. I pity their situation, but progress is slow, and there is always much of our own fault in our misfortunes.”
Elias said no more. He lowered his eyes and continued to row. When the boat touched the shore, he took leave of Ibarra.
“I thank you, señor,” he said, “for your kindness to me, and, in your own interest, I ask you to forget me from this day.”
When Ibarra was gone, Elias guided his boat toward a clump of reeds along the shore. His attention seemed absorbed in the thousands of diamonds that rose with the oar, and fell back and disappeared in the mystery of the gentle azure waves. When he touched land, a man came out from among the reeds.
“What shall I say to the captain?” he asked.
“Tell him Elias, if he lives, will keep his word,” replied the helmsman sadly.
“And when will you join us?”
“When your captain thinks the hour has come.”
“That is well; adieu!”
“If I live!” repeated Elias, under his breath.
XLIII.Il Buon Di si Conosce da Mattina.While Ibarra and Elias were on the lake, old Tasio, ill in his solitary little house, and Don Filipo, who had come to see him, were also talking of the country. For several days the old philosopher, or fool—as you find him—prostrated by a rapidly increasing feebleness, had not left his bed.“The country,” he was saying to Don Filipo, “isn’t what it was twenty years ago.”“Do you think so?”“Don’t you see it?” asked the old man, sitting up. “Ah! you did not know the past. Hear the students of to-day talking. New names are spoken under the arches that once heard only those of Saint Thomas, Suarez, Amat, and the other idols of my day. In vain the monks cry from the chair against the demoralization of the times; in vain the convents extend their ramifications to strangle the new ideas. The roots of a tree may influence the parasites growing on it, but they are powerless against the bird, which, from the branches, mounts triumphant toward the sky!”The old man spoke with animation, and his eye shone.“And yet the new germ is very feeble,” said the lieutenant. “If they all set about it, the progress already so dearly paid for may yet be choked.”“Choke it? Who? The weak dwarf, man, to choke progress, the powerful child of time and energy? Whenhas he done that? He has tried dogma, the scaffold, and the stake, butE pur si muoveis the device of progress. Wills are thwarted, individuals sacrificed. What does that mean to progress? She goes her way, and the blood of those who fall enriches the soil whence spring her new shoots. The Dominicans themselves do not escape this law, and they are beginning to imitate the Jesuits, their irreconcilable enemies.”“Do you hold that the Jesuits move with progress?” asked the astonished Don Filipo. “Then why are they so attacked in Europe?”“I reply as did once an ecclesiastic of old,” said the philosopher, laying his head back on the pillow and putting on his mocking air, “that there are three ways of moving with progress: ahead, beside, behind; the first guide, the second follow, the third are dragged. The Jesuits are of these last. At present, in the Philippines, we are about three centuries behind the van of the general movement. The Jesuits, who in Europe are the reaction, viewed from here represent progress. For instance, the Philippines owe to them the introduction of the natural sciences, the soul of the nineteenth century. As for ourselves, at this moment we are entering a period of strife: strife between the past which grapples to itself the tumbling feudal castle, and the future whose song may be heard afar off, bringing us from distant lands the tidings of good news.”The old man stopped, but seeing the expression of Don Filipo he smiled and went on.“I can almost divine what you are thinking.”“Can you?”“You are thinking that I may easily be wrong; to-day I have the fever, and I am never infallible. But it is permitted us to dream. Why not make the dreams agreeable in the last hours of life? You are right: I do dream! Ouryoung men think of nothing but loves and pleasures; our men of riper years have no activity but in vice, serve only to corrupt youth with their example; youth spends its best years without ideal, and childhood wakes to life in rust and darkness. It is well to die. Claudite jam rivos, pueri.”“Is it time for your medicine?” asked Don Filipo, seeing the cloud on the old man’s face.“The parting have no need of medicine, but those who stay. In a few days I shall be gone. The Philippines are in the shadows.”
While Ibarra and Elias were on the lake, old Tasio, ill in his solitary little house, and Don Filipo, who had come to see him, were also talking of the country. For several days the old philosopher, or fool—as you find him—prostrated by a rapidly increasing feebleness, had not left his bed.
“The country,” he was saying to Don Filipo, “isn’t what it was twenty years ago.”
“Do you think so?”
“Don’t you see it?” asked the old man, sitting up. “Ah! you did not know the past. Hear the students of to-day talking. New names are spoken under the arches that once heard only those of Saint Thomas, Suarez, Amat, and the other idols of my day. In vain the monks cry from the chair against the demoralization of the times; in vain the convents extend their ramifications to strangle the new ideas. The roots of a tree may influence the parasites growing on it, but they are powerless against the bird, which, from the branches, mounts triumphant toward the sky!”
The old man spoke with animation, and his eye shone.
“And yet the new germ is very feeble,” said the lieutenant. “If they all set about it, the progress already so dearly paid for may yet be choked.”
“Choke it? Who? The weak dwarf, man, to choke progress, the powerful child of time and energy? Whenhas he done that? He has tried dogma, the scaffold, and the stake, butE pur si muoveis the device of progress. Wills are thwarted, individuals sacrificed. What does that mean to progress? She goes her way, and the blood of those who fall enriches the soil whence spring her new shoots. The Dominicans themselves do not escape this law, and they are beginning to imitate the Jesuits, their irreconcilable enemies.”
“Do you hold that the Jesuits move with progress?” asked the astonished Don Filipo. “Then why are they so attacked in Europe?”
“I reply as did once an ecclesiastic of old,” said the philosopher, laying his head back on the pillow and putting on his mocking air, “that there are three ways of moving with progress: ahead, beside, behind; the first guide, the second follow, the third are dragged. The Jesuits are of these last. At present, in the Philippines, we are about three centuries behind the van of the general movement. The Jesuits, who in Europe are the reaction, viewed from here represent progress. For instance, the Philippines owe to them the introduction of the natural sciences, the soul of the nineteenth century. As for ourselves, at this moment we are entering a period of strife: strife between the past which grapples to itself the tumbling feudal castle, and the future whose song may be heard afar off, bringing us from distant lands the tidings of good news.”
The old man stopped, but seeing the expression of Don Filipo he smiled and went on.
“I can almost divine what you are thinking.”
“Can you?”
“You are thinking that I may easily be wrong; to-day I have the fever, and I am never infallible. But it is permitted us to dream. Why not make the dreams agreeable in the last hours of life? You are right: I do dream! Ouryoung men think of nothing but loves and pleasures; our men of riper years have no activity but in vice, serve only to corrupt youth with their example; youth spends its best years without ideal, and childhood wakes to life in rust and darkness. It is well to die. Claudite jam rivos, pueri.”
“Is it time for your medicine?” asked Don Filipo, seeing the cloud on the old man’s face.
“The parting have no need of medicine, but those who stay. In a few days I shall be gone. The Philippines are in the shadows.”
XLIV.La Gallera.To keep holy the afternoon of Sunday in Spain, one goes ordinarily to the plaza de toros; in the Philippines, to the gallera. Cock-fights, introduced in the country about a century ago, are to-day one of the vices of the people. The Chinese can more easily deprive themselves of opium than the Filipinos of this bloody sport.The poor, wishing to get money without work, risks here the little he has; the rich seeks a distraction at the price of whatever loose coin feasts and masses leave him. The education of their cocks costs both much pains, often more than that of their sons.Since the Government permits and almost recommends it, let us take our part in the sport, sure of meeting friends.The gallera of San Diego, like most others, is divided into three courts. In the entry is taken the sa pintû, that is, the price of admission. Of this price the Government has a share, and its revenues from this source are some hundred thousand pesos a year. It is said this license fee of vice serves to build schools, open roads, span rivers, and establish prizes for the encouragement of industry. Blessed be vice when it produces so happy results! In this entry are found girls selling buyo, cigars, and cakes. Here gather numerous children, brought by their fathers or uncles, whose duty it is to initiate them into the ways of life.In the second court are most of the cocks. Here the contracts are made, amid recriminations, oaths, and peals of laughter. One caresses his cock, while another counts the scales on the feet of his, and extends the wings. See this fellow, rage in his face and heart, carrying by the legs his cock, deplumed and dead. The animal which for months has been tended night and day, on which such brilliant hopes were built, will bring a peseta and make a stew. Sic transit gloria mundi! The ruined man goes home to his anxious wife and ragged children. He has lost at once his cock and the price of his industry. Here the least intelligent discuss the sport; those least given to thought extend the wings of cocks, feel their muscles, weigh, and ponder. Some are dressed in elegance, followed and surrounded by the partisans of their cocks; others, ragged and dirty, the stigma of vice on their blighted faces, follow anxiously the movements of the rich; the purse may get empty, the passion remains. Here not a face that is not animated; in this the Filipino is not indolent, nor apathetic, nor silent; all is movement, passion. One would say they were all devoured by a thirst always more and more excited by muddy water.From this court one passes to the pit, a circle with seats terraced to the roof, filled during the combats with a mass of men and children; scarcely ever does a woman risk herself so far. Here it is that destiny distributes smiles and tears, hunger and joyous feasts.Entering, we recognize at once the gobernadorcillo, Captain Basilio, and José, the man with the scar, so cast down by the death of his brother. And here comes Captain Tiago, dressed like the sporting man, in a canton flannel shirt, woollen trousers, and a jipijapa hat. He is followed by two servants with his cocks. A combat is soon arranged between one of these and a famous cock of Captain Basilio’s.The news spreads, and a crowd gathers round, examining, considering, forecasting, betting.While men were searching their pockets for their last cuarto, or in lieu of it were engaging their word, promising to sell the carabao, the next crop, and so forth, two young fellows, brothers apparently, looked on with envious eyes. José watched them by stealth, smiling evilly. Then making the pesos sound in his pocket, he passed the brothers, looking the other way and crying:“I pay fifty; fifty against twenty for the lásak!”The brothers looked at each other discontentedly.“I told you not to risk all the money,” said the elder. “If you had listened to me——”The younger approached José and timidly touched his arm.“What! It’s you?” he cried, turning and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition?”“He won’t do it. But if you would lend us something, as you say you know us——”José shook his head, shifted his position, and replied:“Yes, I know you; you are Társilo and Bruno; and I know that your valiant father died from the club strokes of these soldiers. I know you don’t think of vengeance——”“Don’t concern yourself with our history,” said the elder brother, joining them; “that brings misfortune. If we hadn’t a sister, we should have been hanged long ago!”“Hanged! Only cowards are hanged. Besides, the mountain isn’t so far.”“A hundred against fifty for the bûlik!” cried some one passing.“Loan us four pesos—three—two,” begged Bruno. José again shook his head.“Sh! the money isn’t mine. Don Crisóstomo gave it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see youare not like your father; he was courageous. The man who is not must not expect to divert himself.” And he moved away.“See!” said Bruno, “he’s talking with Pedro; he’s giving him a lot of money!” And in truth José was counting silver pieces into the palm of Sisa’s husband.Társilo was moody and thoughtful; with his shirt sleeve he wiped the sweat from his forehead.“Brother,” said Bruno, “I’m going, if you don’t; our father must be avenged!”“Wait,” said Társilo, gazing into his eyes—they were both pale—“I’m going with you. You are right: our father must be avenged!” But he did not move, and again wiped his brow.“What are you waiting for?” demanded Bruno impatiently.“Don’t you think—our poor sister——”“Bah! Isn’t Don Crisóstomo the chief, and haven’t we seen him with the governor-general? What risk do we run?”“And if we die?”“Did not our poor father die under their clubs?”“You are right!”The brothers set out to find José, but hesitation again possessed Társilo.“No; come away! we’re going to ruin ourselves!” he cried.“Go on if you want to. I shall accept!”“Bruno!”Unhappily a man came up and asked:“Are you betting? I’m for the lásak.”“How much?” demanded Bruno.The man counted his pieces.“I have two hundred; fifty against forty!”“No!” said Bruno resolutely.“Good! Fifty against thirty!”“Double it if you will.”“A hundred against sixty, then!”“Agreed! Wait while I go for the money,” and turning to his brother he said:“Go away if you want to; I shall stay!”Társilo reflected. He loved Bruno, and he loved sport.“I am with you,” he said. They found José.“Uncle,” said Társilo, “how much will you give?” “I’ve told you already; if you will promise to find others to help surprise the quarters, I’ll give you thirty pesos each, and ten to each companion. If all goes well, they will each receive a hundred, and you double. Don Crisóstomo is rich!”“Agreed!” cried Bruno; “give us the money!”“I knew you were like your father! Come this way, so that those who killed him cannot hear us,” said José. And drawing them into a corner, he added as he counted out the money:“Don Crisóstomo has come and brought the arms. To-morrow night at eight o’clock meet me in the cemetery. I will give you the final word. Go find your companions.” And he left them.The brothers appeared to have exchanged rôles. Társilo now seemed undisturbed; Bruno was pale. They went back to the crowd, which was leaving the circle for the raised seats. Little by little the place became silent. Only the soltadores were left in the ring holding two cocks, with exaggerated care, looking out for wounds. The silence became solemn; the spectators became mere caricatures of men; the fight was about to begin.
To keep holy the afternoon of Sunday in Spain, one goes ordinarily to the plaza de toros; in the Philippines, to the gallera. Cock-fights, introduced in the country about a century ago, are to-day one of the vices of the people. The Chinese can more easily deprive themselves of opium than the Filipinos of this bloody sport.
The poor, wishing to get money without work, risks here the little he has; the rich seeks a distraction at the price of whatever loose coin feasts and masses leave him. The education of their cocks costs both much pains, often more than that of their sons.
Since the Government permits and almost recommends it, let us take our part in the sport, sure of meeting friends.
The gallera of San Diego, like most others, is divided into three courts. In the entry is taken the sa pintû, that is, the price of admission. Of this price the Government has a share, and its revenues from this source are some hundred thousand pesos a year. It is said this license fee of vice serves to build schools, open roads, span rivers, and establish prizes for the encouragement of industry. Blessed be vice when it produces so happy results! In this entry are found girls selling buyo, cigars, and cakes. Here gather numerous children, brought by their fathers or uncles, whose duty it is to initiate them into the ways of life.
In the second court are most of the cocks. Here the contracts are made, amid recriminations, oaths, and peals of laughter. One caresses his cock, while another counts the scales on the feet of his, and extends the wings. See this fellow, rage in his face and heart, carrying by the legs his cock, deplumed and dead. The animal which for months has been tended night and day, on which such brilliant hopes were built, will bring a peseta and make a stew. Sic transit gloria mundi! The ruined man goes home to his anxious wife and ragged children. He has lost at once his cock and the price of his industry. Here the least intelligent discuss the sport; those least given to thought extend the wings of cocks, feel their muscles, weigh, and ponder. Some are dressed in elegance, followed and surrounded by the partisans of their cocks; others, ragged and dirty, the stigma of vice on their blighted faces, follow anxiously the movements of the rich; the purse may get empty, the passion remains. Here not a face that is not animated; in this the Filipino is not indolent, nor apathetic, nor silent; all is movement, passion. One would say they were all devoured by a thirst always more and more excited by muddy water.
From this court one passes to the pit, a circle with seats terraced to the roof, filled during the combats with a mass of men and children; scarcely ever does a woman risk herself so far. Here it is that destiny distributes smiles and tears, hunger and joyous feasts.
Entering, we recognize at once the gobernadorcillo, Captain Basilio, and José, the man with the scar, so cast down by the death of his brother. And here comes Captain Tiago, dressed like the sporting man, in a canton flannel shirt, woollen trousers, and a jipijapa hat. He is followed by two servants with his cocks. A combat is soon arranged between one of these and a famous cock of Captain Basilio’s.The news spreads, and a crowd gathers round, examining, considering, forecasting, betting.
While men were searching their pockets for their last cuarto, or in lieu of it were engaging their word, promising to sell the carabao, the next crop, and so forth, two young fellows, brothers apparently, looked on with envious eyes. José watched them by stealth, smiling evilly. Then making the pesos sound in his pocket, he passed the brothers, looking the other way and crying:
“I pay fifty; fifty against twenty for the lásak!”
The brothers looked at each other discontentedly.
“I told you not to risk all the money,” said the elder. “If you had listened to me——”
The younger approached José and timidly touched his arm.
“What! It’s you?” he cried, turning and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition?”
“He won’t do it. But if you would lend us something, as you say you know us——”
José shook his head, shifted his position, and replied:
“Yes, I know you; you are Társilo and Bruno; and I know that your valiant father died from the club strokes of these soldiers. I know you don’t think of vengeance——”
“Don’t concern yourself with our history,” said the elder brother, joining them; “that brings misfortune. If we hadn’t a sister, we should have been hanged long ago!”
“Hanged! Only cowards are hanged. Besides, the mountain isn’t so far.”
“A hundred against fifty for the bûlik!” cried some one passing.
“Loan us four pesos—three—two,” begged Bruno. José again shook his head.
“Sh! the money isn’t mine. Don Crisóstomo gave it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see youare not like your father; he was courageous. The man who is not must not expect to divert himself.” And he moved away.
“See!” said Bruno, “he’s talking with Pedro; he’s giving him a lot of money!” And in truth José was counting silver pieces into the palm of Sisa’s husband.
Társilo was moody and thoughtful; with his shirt sleeve he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Brother,” said Bruno, “I’m going, if you don’t; our father must be avenged!”
“Wait,” said Társilo, gazing into his eyes—they were both pale—“I’m going with you. You are right: our father must be avenged!” But he did not move, and again wiped his brow.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded Bruno impatiently.
“Don’t you think—our poor sister——”
“Bah! Isn’t Don Crisóstomo the chief, and haven’t we seen him with the governor-general? What risk do we run?”
“And if we die?”
“Did not our poor father die under their clubs?”
“You are right!”
The brothers set out to find José, but hesitation again possessed Társilo.
“No; come away! we’re going to ruin ourselves!” he cried.
“Go on if you want to. I shall accept!”
“Bruno!”
Unhappily a man came up and asked:
“Are you betting? I’m for the lásak.”
“How much?” demanded Bruno.
The man counted his pieces.
“I have two hundred; fifty against forty!”
“No!” said Bruno resolutely.
“Good! Fifty against thirty!”
“Double it if you will.”
“A hundred against sixty, then!”
“Agreed! Wait while I go for the money,” and turning to his brother he said:
“Go away if you want to; I shall stay!”
Társilo reflected. He loved Bruno, and he loved sport.
“I am with you,” he said. They found José.
“Uncle,” said Társilo, “how much will you give?” “I’ve told you already; if you will promise to find others to help surprise the quarters, I’ll give you thirty pesos each, and ten to each companion. If all goes well, they will each receive a hundred, and you double. Don Crisóstomo is rich!”
“Agreed!” cried Bruno; “give us the money!”
“I knew you were like your father! Come this way, so that those who killed him cannot hear us,” said José. And drawing them into a corner, he added as he counted out the money:
“Don Crisóstomo has come and brought the arms. To-morrow night at eight o’clock meet me in the cemetery. I will give you the final word. Go find your companions.” And he left them.
The brothers appeared to have exchanged rôles. Társilo now seemed undisturbed; Bruno was pale. They went back to the crowd, which was leaving the circle for the raised seats. Little by little the place became silent. Only the soltadores were left in the ring holding two cocks, with exaggerated care, looking out for wounds. The silence became solemn; the spectators became mere caricatures of men; the fight was about to begin.
XLV.A Call.Two days later Brother Salvi presented himself at the house of Captain Tiago. The Franciscan was more gaunt and pale than usual; but as he went up the steps a strange light shone in his eyes, and his lips parted in a strange smile. Captain Tiago kissed his hand, and took his hat and cane, smiling beatifically.“I bring good news,” said the curate as he entered the drawing-room; “good news for everybody. I have letters from Manila confirming the one Señor Ibarra brought me, so that I believe, Don Santiago, the obstacle is quite removed.”Maria Clara, seated at the piano, made a movement to rise, but her strength failed her and she had to sit down again. Linares grew pale; Captain Tiago lowered his eyes.“The young man seems to me very sympathetic,” said the curate. “At first I misjudged him. He is impulsive, but when he commits a fault, he knows so well how to atone for it that one is forced to forgive him. If it were not for Father Dámaso——” And the curate flashed a glance at Maria Clara. She was listening with all her being, but did not take her eyes off her music, in spite of the pinches that were expressing Sinang’s joy. Had they been alone they would have danced.“But Father Dámaso has said,” continued the curate, without losing sight of Maria Clara, “that as godfather he couldnot permit; but, indeed, I believe if Señor Ibarra will ask his pardon everything will arrange itself.”Maria rose, made an excuse, and with Victorina left the room.“And if Father Dámaso does not pardon him?” asked Don Santiago in a low voice.“Then Maria Clara must decide. But I believe the matter can be arranged.”The sound of an arrival was heard, and Ibarra entered. His coming made a strange impression. Captain Tiago did not know whether to smile or weep. Father Salvi rose and offered his hand so affectionately that Crisóstomo could scarcely repress a look of surprise.“Where have you been all day?” demanded wicked Sinang. “We asked each other: ‘What can have taken that soul newly rescued from perdition?’ and each of us had her opinion.”“And am I to know what each opinion was?”“No, not yet! Tell me where you went, so I can see who made the best guess.”“That’s a secret too; but I can tell you by yourself if these gentlemen will permit.”“Certainly, certainly?” said Father Salvi. Sinang drew Crisóstomo to the other end of the great room.“Tell me, little friend,” said he, “is Maria angry with me?”“I don’t know. She says you had best forget her, and then she cries. This morning when we were wondering where you were I said to tease her: ‘Perhaps he has gone a-courting.’ But she was quite grave, and said: ‘It is God’s will!’”“Tell Maria I must see her alone,” said Ibarra, troubled.“It will be difficult, but I’ll try to manage it.”“And when shall I know?”“To-morrow. But you are going without telling me the secret!”“So I am. Well, I went to the pueblo of Los Baños to see about some cocoanut trees!”“What a secret!” cried Sinang aloud in a tone of a usurer despoiled.“Take care, I really don’t want you to speak of it.”“I’ve no desire to,” said Sinang scornfully. “If it had been really of importance I should have told my friends; but cocoanuts, cocoanuts, who cares about cocoanuts!” and she ran off to find Maria.Conversation languished, and Ibarra soon took his leave. Captain Tiago was torn between the bitter and the sweet. Linares said nothing. Only the curate affected gayety and recounted tales.
Two days later Brother Salvi presented himself at the house of Captain Tiago. The Franciscan was more gaunt and pale than usual; but as he went up the steps a strange light shone in his eyes, and his lips parted in a strange smile. Captain Tiago kissed his hand, and took his hat and cane, smiling beatifically.
“I bring good news,” said the curate as he entered the drawing-room; “good news for everybody. I have letters from Manila confirming the one Señor Ibarra brought me, so that I believe, Don Santiago, the obstacle is quite removed.”
Maria Clara, seated at the piano, made a movement to rise, but her strength failed her and she had to sit down again. Linares grew pale; Captain Tiago lowered his eyes.
“The young man seems to me very sympathetic,” said the curate. “At first I misjudged him. He is impulsive, but when he commits a fault, he knows so well how to atone for it that one is forced to forgive him. If it were not for Father Dámaso——” And the curate flashed a glance at Maria Clara. She was listening with all her being, but did not take her eyes off her music, in spite of the pinches that were expressing Sinang’s joy. Had they been alone they would have danced.
“But Father Dámaso has said,” continued the curate, without losing sight of Maria Clara, “that as godfather he couldnot permit; but, indeed, I believe if Señor Ibarra will ask his pardon everything will arrange itself.”
Maria rose, made an excuse, and with Victorina left the room.
“And if Father Dámaso does not pardon him?” asked Don Santiago in a low voice.
“Then Maria Clara must decide. But I believe the matter can be arranged.”
The sound of an arrival was heard, and Ibarra entered. His coming made a strange impression. Captain Tiago did not know whether to smile or weep. Father Salvi rose and offered his hand so affectionately that Crisóstomo could scarcely repress a look of surprise.
“Where have you been all day?” demanded wicked Sinang. “We asked each other: ‘What can have taken that soul newly rescued from perdition?’ and each of us had her opinion.”
“And am I to know what each opinion was?”
“No, not yet! Tell me where you went, so I can see who made the best guess.”
“That’s a secret too; but I can tell you by yourself if these gentlemen will permit.”
“Certainly, certainly?” said Father Salvi. Sinang drew Crisóstomo to the other end of the great room.
“Tell me, little friend,” said he, “is Maria angry with me?”
“I don’t know. She says you had best forget her, and then she cries. This morning when we were wondering where you were I said to tease her: ‘Perhaps he has gone a-courting.’ But she was quite grave, and said: ‘It is God’s will!’”
“Tell Maria I must see her alone,” said Ibarra, troubled.
“It will be difficult, but I’ll try to manage it.”
“And when shall I know?”
“To-morrow. But you are going without telling me the secret!”
“So I am. Well, I went to the pueblo of Los Baños to see about some cocoanut trees!”
“What a secret!” cried Sinang aloud in a tone of a usurer despoiled.
“Take care, I really don’t want you to speak of it.”
“I’ve no desire to,” said Sinang scornfully. “If it had been really of importance I should have told my friends; but cocoanuts, cocoanuts, who cares about cocoanuts!” and she ran off to find Maria.
Conversation languished, and Ibarra soon took his leave. Captain Tiago was torn between the bitter and the sweet. Linares said nothing. Only the curate affected gayety and recounted tales.
XLVI.A Conspiracy.The bell was announcing the time of prayer the evening after. At its sound every one stopped his work and uncovered. The laborer coming from the fields checked his song; the woman in the streets crossed herself; the man caressed his cock and said the Angelus, that chance might favor him. And yet the curate, to the great scandal of pious old ladies, was running through the street toward the house of the alférez. He dashed up the steps and knocked impatiently. The alférez opened.“Ah, father, I was just going to see you; your young buck——”“I’ve something very important——” began the breathless curate.“I can’t allow the fences to be broken; if he comes back, I shall fire on him.”“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”“Señor alférez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”“What?”The curate pointed to the door, which the alférez closed in his customary fashion.“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”“And this time it is——”The curate approached him and spoke low.“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”The alférez shrugged his shoulders.“Are you speaking of Elias?”“No, no! I’m speaking of a great peril!”“Well, finish then!” cried the exasperated alférez.The curate lowered his voice mysteriously:“I have discovered a conspiracy!”The alférez gave a spring and looked at the curate in stupefaction.“A terrible conspiracy, well organized, that is to break out to-night!”The alférez rushed across the room, took down his sabre from the wall, and grasped his revolver.“Whom shall I arrest?” he cried.“Be calm! There is plenty of time, thanks to the haste with which I came. At eight o’clock——”“They shall be shot, all of them!”“Listen! It is a secret of the confessional, discovered to me by a woman. At eight o’clock they are to surprise the barracks, sack the convent, and assassinate all the Spaniards.”The alférez stood dumbfounded.“Be ready for them; ambush your soldiers; send me four guards for the convent! You will earn your promotion to-night! I only ask you to make it known that it was I who warned you.”“It shall be known, father; it shall be known, and, perhaps, it will bring down a mitre!” replied the alférez, his eyes on the sleeves of his uniform.While this conversation was in progress, Elias was running toward the house of Ibarra. He entered and was shown to the laboratory, where Crisóstomo was passing the time until the hour of his appointment with Maria Clara.“Ah! It is you, Elias?” he said, without noticing the tremor of the helmsman. “See here! I’ve just made a discovery: this piece of bamboo is non-combustible.”“Señor, there is no time to talk of that; take your papers and flee!”Ibarra looked up amazed, and, seeing the gravity of the helmsman’s face, let fall the piece of bamboo.“Leave nothing behind that could compromise you, and may an hour from this time find you in a safer place than this!”“What does all this mean?”“That there is a conspiracy on foot which will be attributed to you. I have this moment been talking with a man hired to take part in it.”“Did he tell you who paid him?”“He said it was you.”Ibarra stared in stupid amazement.“Señor, youhaven’ta moment to lose. The plot is to be carried out to-night.”Crisóstomo still gazed at Elias, as if he did not understand.“I learned of it too late; I don’t know the leaders; I can do nothing. Save yourself, señor!”“Where can I go? I am due now at Captain Tiago’s,” said Ibarra, beginning to come out of his trance.“To another pueblo, to Manila, anywhere! Destroy your papers! Fly, and await events!”“And Maria Clara? No! Better die!”Elias wrung his hands.“Prepare for the accusation, at all events. Destroy your papers!”“Aid me then,” said Crisóstomo, in almost helpless bewilderment. “They are in these cabinets. My father’s letters might compromise me. You will know them by theaddresses.” And he tore open one drawer after another. Elias worked to better purpose, choosing here, rejecting there. Suddenly he stopped, his pupils dilated; he turned a paper over and over in his hand, then in a trembling voice he asked:“Your family knew Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”“He was my great-grandfather.”“Your great-grandfather?” repeated Elias, livid.“Yes,” said Ibarra mechanically, and totally unobservant of Elias. “The name was too long; we cut it.”“Was he a Basque?” asked Elias slowly.“Yes; but what ails you?” said Crisóstomo, looking round and recoiling before the hard face and clenched fists of Elias.“Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was? Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the wretch who caused all our misfortune! I have long been searching for his descendants; God has delivered you into my hands! Look at me! Do you think I have suffered? And you live, and you love, and have a fortune and a home; you live, you live!” and, beside himself, he ran toward a collection of arms on the wall. But no sooner had he reached down two poniards than he dropped them, looking blindly at Ibarra, who stood rigid.“What was I going to do?” he said under his breath, and he fled like a madman.
The bell was announcing the time of prayer the evening after. At its sound every one stopped his work and uncovered. The laborer coming from the fields checked his song; the woman in the streets crossed herself; the man caressed his cock and said the Angelus, that chance might favor him. And yet the curate, to the great scandal of pious old ladies, was running through the street toward the house of the alférez. He dashed up the steps and knocked impatiently. The alférez opened.
“Ah, father, I was just going to see you; your young buck——”
“I’ve something very important——” began the breathless curate.
“I can’t allow the fences to be broken; if he comes back, I shall fire on him.”
“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.
“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”
“Señor alférez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”
“What?”
The curate pointed to the door, which the alférez closed in his customary fashion.
“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.
“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”
“And this time it is——”
The curate approached him and spoke low.
“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”
The alférez shrugged his shoulders.
“Are you speaking of Elias?”
“No, no! I’m speaking of a great peril!”
“Well, finish then!” cried the exasperated alférez.
The curate lowered his voice mysteriously:
“I have discovered a conspiracy!”
The alférez gave a spring and looked at the curate in stupefaction.
“A terrible conspiracy, well organized, that is to break out to-night!”
The alférez rushed across the room, took down his sabre from the wall, and grasped his revolver.
“Whom shall I arrest?” he cried.
“Be calm! There is plenty of time, thanks to the haste with which I came. At eight o’clock——”
“They shall be shot, all of them!”
“Listen! It is a secret of the confessional, discovered to me by a woman. At eight o’clock they are to surprise the barracks, sack the convent, and assassinate all the Spaniards.”
The alférez stood dumbfounded.
“Be ready for them; ambush your soldiers; send me four guards for the convent! You will earn your promotion to-night! I only ask you to make it known that it was I who warned you.”
“It shall be known, father; it shall be known, and, perhaps, it will bring down a mitre!” replied the alférez, his eyes on the sleeves of his uniform.
While this conversation was in progress, Elias was running toward the house of Ibarra. He entered and was shown to the laboratory, where Crisóstomo was passing the time until the hour of his appointment with Maria Clara.
“Ah! It is you, Elias?” he said, without noticing the tremor of the helmsman. “See here! I’ve just made a discovery: this piece of bamboo is non-combustible.”
“Señor, there is no time to talk of that; take your papers and flee!”
Ibarra looked up amazed, and, seeing the gravity of the helmsman’s face, let fall the piece of bamboo.
“Leave nothing behind that could compromise you, and may an hour from this time find you in a safer place than this!”
“What does all this mean?”
“That there is a conspiracy on foot which will be attributed to you. I have this moment been talking with a man hired to take part in it.”
“Did he tell you who paid him?”
“He said it was you.”
Ibarra stared in stupid amazement.
“Señor, youhaven’ta moment to lose. The plot is to be carried out to-night.”
Crisóstomo still gazed at Elias, as if he did not understand.
“I learned of it too late; I don’t know the leaders; I can do nothing. Save yourself, señor!”
“Where can I go? I am due now at Captain Tiago’s,” said Ibarra, beginning to come out of his trance.
“To another pueblo, to Manila, anywhere! Destroy your papers! Fly, and await events!”
“And Maria Clara? No! Better die!”
Elias wrung his hands.
“Prepare for the accusation, at all events. Destroy your papers!”
“Aid me then,” said Crisóstomo, in almost helpless bewilderment. “They are in these cabinets. My father’s letters might compromise me. You will know them by theaddresses.” And he tore open one drawer after another. Elias worked to better purpose, choosing here, rejecting there. Suddenly he stopped, his pupils dilated; he turned a paper over and over in his hand, then in a trembling voice he asked:
“Your family knew Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”
“He was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather?” repeated Elias, livid.
“Yes,” said Ibarra mechanically, and totally unobservant of Elias. “The name was too long; we cut it.”
“Was he a Basque?” asked Elias slowly.
“Yes; but what ails you?” said Crisóstomo, looking round and recoiling before the hard face and clenched fists of Elias.
“Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was? Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the wretch who caused all our misfortune! I have long been searching for his descendants; God has delivered you into my hands! Look at me! Do you think I have suffered? And you live, and you love, and have a fortune and a home; you live, you live!” and, beside himself, he ran toward a collection of arms on the wall. But no sooner had he reached down two poniards than he dropped them, looking blindly at Ibarra, who stood rigid.
“What was I going to do?” he said under his breath, and he fled like a madman.
XLVII.The Catastrophe.Captain Tiago, Aunt Isabel, and Linares were dining. Maria Clara had said she was not hungry, and was at the piano with Sinang. The two girls had arranged this moment for meeting Ibarra away from too watchful eyes. The clock struck eight.“He’s coming! Listen!” cried the laughing Sinang.He entered, white and sad. Maria Clara, in alarm, started toward him, but before any one could speak a fusilade sounded in the street; then random pistol shots, and cries and clamor. Crisóstomo seemed glued to the floor. The diners came running in crying: “The tulisanes! The tulisanes!” Aunt Isabel fell on her knees half dead from fright, Captain Tiago was weeping. Some one rushed about fastening the windows. The tumult continued outside; then little by little there fell a dreadful silence. Presently the alférez was heard crying out as he ran through the street:“Father Salvi! Father Salvi!”“Mercy!” exclaimed Aunt Isabel. “The alférez is asking for confession!”“The alférez is wounded!” murmured Linares, with an expression of the utmost relief.“The tulisanes have killed the alférez! Maria, Sinang, into your chamber! Barricade the door!”In spite of the protests of Aunt Isabel, Ibarra went out into the street. Everything seemed turning round and round him; his ears rang; he could scarcely move his limbs.Spots of blood, flashes of light and darkness alternated before his eyes. The streets were deserted, but the barracks were in confusion, and voices came from the tribunal, that of the alférez dominating all the others. Ibarra passed unchallenged, and reached his home, where his servants were anxiously watching for him.“Saddle me the best horse and go to bed,” he said to them.He entered his cabinet and began to pack a valise. He had put in his money and jewels and Maria’s picture and was gathering up his papers when there came three resounding knocks at the house door.“Open in the name of the King! Open or we force the door!” said an imperious voice. Ibarra armed himself and looked toward the window; then changed his mind, threw down his revolver, and went to the door. Three guards immediately seized him.“I make you prisoner in the name of the King!” said the sergeant.“Why?”“You will learn at the tribunal; I am forbidden to talk with you.”“I am at your disposition. It will not be for, I suppose, long.”“If you promise not to try to escape us, we may leave your hands free; the alférez grants you that favor.”Crisóstomo took his hat and followed the guards, leaving his servants in consternation.Elias, after leaving the house of Ibarra, ran like a madman, not knowing whither. He crossed the fields and reached the wood. He was fleeing from men and their habitations; he was fleeing from light; the moon made him suffer. He buried himself in the mysterious silence of the wood. The birds stirred, wakened from their sleep; owlsflew from branch to branch, screeching or looking at him with great, round eyes. Elias did not see or hear them; he thought he was followed by the irate shades of his ancestors. From every branch hung the bleeding head of Bâlat. At the foot of every tree he stumbled against the cold body of his grandmother; among the shadows swung the skeleton of his infamous grandfather; and the skeleton, the body, and the bleeding head cried out: “Coward! Coward!”He ran on. He left the mountain and went down to the lake, moving feverishly along the shore; his wandering eyes became fixed upon a point on the tranquil surface, and there, surrounded by a silver nimbus and rocked by the tide, stood a shade which he seemed to recognize. Yes, that was her hair, so long and beautiful; yes, that was her breast, gaping from the poniard stroke. And the wretched man, kneeling in the sand, stretched out his arms to the cherished vision:“Thou! Thou, too!” he cried.His eyes fixed on the apparition, he rose, entered the water and descended the gentle slope of the beach. Already he was far from the bank; the waves lapped his waist; but he went on fascinated. The water reached his breast. Did he know it? Suddenly a volley tore the air; the night was so calm that the rifle shots sounded clear and sharp. He stopped, listened, came to himself; the shade vanished; the dream was gone. He perceived that he was in the lake, level with his eyes across the tranquil water he saw the lights in the poor cabins of fishermen. Everything came back to him. He made for the shore and went rapidly toward the pueblo.San Diego was deserted; the houses were closed; even the dogs had hidden themselves. The glittering light that bathed everything detached the shadows boldly, making the solitude still more dreary.Fearing to encounter the guards, Elias scaled fences and hedges, and so, making his way through the gardens, reached the home of Ibarra. The servants were around the door lamenting the arrest of their master. Elias learned what had happened, and made feint of going away, but returned to the back of the house, jumped the wall, climbed into a window and made his way to the laboratory. He saw the papers, the arms taken down, the bags of money and jewels, Maria’s picture, and had a vision of Ibarra surprised by the soldiers. He meditated a moment and decided to bury the things of value in the garden. He gathered them up, went to the window, and saw gleaming in the moonlight the casques and bayonets of the guard. His plans were quickly laid. He hid about his person the money and jewels, and, after an instant’s hesitation, the picture of Maria. Then, heaping all the papers in the middle of the room, he saturated them with oil from a lamp, threw the lighted candle in the midst, and sprang out of the window. It was none too soon: the guards were forcing entrance against the protests of the servants.But dense smoke made its way through the house and tongues of flame began to break out. Soldiers and servants together cried fire and rushed toward the cabinet, but the flames had reached the chemicals, and their explosion drove every one back. The water the servants could bring was useless, and the house stood so apart that their cries brought no aid. The flames leaped upward amid great spirals of smoke; the house, long respected by the elements, was now their prisoner.
Captain Tiago, Aunt Isabel, and Linares were dining. Maria Clara had said she was not hungry, and was at the piano with Sinang. The two girls had arranged this moment for meeting Ibarra away from too watchful eyes. The clock struck eight.
“He’s coming! Listen!” cried the laughing Sinang.
He entered, white and sad. Maria Clara, in alarm, started toward him, but before any one could speak a fusilade sounded in the street; then random pistol shots, and cries and clamor. Crisóstomo seemed glued to the floor. The diners came running in crying: “The tulisanes! The tulisanes!” Aunt Isabel fell on her knees half dead from fright, Captain Tiago was weeping. Some one rushed about fastening the windows. The tumult continued outside; then little by little there fell a dreadful silence. Presently the alférez was heard crying out as he ran through the street:
“Father Salvi! Father Salvi!”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Aunt Isabel. “The alférez is asking for confession!”
“The alférez is wounded!” murmured Linares, with an expression of the utmost relief.
“The tulisanes have killed the alférez! Maria, Sinang, into your chamber! Barricade the door!”
In spite of the protests of Aunt Isabel, Ibarra went out into the street. Everything seemed turning round and round him; his ears rang; he could scarcely move his limbs.Spots of blood, flashes of light and darkness alternated before his eyes. The streets were deserted, but the barracks were in confusion, and voices came from the tribunal, that of the alférez dominating all the others. Ibarra passed unchallenged, and reached his home, where his servants were anxiously watching for him.
“Saddle me the best horse and go to bed,” he said to them.
He entered his cabinet and began to pack a valise. He had put in his money and jewels and Maria’s picture and was gathering up his papers when there came three resounding knocks at the house door.
“Open in the name of the King! Open or we force the door!” said an imperious voice. Ibarra armed himself and looked toward the window; then changed his mind, threw down his revolver, and went to the door. Three guards immediately seized him.
“I make you prisoner in the name of the King!” said the sergeant.
“Why?”
“You will learn at the tribunal; I am forbidden to talk with you.”
“I am at your disposition. It will not be for, I suppose, long.”
“If you promise not to try to escape us, we may leave your hands free; the alférez grants you that favor.”
Crisóstomo took his hat and followed the guards, leaving his servants in consternation.
Elias, after leaving the house of Ibarra, ran like a madman, not knowing whither. He crossed the fields and reached the wood. He was fleeing from men and their habitations; he was fleeing from light; the moon made him suffer. He buried himself in the mysterious silence of the wood. The birds stirred, wakened from their sleep; owlsflew from branch to branch, screeching or looking at him with great, round eyes. Elias did not see or hear them; he thought he was followed by the irate shades of his ancestors. From every branch hung the bleeding head of Bâlat. At the foot of every tree he stumbled against the cold body of his grandmother; among the shadows swung the skeleton of his infamous grandfather; and the skeleton, the body, and the bleeding head cried out: “Coward! Coward!”
He ran on. He left the mountain and went down to the lake, moving feverishly along the shore; his wandering eyes became fixed upon a point on the tranquil surface, and there, surrounded by a silver nimbus and rocked by the tide, stood a shade which he seemed to recognize. Yes, that was her hair, so long and beautiful; yes, that was her breast, gaping from the poniard stroke. And the wretched man, kneeling in the sand, stretched out his arms to the cherished vision:
“Thou! Thou, too!” he cried.
His eyes fixed on the apparition, he rose, entered the water and descended the gentle slope of the beach. Already he was far from the bank; the waves lapped his waist; but he went on fascinated. The water reached his breast. Did he know it? Suddenly a volley tore the air; the night was so calm that the rifle shots sounded clear and sharp. He stopped, listened, came to himself; the shade vanished; the dream was gone. He perceived that he was in the lake, level with his eyes across the tranquil water he saw the lights in the poor cabins of fishermen. Everything came back to him. He made for the shore and went rapidly toward the pueblo.
San Diego was deserted; the houses were closed; even the dogs had hidden themselves. The glittering light that bathed everything detached the shadows boldly, making the solitude still more dreary.
Fearing to encounter the guards, Elias scaled fences and hedges, and so, making his way through the gardens, reached the home of Ibarra. The servants were around the door lamenting the arrest of their master. Elias learned what had happened, and made feint of going away, but returned to the back of the house, jumped the wall, climbed into a window and made his way to the laboratory. He saw the papers, the arms taken down, the bags of money and jewels, Maria’s picture, and had a vision of Ibarra surprised by the soldiers. He meditated a moment and decided to bury the things of value in the garden. He gathered them up, went to the window, and saw gleaming in the moonlight the casques and bayonets of the guard. His plans were quickly laid. He hid about his person the money and jewels, and, after an instant’s hesitation, the picture of Maria. Then, heaping all the papers in the middle of the room, he saturated them with oil from a lamp, threw the lighted candle in the midst, and sprang out of the window. It was none too soon: the guards were forcing entrance against the protests of the servants.
But dense smoke made its way through the house and tongues of flame began to break out. Soldiers and servants together cried fire and rushed toward the cabinet, but the flames had reached the chemicals, and their explosion drove every one back. The water the servants could bring was useless, and the house stood so apart that their cries brought no aid. The flames leaped upward amid great spirals of smoke; the house, long respected by the elements, was now their prisoner.
XLVIII.Gossip.It was not yet dawn. The street in which were the barracks and tribunal was still deserted; none of its houses gave a sign of life. Suddenly the shutter of a window opened with a bang and a child’s head appeared, looking in all directions, the little neck stretched to its utmost—plas! It was the sound of a smart slap in contact with the fresh human skin. The child screwed up his face, shut his eyes, and disappeared from the window, which was violently closed again.But the example had been given: the two bangs of the shutter had been heard. Another window opened, this time with precaution, and the wrinkled and toothless head of an old woman looked stealthily out. It was Sister Putá, the old dame who had caused such a commotion during Father Dámaso’s sermon. Children and old women are the representatives of curiosity in the world; the children want to know, the old women to live over again. The old sister stayed longer than the child, and gazed into the distance with contracted brows. Timidly a skylight opened in the house opposite, giving passage to the head and shoulders of sister Rufa. The two old women looked across at each other, smiled, exchanged gestures, and signed themselves.“Since the sack of the pueblo by Bâlat I’ve not known such a night!” said Sister Putá.“What a firing! They say it was the band of old Pablo.”“Tulisanes? Impossible! I heard it was the cuadrillerosagainst the guards; that’s why Don Filipo was arrested.”“They say at least fourteen are dead.”Other windows opened and people were seen exchanging greetings and gossip.By the light of the dawn, which promised a splendid day, soldiers could now be seen dimly at the end of the street, like gray silhouettes coming and going.“Do you know what it was?” asked a man, with a villainous face.“Yes, the cuadrilleros.”“No, señor, a revolt!”“What revolt? The curate against the alférez?”“Oh, no; nothing of that kind. It was an uprising of the Chinese.”“The Chinese!” repeated all the listeners, with great disappointment.“That’s why we don’t see one!”“They are all dead!”“I—I suspected they had something on foot!”“I saw it, too. Last night——”“What a pity they are all dead before Christmas!” cried Sister Rufa. “We shall not get their presents!”The streets began to show signs of life. First the dogs, pigs, and chickens began to circulate; then some little ragged boys, keeping hold of each other’s hands, ventured to approach the barracks. Two or three old women crept after them, their heads wrapt in handkerchiefs knotted under their chins, pretending to tell their beads, so as not to be driven back by the soldiers. When it was certain that one might come and go without risking a pistol shot, the men commenced to stroll out. Affecting indifference and stroking their cocks, they finally got as far as the tribunal.Every quarter hour a new version of the affair was circulated.Ibarra with his servants had tried to carry off Maria Clara, and in defending her,CaptainTiago had been wounded. The number of dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. At half-past seven the version which received most credit was clear and detailed.“I’ve just come from the tribunal,” said a passer, “where I saw Don Filipo and Don Crisóstomo prisoners. Well, Bruno, son of the man who was beaten to death, has confessed everything. You know, Captain Tiago is to marry his daughter to the young Spaniard. Don Crisóstomo wanted revenge, and planned to massacre all the Spaniards. His band attacked the convent and the barracks. They say many of them escaped. The guards burned Don Crisóstomo’s house, and if he hadn’t been arrested, they would have burned him, too.”“They burned the house?”“You can still see the smoke from here,” said the narrator.Everybody looked: a column of smoke was rising against the sky. Then the comments began, some pitying, some accusing.“Poor young man!” cried the husband of Sister Putá.“What!” cried the sister. “You are ready to defend a man that heaven has so plainly punished? You’ll find yourself arrested too. You uphold a falling house!”The husband was silent; the argument had told.“Yes,” went on the old woman. “After striking down Father Dámaso, there was nothing left but to kill Father Salvi!”“But you can’t deny he was a good child.”“Yes, he was good,” replied the old woman; “but he went to Europe, and those who go to Europe come back heretics, the curates say.”“Oho!” said the husband, taking his advantage. “Andthe curate, and all the curates, and the archbishop, and the pope, aren’t they all Spaniards? What? And are they heretics?”Happily for Sister Putá, the conversation was cut short. A servant came running, pale and horror-stricken.“A man hung—in our neighbor’s garden!” she gasped.A man hung! Nobody stirred.“Let’s come and see,” said the old man, rising.“Don’t go near him,” cried Sister Putá, “’twill bring us misfortune. If he’s hung, so much the worse for him!”“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go and inform them at the tribunal; he may not be dead.” And the old man went off, the women, even Sister Putá, following at a distance, full of fear, but also of curiosity.Hanging from the branch of a sandal tree in the garden a human body met their gaze. The brave man examined it.“We must wait for the authorities; he’s been dead a long time,” he said.Little by little the women drew near.“It’s the new neighbor,” they whispered. “See the scar on his face?”In half an hour the authorities arrived.“People are in a great hurry to die!” said the directorcillo, cocking his pen behind his ear, and he began his investigation.Meanwhile a peasant wearing a great salakat on his head and having his neck muffled was examining the body and the cord. He noticed several evidences that the man was dead before he was hung. The curious countryman noticed also that the clothing seemed recently torn and was covered with dust.“What are you looking at?” demanded the directorcillo, who had gathered all his evidence.“I was looking, señor, to see if I knew him,” stammeredthe man, half uncovering, in which he managed to lower his salakat even farther over his eyes.“But didn’t you hear that it is a certain José? You must be asleep!”Everybody laughed. The confused countryman stammered something else and went away. When he had reached a safe distance, he took off his disguise and resumed the stature and gait of Elias.
It was not yet dawn. The street in which were the barracks and tribunal was still deserted; none of its houses gave a sign of life. Suddenly the shutter of a window opened with a bang and a child’s head appeared, looking in all directions, the little neck stretched to its utmost—plas! It was the sound of a smart slap in contact with the fresh human skin. The child screwed up his face, shut his eyes, and disappeared from the window, which was violently closed again.
But the example had been given: the two bangs of the shutter had been heard. Another window opened, this time with precaution, and the wrinkled and toothless head of an old woman looked stealthily out. It was Sister Putá, the old dame who had caused such a commotion during Father Dámaso’s sermon. Children and old women are the representatives of curiosity in the world; the children want to know, the old women to live over again. The old sister stayed longer than the child, and gazed into the distance with contracted brows. Timidly a skylight opened in the house opposite, giving passage to the head and shoulders of sister Rufa. The two old women looked across at each other, smiled, exchanged gestures, and signed themselves.
“Since the sack of the pueblo by Bâlat I’ve not known such a night!” said Sister Putá.
“What a firing! They say it was the band of old Pablo.”
“Tulisanes? Impossible! I heard it was the cuadrillerosagainst the guards; that’s why Don Filipo was arrested.”
“They say at least fourteen are dead.”
Other windows opened and people were seen exchanging greetings and gossip.
By the light of the dawn, which promised a splendid day, soldiers could now be seen dimly at the end of the street, like gray silhouettes coming and going.
“Do you know what it was?” asked a man, with a villainous face.
“Yes, the cuadrilleros.”
“No, señor, a revolt!”
“What revolt? The curate against the alférez?”
“Oh, no; nothing of that kind. It was an uprising of the Chinese.”
“The Chinese!” repeated all the listeners, with great disappointment.
“That’s why we don’t see one!”
“They are all dead!”
“I—I suspected they had something on foot!”
“I saw it, too. Last night——”
“What a pity they are all dead before Christmas!” cried Sister Rufa. “We shall not get their presents!”
The streets began to show signs of life. First the dogs, pigs, and chickens began to circulate; then some little ragged boys, keeping hold of each other’s hands, ventured to approach the barracks. Two or three old women crept after them, their heads wrapt in handkerchiefs knotted under their chins, pretending to tell their beads, so as not to be driven back by the soldiers. When it was certain that one might come and go without risking a pistol shot, the men commenced to stroll out. Affecting indifference and stroking their cocks, they finally got as far as the tribunal.
Every quarter hour a new version of the affair was circulated.Ibarra with his servants had tried to carry off Maria Clara, and in defending her,CaptainTiago had been wounded. The number of dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. At half-past seven the version which received most credit was clear and detailed.
“I’ve just come from the tribunal,” said a passer, “where I saw Don Filipo and Don Crisóstomo prisoners. Well, Bruno, son of the man who was beaten to death, has confessed everything. You know, Captain Tiago is to marry his daughter to the young Spaniard. Don Crisóstomo wanted revenge, and planned to massacre all the Spaniards. His band attacked the convent and the barracks. They say many of them escaped. The guards burned Don Crisóstomo’s house, and if he hadn’t been arrested, they would have burned him, too.”
“They burned the house?”
“You can still see the smoke from here,” said the narrator.
Everybody looked: a column of smoke was rising against the sky. Then the comments began, some pitying, some accusing.
“Poor young man!” cried the husband of Sister Putá.
“What!” cried the sister. “You are ready to defend a man that heaven has so plainly punished? You’ll find yourself arrested too. You uphold a falling house!”
The husband was silent; the argument had told.
“Yes,” went on the old woman. “After striking down Father Dámaso, there was nothing left but to kill Father Salvi!”
“But you can’t deny he was a good child.”
“Yes, he was good,” replied the old woman; “but he went to Europe, and those who go to Europe come back heretics, the curates say.”
“Oho!” said the husband, taking his advantage. “Andthe curate, and all the curates, and the archbishop, and the pope, aren’t they all Spaniards? What? And are they heretics?”
Happily for Sister Putá, the conversation was cut short. A servant came running, pale and horror-stricken.
“A man hung—in our neighbor’s garden!” she gasped.
A man hung! Nobody stirred.
“Let’s come and see,” said the old man, rising.
“Don’t go near him,” cried Sister Putá, “’twill bring us misfortune. If he’s hung, so much the worse for him!”
“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go and inform them at the tribunal; he may not be dead.” And the old man went off, the women, even Sister Putá, following at a distance, full of fear, but also of curiosity.
Hanging from the branch of a sandal tree in the garden a human body met their gaze. The brave man examined it.
“We must wait for the authorities; he’s been dead a long time,” he said.
Little by little the women drew near.
“It’s the new neighbor,” they whispered. “See the scar on his face?”
In half an hour the authorities arrived.
“People are in a great hurry to die!” said the directorcillo, cocking his pen behind his ear, and he began his investigation.
Meanwhile a peasant wearing a great salakat on his head and having his neck muffled was examining the body and the cord. He noticed several evidences that the man was dead before he was hung. The curious countryman noticed also that the clothing seemed recently torn and was covered with dust.
“What are you looking at?” demanded the directorcillo, who had gathered all his evidence.
“I was looking, señor, to see if I knew him,” stammeredthe man, half uncovering, in which he managed to lower his salakat even farther over his eyes.
“But didn’t you hear that it is a certain José? You must be asleep!”
Everybody laughed. The confused countryman stammered something else and went away. When he had reached a safe distance, he took off his disguise and resumed the stature and gait of Elias.