XLIX.

XLIX.Væ Victis.With threatening air the guards marched back and forth before the door of the town hall, menacing with the butt of their rifles intrepid small boys, who came and raised themselves on tiptoe to see through the gratings.The court room had not the same appearance as the day of the discussion of the fête. The guards and the cuadrilleros spoke low; the alférez paced the room, looking angrily at the door from time to time. In a corner yawned Doña Consolacion, her steely eyes riveted on the door leading into the prison. The arm-chair under the picture of His Majesty was empty.It was almost nine o’clock when the curate arrived.“Well,” said the alférez, “you haven’t kept us waiting!”“I did not wish to be here,” said the curate, ignoring the tone of the alférez. “I am very nervous.”“I thought it best to wait for you,” said the alférez. “We have eight here,” he went on, pointing toward the door of the prison; “the one called Bruno died in the night. Are you ready to examine the two unknown prisoners?”The curate sat down in the arm-chair.“Let us go on,” he said.“Bring out the two in the cepo!” ordered the alférez in as terrible a voice as he could command. Then turning to the curate:“We skipped two holes.”For the benefit of those not acquainted with the instrumentsof torture of the Philippines, we will say that the cepo, a form of stocks, is one of the most innocent; but by skipping enough holes, the position is made most trying. It is, however, a torture that can be long endured.The jailor drew the bolt and opened the door. A sickening odor escaped, and a match lighted by one of the guards went out in the vitiated air; when it was possible to take in a candle, one could see dimly, from the rooms outside, the forms of men crouching or standing. The cepo was opened.A dark figure came out between two soldiers; it was Társilo, the brother of Bruno. His torn clothing let his splendid muscles show. The other prisoner brought out was weeping and lamenting.“What is your name?” the alférez demanded of Társilo.“Társilo Alasigan.”“What did Don Crisóstomo promise you for attacking the convent?”“I have never had any communication with Don Crisóstomo.”“Don’t attempt to deny it: what other reason had you for joining the conspiracy?”“You had killed our father, we wished to avenge him, nothing more. Go find two of your guards. They’re at the foot of the precipice, where we threw them. You may kill me now, you will learn nothing more.”There was silence and general surprise.“You will name your accomplices,” cried the alférez, brandishing his cane.The accused man smiled disdainfully. The alférez talked apart with the curate.“Take him where the bodies are,” he ordered.In a corner of the patio, on an old cart, five bodies were heaped under a piece of soiled matting.“Do you know them?” asked the alférez, lifting the covering. Társilo did not reply. He saw the body of Sisa’s husband, and that of his brother, pierced through with bayonet strokes. His face grew darker, and a great sigh escaped him; but he was mute.“Beat him till he confesses or dies!” cried the exasperated alférez.They led him back where the other prisoner, with chattering teeth, was invoking the saints.“Do you know this man?” demanded Father Salvi.“I never saw him before,” replied Társilo, looking at the poor wretch with faint compassion.“Fasten him to the bench; gag him!” ordered the alférez, trembling with rage. When this was done, a guard began his sad task.Father Salvi, pale and haggard, rose trembling, and left the tribunal. In the street he saw a girl, leaning against the wall, rigid, motionless, her eyes far away. The sun shone full down on her. She seemed not to breathe but to count, one after another, the muffled blows inside. It was Társilo’s sister.The torture continued until the soldier, breathless, let his arm fall, and the alférez ordered his victim released. But Társilo still refused to speak. Then Doña Consolacion whispered in her husband’s ear; he nodded.“To the well with him!” he said.The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalo it is called timbaîn. We do not know who invented this judiciary process, but it must belong to antiquity. Truth coming out of a well is perhaps a sarcastic interpretation.In the middle of the patio of the tribunal was a picturesque well curb of uncut stones. It had a rustic crank of bamboo; its water was slimy and putrid. All sorts of refuse had been thrown around it and in it.Toward this Társilo was led. He was very pale, and his lips trembled, if he was not praying. The pride he had shown appeared now to be crushed out; he seemed resigned to suffer. The poor wretch looked enviously at the pile of bodies, and sighed heavily.“Speak then!” said the directorcillo. “You will be hung anyway. Why not die without so much suffering?” But Társilo remained mute.When the well was reached, they bound his feet. He was to be let down head foremost. He was fastened to the curb; the crank turned, and his body disappeared. The alférez noted the seconds with his watch. At the signal the body was drawn up, too pitiable to describe; but Társilo was still mute. Again he was let down, again he refused to speak; when he was drawn up the third time, he no longer breathed.His torturers looked at each other in consternation. The alférez ordered the body taken down, and they all examined it for signs of life; but there were none.“See,” said a cuadrillero, at last, “he has strangled himself with his tongue!”“Put the body with the others,” ordered the alférez nervously. “We must examine the other unknown prisoner.”L.Accurst.The news spread that the prisoners were to be taken to the capital, and members of their families ran wildly from convent to barracks, from barracks to tribunal, but found no consolation anywhere. The curate was said to be ill. The guards dealt roughly with the supplicating women, and the gobernadorcillo was more useless than ever. The friends of the accused, therefore, had collected near the prison, waiting for them to be brought out. Doray, Don Filipo’s young wife, wandered back and forth, her child in her arms, both crying. The Capitana Tinay called on her son Antonio, and brave Capitana Maria watched the grating behind which were her twins, her only children.At two in the afternoon, an uncovered cart drawn by two oxen stopped in front of the tribunal. It was surrounded, and there were loud threats of breaking it.“Don’t do that!” cried Capitana Maria; “do you wish them to go on foot?” In a few moments, twenty soldiers came out and surrounded the ox-cart; then the prisoners appeared. The first was Don Filipo, who smiled at his wife. Doray responded by bitter sobs, and would have rushed to her husband, had not the guards held her back. The son of Capitana Tinay was crying like a child, which did not help to check the lamentations of his family. The twins were calm and grave. Ibarra came last. He walked between two guards, his hand free; his eyes sought on all sides for a friendly face.“He is the guilty one!” cried numerous voices. “He is the guilty one, and his hands are unbound!”“Bind my arms,” said Ibarra to his guards.“We have no orders.”“Bind me!”The soldiers obeyed.The alférez appeared on horseback, armed to the teeth, and followed by an escort of soldiers. The prisoners’ friends saluted them with affectionate words; only Ibarra was friendless.“What has my husband done to you?” sobbed Doray. “See my child; you have robbed him of his father!”Grief began to turn to hate against the man who was said to have provoked the uprising.The alférez gave the order to start.“Coward!” cried a woman, as the cart moved off. “While the others fought, you were in hiding! Coward!”“Curses on you!” cried an old man, running after. “Cursed be the gold heaped up by your family to take away our peace. Accurst! accurst!”“May you be hung, heretic!” cried a woman, picking up a stone and throwing it after him. Her example was promptly followed, and a shower of dust and pebbles beat against the unhappy man. Crisóstomo bore this injustice without a sign. It was the farewell of his beloved country. He bent his head and sat motionless. Perhaps he was thinking of a man beaten in the pueblo streets; perhaps of the body of a girl, washed up by the waves.The alférez felt obliged to drive away the crowd, but stones did not cease to fall, nor insult to sound. One mother only did not curse Ibarra; the Capitana Maria watched her sons go, with compressed lips and eyes full of silent tears.Of all the people in the open windows as he passed, nonebut the indifferent and curious showed Ibarra the least compassion. All his friends had deserted him, even Captain Basilio, who had forbidden Sinang to weep. When Crisóstomo passed the smoking ruins of his home, that home where he was born, and spent his happy childhood and youth, the tears, long repressed, gushed from his eyes, and bound as he was, he had to experience the bitterness of showing a grief that could not rouse the slightest sympathy.From a hill, an old man, pale and thin, wrapped in a mantle, and leaning on a stick, watched the sad procession. At the news of what had happened, old Tasio had left his bed, and tried to go to the pueblo, but his strength had failed him. He followed the cart with his eyes, until it disappeared in the distance. Then, after resting a while in thought, he got up painfully, and started toward his home, halting for breath at almost every step. The next day some shepherds found him dead under the shadow of his solitary house.LI.Patriotism and Interest.The telegraph had secretly transmitted to Manila the news of the uprising, and thirty-six hours later, the newspapers, their accounts expanded, corrected, and mutilated by the attorney-general, talked about it with much mystery and no little menace. Meanwhile the private accounts, coming out of the convents, had gone from mouth to mouth, to the great alarm of those who heard them. The fact, distorted in countless versions, was accepted as true with more or less readiness, according to its fitness to the passions and ideas of the different hearers.Though public tranquillity was not disturbed, the peace of the hearthstones became like that of a fish-pond, all on top; underneath was commotion. Crosses, gold lace, office, power, honors of all kinds began to hover over one part of the population, like butterflies in a golden sunshine. For the others a dark cloud rose on the horizon, and against this ashy background stood in relief bars, chains, and the fateful arms of the gibbet. Destiny presented the event to the Manila imagination, like certain Chinese fans: one face painted black, the other gilded, and gorgeous with birds and flowers.There was great agitation in the convents. The provincials ordered their carriages, and held secret conferences; then presented themselves at the palace, to offer their support to the imperiled government.“A Te Deum, a Te Deum!” said a monk in one convent.“Through the goodness of God, our worth is made manifest in these perilous times!”“This petty general, this prophet of evil, will gnaw his moustaches after this little lesson,” said another.“What would have become of him without the religious orders?”“The papers almost go to the point of demanding a mitre for Brother Salvi.”“And he will get it! He’s consumed with desire for it!”“Do you think so?”“Why shouldn’t he be? In these days mitres are given for the asking.”“If mitres had eyes, and could see on what craniums——”We spare our readers other comments of this nature. Let us enter the home of a private citizen, and as we know few people at Manila, we will knock at the door of Captain Tinong, the friendly and hospitable gentleman whom we saw inviting Ibarra, with so much insistence, to honor his house with a visit.In his rich and spacious drawing-room, at Tondo, Captain Tinong is seated in a great arm-chair, passing his hand despairingly across his brow; while his weeping wife, the Capitana Tinchang, reads him a sermon, listened to by their two daughters, who are seated in a corner, mute with stupefaction.“Ah, Virgin of Antipolo!” cried the wife. “Ah, Virgin of the Rosary; I told you so! I told you so! Ah, Virgin of Carmel! Ah!”“Why, no! You didn’t tell me anything,” Captain Tinong finally ventured to reply. “On the contrary, you said I did well to keep up the friendship with Captain Tiago, and to go to his house, because—because he was rich; and you said——”“What did I say? I didn’t say it! I didn’t say anything! Ah, if you had listened to me!”“Now you throw the blame back on me!” said the captain bitterly, striking the arm of his chair with his fist. “Didn’t you say I did well to invite him to dinner, because, as he was rich——”“It is true I said that, because—because it couldn’t be helped; you had already invited him; and you did nothing but praise him. Don Ibarra here, and Don Ibarra there, and Don Ibarra on all sides. But I didn’t advise you to see him or to speak to him at the dinner. That you cannot deny!”“Did I know, for instance, that he was to be there?”“You ought to have known it!”“How, if I wasn’t even acquainted with him?”“You ought to have been acquainted with him!”“But, Tinchang, if it was the first time I had ever seen him or heard him spoken of?”“You ought to have seen him before, you ought to have heard him spoken of; that’s what you are a man for! And now, you will be sent into exile, our goods will be confiscated——Oh, if I were a man! if I were a man!”“And if you were a man,” asked the vexed husband, “what would you do?”“What? Why, to-day, this very day, I should present myself to the captain-general, and offer to fight against the rebels, this very day!”“But didn’t you read what the Diario says? Listen! ‘The infamous and abortive treason has been repressed with energy, force, and vigor, and the rebellious enemies of the country and their accomplices will promptly feel all the weight and all the severity of the laws!’ You see, there is no rebellion!”“That makes no difference, you should present yourself; many did it in 1872, and so nobody harmed them.”“Yes! it was done also by Father Bug——” But his wife’s hands were over his mouth.“Say it! Speak that name, so you may be hung to-morrow at Bagumbayan! Don’t you know it is enough to get you executed without so much as a trial? Go on, say it!”But though Captain Tinong had wished, he couldn’t have done it. His wife held his mouth with both her hands, squeezing his little head against the back of the chair. Perhaps the poor man would have died of asphyxia, had not a new person come on the stage.It was their cousin, Don Primitivo, who knew Amat by heart; a man of forty, large and corpulent, and dressed with the utmost care.“Quid video?” he cried, upon entering; “what is going on?”“Ah, cousin!” said the wife, weeping, and running to him, “I had you sent for, for I don’t know what will become of us! What do you advise—you who have studied Latin and understand reasoning——”“Butquid quæritis? Nihil est in intellectu quod prius non fuerit in sensu.” And he sat down sedately. The Latin phrases seemed to have a tranquillizing effect; the husband and wife ceased to lament, and came nearer, awaiting the counsel of their cousin’s lips, as once the Greeks awaited the saving phrase of the oracle.“Why are you mourning?Ubinam gentium sumus?”“You know the story of the uprising——”“Well, what of it? Don Crisóstomo owes you?”“No! but do you know that Tinong invited him to dinner, and that he bowed to him on the bridge——in the middle of the day? They will say he was a friend of ours!”“Friend?” cried the Latin, in alarm, rising; “tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are yourself!Malum est negotium et est timendum rerum istarum horrendissimum resultatum. Hum!”So many words in um terrified Captain Tinong. He became frightfully pale. His wife joined her hands in supplication.“Cousin, you speak to us now in Latin, but you know we haven’t studied philosophy like you. Speak to us in Tagal or Castilian; give us your advice.”“It is deplorable that you do not know Latin, my cousin: Latin verities are lies in Tagalo.Contra principi negantem fustibus est arguendum, is, in Latin, a truth as veritable as Noah’s ark. I once put it in practice in Tagalo, and it was I who got beaten. It is indeed a misfortune that you do not know Latin! In Latin it might all be arranged. You have done wrong, very wrong, cousins, to make friends with this young man. The just pay the dues of sinners. I feel almost like advising you to make your will!” and he moved his head gloomily from side to side.“Saturnino, what ails you?” cried Capitana Tinchang, terrified. “Ah! Heaven! he is dead! A doctor! Tinong, Tinongy!”“He has only fainted, cousin; bring some water.” Don Primitivo sprinkled his face, and the unfortunate man revived.“Come, come! don’t weep! I’ve found a remedy. Put him in bed. Come, come! courage! I am with you, and all the wisdom of the ancients! Call a doctor, and this very day, cousin, go present yourself to the captain-general, and take him a present, a gold chain, a ring; say it’s a Christmas present. Shut the windows and doors, and if any one asks for your husband, say he is seriously ill. Meanwhile I’ll burn all the letters, papers, and books, as Don Crisóstomo did. Scripti testes sunt! Go on to the captain’s. Leave me to myself. In extremis extrema.Give me the power of a Roman dictator, and see whether I save the coun—What am I saying—the cousin!”He commenced to upset the shelves of the library, and tear papers and letters. Then he lighted a fire on the kitchen hearth, and theauto-da-fébegan. “‘Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres,’ by Copernicus. Whew!ite, maledicte, in ignem kalanis!” he cried, throwing it to the flames. “Revolution and Copernicus! Crime upon crime! If I don’t get through soon enough! ‘Liberty in the Philippines!’ What books! Into the fire with them!” The most innocent works did not escape the common fate. Cousin Primitivo was right. The just pay for sinners.Four or five hours later, at a fashionable gathering, the events of the day were being discussed. There were present a number of elderly married ladies and spinsters, together with the wives and daughters of clerks of theadministration, all in European costume, fanning and yawning. Among the men, who, by their manners, showed their position, as did the women, was a man advanced in age, small and one-armed, who was treated with distinction, and who kept a reserved distance.“I could never before suffer the monks and civil guards, because of their want of manners,” a portly lady was saying, “but now that I see of what service they are, I could almost marry one of them. I am patriotic.”“I am of the very same mind,” said a very prim spinster. “But what a pity the former governor isn’t with us!”“He would put an end to the race of filibusterillos!”“Don’t they say there are many islands yet uninhabited?”“If I were the captain-general——”“Señoras,” said the one-armed man, “the captain-general knows his duty. I understand he is greatly irritated, for he had loaded this Ibarra with favors.”“Loaded him with favors!” repeated the slim gentlewoman,fanning furiously. “What ingrates these Indians are! Is it possible to treat them like human beings?”“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked an officer.“No! What is it? What do they say?”“People worthy of confidence say that all this noise about building a school was a pure pretext; what he meant to make was a fort for his own defence when he had been attacked.”“What infamy! Would any one but an Indian be capable of it?”“But they say this filibustero is the son of a Spaniard,” said the one-armed man, without looking at anybody.“There it is again,” cried the portly lady; “always these creoles! No Indian understands anything about revolution. Train crows, and they’ll pick your eyes out!”“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked a pretty creole, to turn the conversation. “The wife of Captain Tinong—you remember? We danced and dined at his house at the fête of Tondo—well, the wife of Captain Tinong gave the captain-general, this afternoon, a ring worth a thousand pesos. She said it was a Christmas present.”“Christmas doesn’t come for a month.”“She must have feared a downpour,” said the stout lady.“And so got under cover,” said the slim.“That is evident,” said the one-armed man, thoughtfully. “I fear there is something back of this.”“I also,” said the portly lady. “The wife of Captain Tinong is very parsimonious—she has never sent us presents, though we have been to her house. When such a person lets slip a little present of a thousand little pesos——”“But is it certain?” demanded the one-armed man.“Absolutely! His excellency’s aide-de-camp told my cousin, to whom he is engaged. I’m tempted to believe it’sa ring she wore the day of the fête. She’s always covered with diamonds.”“That’s one way of advertising! Instead of buying a lay-figure or renting a shop——”The one-armed man found a pretext for leaving.Two hours later, when all the city was asleep, certain inhabitants of Tondo received an invitation through the medium of soldiers. Authority could not permit people of position and property to sleep in houses so ill guarded. In the fortress of Santiago, and in other government buildings, their sleep would be more tranquil and refreshing. Among these people was the unfortunate Captain Tinong.LII.Maria Clara Marries.Captain Tiago was very happy. During these troublous times, no one had paid any attention to him. He had not been arrested, he had not been subjected to cross-examination, to electrical machines, to repeated foot-baths in subterranean habitations, nor to any other of these pleasantries, well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. His friends, that is to say, those who had been—for he had repudiated his Filipino friends as soon as they had become suspects in the eyes of the Government—had returned home after several days of vacation in the edifices of the State. The captain-general had ordered them out of his possessions, to the great displeasure of the one-armed man, who would have liked to celebrate the approaching Christmas in so numerous a company of the rich.Captain Tinong returned to his home, ill, pale, another man. The excursion had not been for his good. He said nothing, not even to greet his family, who laughed and wept over him, mad with joy. The poor man no longer left the house, for fear of saluting a filibuster. Cousin Primitivo himself, with all the wisdom of the ancients, could not draw him out of his mutism.Stories like that of Captain Tinong’s were numerous, and Captain Tiago was not ignorant of them. He overflowed with gratitude, without knowing exactly to whom he owed these signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo.“I too, Isabel,” said Captain Tiago, “but the Virgin of Antipolo has probably not done it alone; my friends have helped, and my future son-in-law, Señor Linares.”It was whispered that Ibarra would be hung; that in spite of lack of proofs of his guilt, one thing had been found that confirmed the accusation; the experts had declared the school was so designed that it might pass for a rampart, faulty enough, to be sure, but what one might expect of ignorant Indians.In the midst of affairs, Doña Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares arrived. As usual, Doña Victorina talked for the three men and herself; and her speech had undergone a remarkable change. She now claimed to have naturalized herself an Andalusian by suppressing d’s and replacing the sound of s by that of z. No one had been able to get the idea out of her head; one would certainly have needed to get her frizzes off the outside first. She talked of visits of Linares to the captain-general, and made continual insinuations as to advantages a relative of position would bring.“As we say,” she concluded, “he who sleeps in a good shade, leans on a good staff.”“It’s—it’s the opposite, wife.”Maria Clara was yet pale, though she had almost recovered from her illness. She kissed Doña Victorina, smiling rather sadly.“You have been saved, thanks to your connections!” said the doctora, with a significant look toward Linares.“God has protected my father,” said Maria, in a low voice.“Yes, Clarita, but the time of miracles is past. We, the Spaniards say, trust not in the Virgin, and save yourself by running.”“It’s—it’s—the contrary, wife!”“We must talk business,” said Doña Victorina, glancingat Maria. Maria found a pretext for leaving, and went out, steadying herself by the furniture.What was said in this conference was so sordid and mean, that we prefer not to report it. Suffice it to say that when they parted, they were all satisfied. Captain Tiago said a little after to Aunt Isabel:“Have the caterer notified that we give a reception to-morrow. Maria must get ready for her marriage at once. When Señor Linares is our son-in-law, all the palaces will be open to us; and every one will die of envy.”And so, toward eight o’clock the next evening, the house of Captain Tiago was once more full. This time, however, he had invited only Spaniards, peninsular and Philippine, and Chinese. Yet many of our acquaintances were there. Father Sibyla and Father Salvi, among numerous Franciscans and Dominicans; the old lieutenant of the Municipal Guard, more sombre than ever; the alférez, recounting his victory for the thousandth time, looking over the heads of everybody, now that he is lieutenant with grade of commandant; Dr. Espadaña, who looks upon him with respect and fear, and avoids his glance; Doña Victorina, who cannot see him without anger. Linares had not yet arrived; as a person of importance, he must arouse expectation. There are beings so simple, that an hour’s waiting for a man suffices to make him great in their eyes.Maria Clara was the object of interest to all the women, and the subject of unveiled comments. She had received these ceremoniously, without losing her air of sadness.“Bah! the proud little thing!” said one.“Rather pretty,” said another, “but he might have chosen some one with a more intelligent face.”“But the money, my dear! The good fellow is selling himself.”In another group some one was saying:“To marry when one’s first fiancé is going to be hung!”“That is what is called prudent; having a substitute at hand.”“Then, when one becomes a widow——”Possibly some of these remarks reached the ears of Maria Clara. She grew paler, her hand trembled, her lips seemed to move.In the circles of men the talk was loud, and naturally the recent events were the subject of conversation. Everybody talked, even Don Tiburcio.“I hear that your reverence is about to leave the pueblo,” said the new lieutenant, whom his new star had made more amiable.“I have no more to do there; I am to be placed permanently at Manila. And you?” asked Father Salvi.“I also leave the pueblo,” said he, throwing back his shoulders; “I am going with a flying column to rid the province of filibusters.”Father Salvi surveyed his old enemy from top to toe, and turned away with a disdainful smile.“Is it known certainly what is to be done with the chief filibuster?” asked a clerk.“You are speaking of Don Crisóstomo Ibarra,” replied another. “It is very probable that he will be hung, like those of 1872, and it will be very just.”“He is to be exiled,” said the old lieutenant dryly.“Exile! Nothing but exile?” cried numerous voices at once. “Then it must be for life!”“If the young man had been more prudent,” went on Lieutenant Guevara, speaking so that all might hear, “if he had confided less in certain persons to whom he wrote, if our attorney-generals did not interpret too subtly what they read, it is certain he would have been released.”This declaration of the old lieutenant’s, and the tone ofhis voice, produced a great surprise among his auditors. No one knew what to say. Father Salvi looked away, perhaps to avoid the dark look the lieutenant gave him. Maria Clara dropped some flowers she had in her hand, and became a statue. Father Sibyla, who knew when to be silent, seemed the only one who knew how to question.“You speak of letters, Señor Guevara.”“I speak of what I am told by Don Crisóstomo’s advocate, who is greatly interested in his case, and defended him with zeal. Outside of a few ambiguous lines in a letter addressed to a woman before he left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was no evidence against him.”“And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?”“The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except one named José, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra’s seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was supposed that the accusing letter served as a model.”“You tell us,” said a Franciscan, “that Ibarra addressed this letter to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?”The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter.“Even women seem to have hated him,” said one.“He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!” said another, laughing.Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. Shehad heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet.“You are a prudent young woman,” he said in a low voice; “by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future.” And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress.“What is the matter?” cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. “You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?”“My heart—it’s the crowd—so much light—I must rest. Tell my father I’ve gone to rest,” and steadying herself by her aunt’s arm, she went to her room.“You are cold! Do you want some tea?” asked Aunt Isabel at the door.Maria shook her head. “Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest,” she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing:“Mother, mother, my mother!”The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door—her father, her aunt, Doña Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her.Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria’s candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door.“She must have gone to bed,” the old lady called back to her brother. “At her age one sleeps like the dead.”When all was still again, Maria rose slowly, and looked out on the terrace with its vines bathed in the white moonlight.“A peaceful future!—Sleep like the dead!” she said aloud; and she went out.The city was mute; only now and then a carriage could be heard crossing the wooden bridge. The girl raised her eyes toward the sky; then slowly she took off her rings, the pendants in her ears, the comb and jewelled pins in her hair, and put them on the balustrade of the terrace; then she looked toward the river.A little bark, loaded with zacate, drew up to the landing-place below the terrace. One of the two men in it climbed the stone steps, sprang over the wall, and in a moment was mounting the stairway of the terrace. At sight of Maria, he stopped, then approached slowly.Maria drew back.“Crisóstomo!” she said, speaking low. She was terrified.“Yes, I am Crisóstomo,” replied the young man gravely. “An enemy, a man who has reason to hate me, Elias, has rescued me from the prison where my friends put me.”A sad silence followed his words. Maria Clara bent her head. Ibarra went on:“By the dead body of my mother, I pledged myself, whatever my future, to try to make you happy. I have risked all that remains to me, to come and fulfil that promise. Chance lets me speak to you, Maria; we shall never see each other again. You are young now; some day your conscience may upbraid you. Before I go away forever, I have come to say that I forgive you. Be happy—farewell!” And he began to move away; she held him back.“Crisóstomo!” she said, “God has sent you to save me from despair. Listen and judge me!”Ibarra tried gently to release himself.“I did not come to call you to account; I came to bring you peace.”“I want none of the peace you bring me. I shall find peace for myself. You scorn me and your scorn will make even death bitter.”He saw despair in her poor, young face, and asked what she wished.“I wish you to believe that I have always loved you.”He smiled bitterly.“Ah! you doubt me! you doubt your childhood’s friend, who has never hidden a single thought from you! When you know my history, the sad story that was told me in my illness, you will pity me; you will no longer wear that smile. Why did they not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor! You and I should both have been happier!”She stopped a moment, then went on:“You force me to this, by your doubts; may my mother forgive me! In one of the most painful of my nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my real father. If he had not been my father, this man said, he might have pardoned the injury you had done him.”Crisóstomo looked at Maria in amazement.“What was I to do?” she went on. “Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of him who was supposed to be my father, and the good name of him who is? And could I have done this without bringing dishonor upon you too?”“But the proof—have you had proof? There must be proof!” said Crisóstomo, staggered.Maria drew from her breast two papers.“Here are two letters of my mother’s,” she said, “written in her remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and only gave them up to me inexchange for your letter, as assurance, he said, that I would not marry you without my father’s consent. I sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could I know I was sacrificing you too?”Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on:“What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you—could I say I was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret, and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?”“Maria, you are a saint!”“I am blessed, because you believe in me——”“And yet,” said Crisóstomo, remembering, “I heard you were to marry——”“Yes,” sobbed the poor child, “my father demands this sacrifice; he has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this new connection, but——”“But?”“I shall not forget my vows to you.”“What is your thought?” asked Ibarra, trying to read in her clear eyes.“The future is obscure. I do not know what I shall do; but I know this, that I can love but once, and that I shall not belong to one I do not love. And you? What will you do?”“I am no longer anything but a fugitive—I shall fly, and my flight will soon be overtaken, Maria——”Maria took his head in her hands, kissed his lips again and again, then pushed him away with all her strength.“Fly, fly!” she said. “Adieu!”Ibarra looked at her with shining eyes, but she made a sign, and he went, reeling for an instant like a drunken man. He leaped the wall again, and was back in the little bark. Maria Clara, leaning on the balustrade, watched till it disappeared in the distance.LIII.The Chase on the Lake.“Listen, señor, to the plan I have made,” said Elias, as he pulled toward San Gabriel. “I will hide you, for the present, at the house of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold, that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave the country——”“To live among strangers?” interrupted Ibarra.“To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty.”Crisóstomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a whistle long and shrill was heard.“Elias,” said Ibarra at length, “your misfortunes are due to my family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country; well, come with me. We will live as brothers.”Elias shook his head.“It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day——”“Unless I, too, should become a tulisan,” mused Ibarra.“Señor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this same moon. You could not have said such a thing then.”“No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society; perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence.”They came in sight of the governor-general’s palace, and thought they saw unusual movement among the guards.“Your escape must have been discovered,” said Elias. “Lie down, señor, so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine may stop us.”As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him where he came from.“From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates,” said he, imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.A sergeant came out.“Sulung,” said he to Elias, “I warn you not to take any one into your boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him to me, I will give you a fine reward.”“Good, señor; what is his description?”“He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!”The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank.“We shall lose a few minutes,” he said; “we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I’m from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang.”The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves thatare called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.“Santa Ana!” said Ibarra, speaking low; “do you know that building?” They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.“I’ve spent many happy days there,” said Elias. “When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future.”They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-batô. Those who have sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence puts out their sordid words—those who have done this will know some of the thoughts of these two young men.At Malapad-na-batô, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was no more disquieting.The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east with roses, when they arrived at the lake, smooth and placid as a great mirror. At a distance they saw a gray mass, advancing little by little.“It’s the falúa,” said Elias under his breath. “Lie down, señor, and I will cover you with these bags.”The outlines of the government boat grew more and more distinct.“She’s getting between us and the shore,” said Elias, uneasily; and very gradually he changed the direction of his bark. To his terror he saw the falúa make the same change, and heard a voice hailing him. He stopped and thought. The shore was yet some distance away; theywould soon be within range of the ship’s guns. He thought he would go back to Pasig, his boat could escape the other in that direction; but fate was against him. Another boat was coming from Pasig, and in it glittered the helmets and bayonets of the Civil Guards.“We are caught!” he said, and the color left his face. He looked at his sturdy arms, and took the only resolution possible; he began to row with all his might toward the island of Talim. The sun was coming up. The bark shot rapidly over the water; on the falúa, which changed its tack, Elias saw men signalling.“Do you know how to manage a bark?” he demanded of Ibarra.“Yes. Why?”“Because we are lost unless I take to the water to throw them off the track. They will pursue me. I swim and dive well. That will turn them away from you, and you must try to save yourself.”“No, stay, and let us sell our lives dear!”“It is useless; we have no arms; they would shoot us down like birds.”As he spoke, they heard a hiss in the water, followed by a report.“You see!” said Elias, laying down his oar. “We will meet, Christmas night, at the tomb of your grandfather. Save yourself! God has drawn me out of greater perils than this!”He took off his shirt; a ball picked it out of his hands, and two reports followed. Without showing alarm, he grasped the hand Ibarra stretched up from the bottom of the boat, then stood upright and leaped into the water, pushing off the little craft with his foot.Outcries were heard from the falúa. Promptly, and at some distance, appeared the head of the young man, returningto the surface to breathe, then disappearing immediately.“There, there he is,” cried several voices, and balls whistled.The falúa and the bark from Pasig set out in pursuit of the swimmer. A slight wake showed his direction, more and more removed from Ibarra’s little bark, which drifted as if abandoned. Every time Elias raised his head to breathe, the guards and the men of the falúa fired on him.The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left far behind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. The rowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedly raised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, to disconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the place of the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from the shore. The soldiers fired—minutes and minutes passed. Nothing again disturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.

XLIX.Væ Victis.With threatening air the guards marched back and forth before the door of the town hall, menacing with the butt of their rifles intrepid small boys, who came and raised themselves on tiptoe to see through the gratings.The court room had not the same appearance as the day of the discussion of the fête. The guards and the cuadrilleros spoke low; the alférez paced the room, looking angrily at the door from time to time. In a corner yawned Doña Consolacion, her steely eyes riveted on the door leading into the prison. The arm-chair under the picture of His Majesty was empty.It was almost nine o’clock when the curate arrived.“Well,” said the alférez, “you haven’t kept us waiting!”“I did not wish to be here,” said the curate, ignoring the tone of the alférez. “I am very nervous.”“I thought it best to wait for you,” said the alférez. “We have eight here,” he went on, pointing toward the door of the prison; “the one called Bruno died in the night. Are you ready to examine the two unknown prisoners?”The curate sat down in the arm-chair.“Let us go on,” he said.“Bring out the two in the cepo!” ordered the alférez in as terrible a voice as he could command. Then turning to the curate:“We skipped two holes.”For the benefit of those not acquainted with the instrumentsof torture of the Philippines, we will say that the cepo, a form of stocks, is one of the most innocent; but by skipping enough holes, the position is made most trying. It is, however, a torture that can be long endured.The jailor drew the bolt and opened the door. A sickening odor escaped, and a match lighted by one of the guards went out in the vitiated air; when it was possible to take in a candle, one could see dimly, from the rooms outside, the forms of men crouching or standing. The cepo was opened.A dark figure came out between two soldiers; it was Társilo, the brother of Bruno. His torn clothing let his splendid muscles show. The other prisoner brought out was weeping and lamenting.“What is your name?” the alférez demanded of Társilo.“Társilo Alasigan.”“What did Don Crisóstomo promise you for attacking the convent?”“I have never had any communication with Don Crisóstomo.”“Don’t attempt to deny it: what other reason had you for joining the conspiracy?”“You had killed our father, we wished to avenge him, nothing more. Go find two of your guards. They’re at the foot of the precipice, where we threw them. You may kill me now, you will learn nothing more.”There was silence and general surprise.“You will name your accomplices,” cried the alférez, brandishing his cane.The accused man smiled disdainfully. The alférez talked apart with the curate.“Take him where the bodies are,” he ordered.In a corner of the patio, on an old cart, five bodies were heaped under a piece of soiled matting.“Do you know them?” asked the alférez, lifting the covering. Társilo did not reply. He saw the body of Sisa’s husband, and that of his brother, pierced through with bayonet strokes. His face grew darker, and a great sigh escaped him; but he was mute.“Beat him till he confesses or dies!” cried the exasperated alférez.They led him back where the other prisoner, with chattering teeth, was invoking the saints.“Do you know this man?” demanded Father Salvi.“I never saw him before,” replied Társilo, looking at the poor wretch with faint compassion.“Fasten him to the bench; gag him!” ordered the alférez, trembling with rage. When this was done, a guard began his sad task.Father Salvi, pale and haggard, rose trembling, and left the tribunal. In the street he saw a girl, leaning against the wall, rigid, motionless, her eyes far away. The sun shone full down on her. She seemed not to breathe but to count, one after another, the muffled blows inside. It was Társilo’s sister.The torture continued until the soldier, breathless, let his arm fall, and the alférez ordered his victim released. But Társilo still refused to speak. Then Doña Consolacion whispered in her husband’s ear; he nodded.“To the well with him!” he said.The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalo it is called timbaîn. We do not know who invented this judiciary process, but it must belong to antiquity. Truth coming out of a well is perhaps a sarcastic interpretation.In the middle of the patio of the tribunal was a picturesque well curb of uncut stones. It had a rustic crank of bamboo; its water was slimy and putrid. All sorts of refuse had been thrown around it and in it.Toward this Társilo was led. He was very pale, and his lips trembled, if he was not praying. The pride he had shown appeared now to be crushed out; he seemed resigned to suffer. The poor wretch looked enviously at the pile of bodies, and sighed heavily.“Speak then!” said the directorcillo. “You will be hung anyway. Why not die without so much suffering?” But Társilo remained mute.When the well was reached, they bound his feet. He was to be let down head foremost. He was fastened to the curb; the crank turned, and his body disappeared. The alférez noted the seconds with his watch. At the signal the body was drawn up, too pitiable to describe; but Társilo was still mute. Again he was let down, again he refused to speak; when he was drawn up the third time, he no longer breathed.His torturers looked at each other in consternation. The alférez ordered the body taken down, and they all examined it for signs of life; but there were none.“See,” said a cuadrillero, at last, “he has strangled himself with his tongue!”“Put the body with the others,” ordered the alférez nervously. “We must examine the other unknown prisoner.”

With threatening air the guards marched back and forth before the door of the town hall, menacing with the butt of their rifles intrepid small boys, who came and raised themselves on tiptoe to see through the gratings.

The court room had not the same appearance as the day of the discussion of the fête. The guards and the cuadrilleros spoke low; the alférez paced the room, looking angrily at the door from time to time. In a corner yawned Doña Consolacion, her steely eyes riveted on the door leading into the prison. The arm-chair under the picture of His Majesty was empty.

It was almost nine o’clock when the curate arrived.

“Well,” said the alférez, “you haven’t kept us waiting!”

“I did not wish to be here,” said the curate, ignoring the tone of the alférez. “I am very nervous.”

“I thought it best to wait for you,” said the alférez. “We have eight here,” he went on, pointing toward the door of the prison; “the one called Bruno died in the night. Are you ready to examine the two unknown prisoners?”

The curate sat down in the arm-chair.

“Let us go on,” he said.

“Bring out the two in the cepo!” ordered the alférez in as terrible a voice as he could command. Then turning to the curate:

“We skipped two holes.”

For the benefit of those not acquainted with the instrumentsof torture of the Philippines, we will say that the cepo, a form of stocks, is one of the most innocent; but by skipping enough holes, the position is made most trying. It is, however, a torture that can be long endured.

The jailor drew the bolt and opened the door. A sickening odor escaped, and a match lighted by one of the guards went out in the vitiated air; when it was possible to take in a candle, one could see dimly, from the rooms outside, the forms of men crouching or standing. The cepo was opened.

A dark figure came out between two soldiers; it was Társilo, the brother of Bruno. His torn clothing let his splendid muscles show. The other prisoner brought out was weeping and lamenting.

“What is your name?” the alférez demanded of Társilo.

“Társilo Alasigan.”

“What did Don Crisóstomo promise you for attacking the convent?”

“I have never had any communication with Don Crisóstomo.”

“Don’t attempt to deny it: what other reason had you for joining the conspiracy?”

“You had killed our father, we wished to avenge him, nothing more. Go find two of your guards. They’re at the foot of the precipice, where we threw them. You may kill me now, you will learn nothing more.”

There was silence and general surprise.

“You will name your accomplices,” cried the alférez, brandishing his cane.

The accused man smiled disdainfully. The alférez talked apart with the curate.

“Take him where the bodies are,” he ordered.

In a corner of the patio, on an old cart, five bodies were heaped under a piece of soiled matting.

“Do you know them?” asked the alférez, lifting the covering. Társilo did not reply. He saw the body of Sisa’s husband, and that of his brother, pierced through with bayonet strokes. His face grew darker, and a great sigh escaped him; but he was mute.

“Beat him till he confesses or dies!” cried the exasperated alférez.

They led him back where the other prisoner, with chattering teeth, was invoking the saints.

“Do you know this man?” demanded Father Salvi.

“I never saw him before,” replied Társilo, looking at the poor wretch with faint compassion.

“Fasten him to the bench; gag him!” ordered the alférez, trembling with rage. When this was done, a guard began his sad task.

Father Salvi, pale and haggard, rose trembling, and left the tribunal. In the street he saw a girl, leaning against the wall, rigid, motionless, her eyes far away. The sun shone full down on her. She seemed not to breathe but to count, one after another, the muffled blows inside. It was Társilo’s sister.

The torture continued until the soldier, breathless, let his arm fall, and the alférez ordered his victim released. But Társilo still refused to speak. Then Doña Consolacion whispered in her husband’s ear; he nodded.

“To the well with him!” he said.

The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalo it is called timbaîn. We do not know who invented this judiciary process, but it must belong to antiquity. Truth coming out of a well is perhaps a sarcastic interpretation.

In the middle of the patio of the tribunal was a picturesque well curb of uncut stones. It had a rustic crank of bamboo; its water was slimy and putrid. All sorts of refuse had been thrown around it and in it.

Toward this Társilo was led. He was very pale, and his lips trembled, if he was not praying. The pride he had shown appeared now to be crushed out; he seemed resigned to suffer. The poor wretch looked enviously at the pile of bodies, and sighed heavily.

“Speak then!” said the directorcillo. “You will be hung anyway. Why not die without so much suffering?” But Társilo remained mute.

When the well was reached, they bound his feet. He was to be let down head foremost. He was fastened to the curb; the crank turned, and his body disappeared. The alférez noted the seconds with his watch. At the signal the body was drawn up, too pitiable to describe; but Társilo was still mute. Again he was let down, again he refused to speak; when he was drawn up the third time, he no longer breathed.

His torturers looked at each other in consternation. The alférez ordered the body taken down, and they all examined it for signs of life; but there were none.

“See,” said a cuadrillero, at last, “he has strangled himself with his tongue!”

“Put the body with the others,” ordered the alférez nervously. “We must examine the other unknown prisoner.”

L.Accurst.The news spread that the prisoners were to be taken to the capital, and members of their families ran wildly from convent to barracks, from barracks to tribunal, but found no consolation anywhere. The curate was said to be ill. The guards dealt roughly with the supplicating women, and the gobernadorcillo was more useless than ever. The friends of the accused, therefore, had collected near the prison, waiting for them to be brought out. Doray, Don Filipo’s young wife, wandered back and forth, her child in her arms, both crying. The Capitana Tinay called on her son Antonio, and brave Capitana Maria watched the grating behind which were her twins, her only children.At two in the afternoon, an uncovered cart drawn by two oxen stopped in front of the tribunal. It was surrounded, and there were loud threats of breaking it.“Don’t do that!” cried Capitana Maria; “do you wish them to go on foot?” In a few moments, twenty soldiers came out and surrounded the ox-cart; then the prisoners appeared. The first was Don Filipo, who smiled at his wife. Doray responded by bitter sobs, and would have rushed to her husband, had not the guards held her back. The son of Capitana Tinay was crying like a child, which did not help to check the lamentations of his family. The twins were calm and grave. Ibarra came last. He walked between two guards, his hand free; his eyes sought on all sides for a friendly face.“He is the guilty one!” cried numerous voices. “He is the guilty one, and his hands are unbound!”“Bind my arms,” said Ibarra to his guards.“We have no orders.”“Bind me!”The soldiers obeyed.The alférez appeared on horseback, armed to the teeth, and followed by an escort of soldiers. The prisoners’ friends saluted them with affectionate words; only Ibarra was friendless.“What has my husband done to you?” sobbed Doray. “See my child; you have robbed him of his father!”Grief began to turn to hate against the man who was said to have provoked the uprising.The alférez gave the order to start.“Coward!” cried a woman, as the cart moved off. “While the others fought, you were in hiding! Coward!”“Curses on you!” cried an old man, running after. “Cursed be the gold heaped up by your family to take away our peace. Accurst! accurst!”“May you be hung, heretic!” cried a woman, picking up a stone and throwing it after him. Her example was promptly followed, and a shower of dust and pebbles beat against the unhappy man. Crisóstomo bore this injustice without a sign. It was the farewell of his beloved country. He bent his head and sat motionless. Perhaps he was thinking of a man beaten in the pueblo streets; perhaps of the body of a girl, washed up by the waves.The alférez felt obliged to drive away the crowd, but stones did not cease to fall, nor insult to sound. One mother only did not curse Ibarra; the Capitana Maria watched her sons go, with compressed lips and eyes full of silent tears.Of all the people in the open windows as he passed, nonebut the indifferent and curious showed Ibarra the least compassion. All his friends had deserted him, even Captain Basilio, who had forbidden Sinang to weep. When Crisóstomo passed the smoking ruins of his home, that home where he was born, and spent his happy childhood and youth, the tears, long repressed, gushed from his eyes, and bound as he was, he had to experience the bitterness of showing a grief that could not rouse the slightest sympathy.From a hill, an old man, pale and thin, wrapped in a mantle, and leaning on a stick, watched the sad procession. At the news of what had happened, old Tasio had left his bed, and tried to go to the pueblo, but his strength had failed him. He followed the cart with his eyes, until it disappeared in the distance. Then, after resting a while in thought, he got up painfully, and started toward his home, halting for breath at almost every step. The next day some shepherds found him dead under the shadow of his solitary house.

The news spread that the prisoners were to be taken to the capital, and members of their families ran wildly from convent to barracks, from barracks to tribunal, but found no consolation anywhere. The curate was said to be ill. The guards dealt roughly with the supplicating women, and the gobernadorcillo was more useless than ever. The friends of the accused, therefore, had collected near the prison, waiting for them to be brought out. Doray, Don Filipo’s young wife, wandered back and forth, her child in her arms, both crying. The Capitana Tinay called on her son Antonio, and brave Capitana Maria watched the grating behind which were her twins, her only children.

At two in the afternoon, an uncovered cart drawn by two oxen stopped in front of the tribunal. It was surrounded, and there were loud threats of breaking it.

“Don’t do that!” cried Capitana Maria; “do you wish them to go on foot?” In a few moments, twenty soldiers came out and surrounded the ox-cart; then the prisoners appeared. The first was Don Filipo, who smiled at his wife. Doray responded by bitter sobs, and would have rushed to her husband, had not the guards held her back. The son of Capitana Tinay was crying like a child, which did not help to check the lamentations of his family. The twins were calm and grave. Ibarra came last. He walked between two guards, his hand free; his eyes sought on all sides for a friendly face.

“He is the guilty one!” cried numerous voices. “He is the guilty one, and his hands are unbound!”

“Bind my arms,” said Ibarra to his guards.

“We have no orders.”

“Bind me!”

The soldiers obeyed.

The alférez appeared on horseback, armed to the teeth, and followed by an escort of soldiers. The prisoners’ friends saluted them with affectionate words; only Ibarra was friendless.

“What has my husband done to you?” sobbed Doray. “See my child; you have robbed him of his father!”

Grief began to turn to hate against the man who was said to have provoked the uprising.

The alférez gave the order to start.

“Coward!” cried a woman, as the cart moved off. “While the others fought, you were in hiding! Coward!”

“Curses on you!” cried an old man, running after. “Cursed be the gold heaped up by your family to take away our peace. Accurst! accurst!”

“May you be hung, heretic!” cried a woman, picking up a stone and throwing it after him. Her example was promptly followed, and a shower of dust and pebbles beat against the unhappy man. Crisóstomo bore this injustice without a sign. It was the farewell of his beloved country. He bent his head and sat motionless. Perhaps he was thinking of a man beaten in the pueblo streets; perhaps of the body of a girl, washed up by the waves.

The alférez felt obliged to drive away the crowd, but stones did not cease to fall, nor insult to sound. One mother only did not curse Ibarra; the Capitana Maria watched her sons go, with compressed lips and eyes full of silent tears.

Of all the people in the open windows as he passed, nonebut the indifferent and curious showed Ibarra the least compassion. All his friends had deserted him, even Captain Basilio, who had forbidden Sinang to weep. When Crisóstomo passed the smoking ruins of his home, that home where he was born, and spent his happy childhood and youth, the tears, long repressed, gushed from his eyes, and bound as he was, he had to experience the bitterness of showing a grief that could not rouse the slightest sympathy.

From a hill, an old man, pale and thin, wrapped in a mantle, and leaning on a stick, watched the sad procession. At the news of what had happened, old Tasio had left his bed, and tried to go to the pueblo, but his strength had failed him. He followed the cart with his eyes, until it disappeared in the distance. Then, after resting a while in thought, he got up painfully, and started toward his home, halting for breath at almost every step. The next day some shepherds found him dead under the shadow of his solitary house.

LI.Patriotism and Interest.The telegraph had secretly transmitted to Manila the news of the uprising, and thirty-six hours later, the newspapers, their accounts expanded, corrected, and mutilated by the attorney-general, talked about it with much mystery and no little menace. Meanwhile the private accounts, coming out of the convents, had gone from mouth to mouth, to the great alarm of those who heard them. The fact, distorted in countless versions, was accepted as true with more or less readiness, according to its fitness to the passions and ideas of the different hearers.Though public tranquillity was not disturbed, the peace of the hearthstones became like that of a fish-pond, all on top; underneath was commotion. Crosses, gold lace, office, power, honors of all kinds began to hover over one part of the population, like butterflies in a golden sunshine. For the others a dark cloud rose on the horizon, and against this ashy background stood in relief bars, chains, and the fateful arms of the gibbet. Destiny presented the event to the Manila imagination, like certain Chinese fans: one face painted black, the other gilded, and gorgeous with birds and flowers.There was great agitation in the convents. The provincials ordered their carriages, and held secret conferences; then presented themselves at the palace, to offer their support to the imperiled government.“A Te Deum, a Te Deum!” said a monk in one convent.“Through the goodness of God, our worth is made manifest in these perilous times!”“This petty general, this prophet of evil, will gnaw his moustaches after this little lesson,” said another.“What would have become of him without the religious orders?”“The papers almost go to the point of demanding a mitre for Brother Salvi.”“And he will get it! He’s consumed with desire for it!”“Do you think so?”“Why shouldn’t he be? In these days mitres are given for the asking.”“If mitres had eyes, and could see on what craniums——”We spare our readers other comments of this nature. Let us enter the home of a private citizen, and as we know few people at Manila, we will knock at the door of Captain Tinong, the friendly and hospitable gentleman whom we saw inviting Ibarra, with so much insistence, to honor his house with a visit.In his rich and spacious drawing-room, at Tondo, Captain Tinong is seated in a great arm-chair, passing his hand despairingly across his brow; while his weeping wife, the Capitana Tinchang, reads him a sermon, listened to by their two daughters, who are seated in a corner, mute with stupefaction.“Ah, Virgin of Antipolo!” cried the wife. “Ah, Virgin of the Rosary; I told you so! I told you so! Ah, Virgin of Carmel! Ah!”“Why, no! You didn’t tell me anything,” Captain Tinong finally ventured to reply. “On the contrary, you said I did well to keep up the friendship with Captain Tiago, and to go to his house, because—because he was rich; and you said——”“What did I say? I didn’t say it! I didn’t say anything! Ah, if you had listened to me!”“Now you throw the blame back on me!” said the captain bitterly, striking the arm of his chair with his fist. “Didn’t you say I did well to invite him to dinner, because, as he was rich——”“It is true I said that, because—because it couldn’t be helped; you had already invited him; and you did nothing but praise him. Don Ibarra here, and Don Ibarra there, and Don Ibarra on all sides. But I didn’t advise you to see him or to speak to him at the dinner. That you cannot deny!”“Did I know, for instance, that he was to be there?”“You ought to have known it!”“How, if I wasn’t even acquainted with him?”“You ought to have been acquainted with him!”“But, Tinchang, if it was the first time I had ever seen him or heard him spoken of?”“You ought to have seen him before, you ought to have heard him spoken of; that’s what you are a man for! And now, you will be sent into exile, our goods will be confiscated——Oh, if I were a man! if I were a man!”“And if you were a man,” asked the vexed husband, “what would you do?”“What? Why, to-day, this very day, I should present myself to the captain-general, and offer to fight against the rebels, this very day!”“But didn’t you read what the Diario says? Listen! ‘The infamous and abortive treason has been repressed with energy, force, and vigor, and the rebellious enemies of the country and their accomplices will promptly feel all the weight and all the severity of the laws!’ You see, there is no rebellion!”“That makes no difference, you should present yourself; many did it in 1872, and so nobody harmed them.”“Yes! it was done also by Father Bug——” But his wife’s hands were over his mouth.“Say it! Speak that name, so you may be hung to-morrow at Bagumbayan! Don’t you know it is enough to get you executed without so much as a trial? Go on, say it!”But though Captain Tinong had wished, he couldn’t have done it. His wife held his mouth with both her hands, squeezing his little head against the back of the chair. Perhaps the poor man would have died of asphyxia, had not a new person come on the stage.It was their cousin, Don Primitivo, who knew Amat by heart; a man of forty, large and corpulent, and dressed with the utmost care.“Quid video?” he cried, upon entering; “what is going on?”“Ah, cousin!” said the wife, weeping, and running to him, “I had you sent for, for I don’t know what will become of us! What do you advise—you who have studied Latin and understand reasoning——”“Butquid quæritis? Nihil est in intellectu quod prius non fuerit in sensu.” And he sat down sedately. The Latin phrases seemed to have a tranquillizing effect; the husband and wife ceased to lament, and came nearer, awaiting the counsel of their cousin’s lips, as once the Greeks awaited the saving phrase of the oracle.“Why are you mourning?Ubinam gentium sumus?”“You know the story of the uprising——”“Well, what of it? Don Crisóstomo owes you?”“No! but do you know that Tinong invited him to dinner, and that he bowed to him on the bridge——in the middle of the day? They will say he was a friend of ours!”“Friend?” cried the Latin, in alarm, rising; “tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are yourself!Malum est negotium et est timendum rerum istarum horrendissimum resultatum. Hum!”So many words in um terrified Captain Tinong. He became frightfully pale. His wife joined her hands in supplication.“Cousin, you speak to us now in Latin, but you know we haven’t studied philosophy like you. Speak to us in Tagal or Castilian; give us your advice.”“It is deplorable that you do not know Latin, my cousin: Latin verities are lies in Tagalo.Contra principi negantem fustibus est arguendum, is, in Latin, a truth as veritable as Noah’s ark. I once put it in practice in Tagalo, and it was I who got beaten. It is indeed a misfortune that you do not know Latin! In Latin it might all be arranged. You have done wrong, very wrong, cousins, to make friends with this young man. The just pay the dues of sinners. I feel almost like advising you to make your will!” and he moved his head gloomily from side to side.“Saturnino, what ails you?” cried Capitana Tinchang, terrified. “Ah! Heaven! he is dead! A doctor! Tinong, Tinongy!”“He has only fainted, cousin; bring some water.” Don Primitivo sprinkled his face, and the unfortunate man revived.“Come, come! don’t weep! I’ve found a remedy. Put him in bed. Come, come! courage! I am with you, and all the wisdom of the ancients! Call a doctor, and this very day, cousin, go present yourself to the captain-general, and take him a present, a gold chain, a ring; say it’s a Christmas present. Shut the windows and doors, and if any one asks for your husband, say he is seriously ill. Meanwhile I’ll burn all the letters, papers, and books, as Don Crisóstomo did. Scripti testes sunt! Go on to the captain’s. Leave me to myself. In extremis extrema.Give me the power of a Roman dictator, and see whether I save the coun—What am I saying—the cousin!”He commenced to upset the shelves of the library, and tear papers and letters. Then he lighted a fire on the kitchen hearth, and theauto-da-fébegan. “‘Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres,’ by Copernicus. Whew!ite, maledicte, in ignem kalanis!” he cried, throwing it to the flames. “Revolution and Copernicus! Crime upon crime! If I don’t get through soon enough! ‘Liberty in the Philippines!’ What books! Into the fire with them!” The most innocent works did not escape the common fate. Cousin Primitivo was right. The just pay for sinners.Four or five hours later, at a fashionable gathering, the events of the day were being discussed. There were present a number of elderly married ladies and spinsters, together with the wives and daughters of clerks of theadministration, all in European costume, fanning and yawning. Among the men, who, by their manners, showed their position, as did the women, was a man advanced in age, small and one-armed, who was treated with distinction, and who kept a reserved distance.“I could never before suffer the monks and civil guards, because of their want of manners,” a portly lady was saying, “but now that I see of what service they are, I could almost marry one of them. I am patriotic.”“I am of the very same mind,” said a very prim spinster. “But what a pity the former governor isn’t with us!”“He would put an end to the race of filibusterillos!”“Don’t they say there are many islands yet uninhabited?”“If I were the captain-general——”“Señoras,” said the one-armed man, “the captain-general knows his duty. I understand he is greatly irritated, for he had loaded this Ibarra with favors.”“Loaded him with favors!” repeated the slim gentlewoman,fanning furiously. “What ingrates these Indians are! Is it possible to treat them like human beings?”“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked an officer.“No! What is it? What do they say?”“People worthy of confidence say that all this noise about building a school was a pure pretext; what he meant to make was a fort for his own defence when he had been attacked.”“What infamy! Would any one but an Indian be capable of it?”“But they say this filibustero is the son of a Spaniard,” said the one-armed man, without looking at anybody.“There it is again,” cried the portly lady; “always these creoles! No Indian understands anything about revolution. Train crows, and they’ll pick your eyes out!”“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked a pretty creole, to turn the conversation. “The wife of Captain Tinong—you remember? We danced and dined at his house at the fête of Tondo—well, the wife of Captain Tinong gave the captain-general, this afternoon, a ring worth a thousand pesos. She said it was a Christmas present.”“Christmas doesn’t come for a month.”“She must have feared a downpour,” said the stout lady.“And so got under cover,” said the slim.“That is evident,” said the one-armed man, thoughtfully. “I fear there is something back of this.”“I also,” said the portly lady. “The wife of Captain Tinong is very parsimonious—she has never sent us presents, though we have been to her house. When such a person lets slip a little present of a thousand little pesos——”“But is it certain?” demanded the one-armed man.“Absolutely! His excellency’s aide-de-camp told my cousin, to whom he is engaged. I’m tempted to believe it’sa ring she wore the day of the fête. She’s always covered with diamonds.”“That’s one way of advertising! Instead of buying a lay-figure or renting a shop——”The one-armed man found a pretext for leaving.Two hours later, when all the city was asleep, certain inhabitants of Tondo received an invitation through the medium of soldiers. Authority could not permit people of position and property to sleep in houses so ill guarded. In the fortress of Santiago, and in other government buildings, their sleep would be more tranquil and refreshing. Among these people was the unfortunate Captain Tinong.

The telegraph had secretly transmitted to Manila the news of the uprising, and thirty-six hours later, the newspapers, their accounts expanded, corrected, and mutilated by the attorney-general, talked about it with much mystery and no little menace. Meanwhile the private accounts, coming out of the convents, had gone from mouth to mouth, to the great alarm of those who heard them. The fact, distorted in countless versions, was accepted as true with more or less readiness, according to its fitness to the passions and ideas of the different hearers.

Though public tranquillity was not disturbed, the peace of the hearthstones became like that of a fish-pond, all on top; underneath was commotion. Crosses, gold lace, office, power, honors of all kinds began to hover over one part of the population, like butterflies in a golden sunshine. For the others a dark cloud rose on the horizon, and against this ashy background stood in relief bars, chains, and the fateful arms of the gibbet. Destiny presented the event to the Manila imagination, like certain Chinese fans: one face painted black, the other gilded, and gorgeous with birds and flowers.

There was great agitation in the convents. The provincials ordered their carriages, and held secret conferences; then presented themselves at the palace, to offer their support to the imperiled government.

“A Te Deum, a Te Deum!” said a monk in one convent.“Through the goodness of God, our worth is made manifest in these perilous times!”

“This petty general, this prophet of evil, will gnaw his moustaches after this little lesson,” said another.

“What would have become of him without the religious orders?”

“The papers almost go to the point of demanding a mitre for Brother Salvi.”

“And he will get it! He’s consumed with desire for it!”

“Do you think so?”

“Why shouldn’t he be? In these days mitres are given for the asking.”

“If mitres had eyes, and could see on what craniums——”

We spare our readers other comments of this nature. Let us enter the home of a private citizen, and as we know few people at Manila, we will knock at the door of Captain Tinong, the friendly and hospitable gentleman whom we saw inviting Ibarra, with so much insistence, to honor his house with a visit.

In his rich and spacious drawing-room, at Tondo, Captain Tinong is seated in a great arm-chair, passing his hand despairingly across his brow; while his weeping wife, the Capitana Tinchang, reads him a sermon, listened to by their two daughters, who are seated in a corner, mute with stupefaction.

“Ah, Virgin of Antipolo!” cried the wife. “Ah, Virgin of the Rosary; I told you so! I told you so! Ah, Virgin of Carmel! Ah!”

“Why, no! You didn’t tell me anything,” Captain Tinong finally ventured to reply. “On the contrary, you said I did well to keep up the friendship with Captain Tiago, and to go to his house, because—because he was rich; and you said——”

“What did I say? I didn’t say it! I didn’t say anything! Ah, if you had listened to me!”

“Now you throw the blame back on me!” said the captain bitterly, striking the arm of his chair with his fist. “Didn’t you say I did well to invite him to dinner, because, as he was rich——”

“It is true I said that, because—because it couldn’t be helped; you had already invited him; and you did nothing but praise him. Don Ibarra here, and Don Ibarra there, and Don Ibarra on all sides. But I didn’t advise you to see him or to speak to him at the dinner. That you cannot deny!”

“Did I know, for instance, that he was to be there?”

“You ought to have known it!”

“How, if I wasn’t even acquainted with him?”

“You ought to have been acquainted with him!”

“But, Tinchang, if it was the first time I had ever seen him or heard him spoken of?”

“You ought to have seen him before, you ought to have heard him spoken of; that’s what you are a man for! And now, you will be sent into exile, our goods will be confiscated——Oh, if I were a man! if I were a man!”

“And if you were a man,” asked the vexed husband, “what would you do?”

“What? Why, to-day, this very day, I should present myself to the captain-general, and offer to fight against the rebels, this very day!”

“But didn’t you read what the Diario says? Listen! ‘The infamous and abortive treason has been repressed with energy, force, and vigor, and the rebellious enemies of the country and their accomplices will promptly feel all the weight and all the severity of the laws!’ You see, there is no rebellion!”

“That makes no difference, you should present yourself; many did it in 1872, and so nobody harmed them.”

“Yes! it was done also by Father Bug——” But his wife’s hands were over his mouth.

“Say it! Speak that name, so you may be hung to-morrow at Bagumbayan! Don’t you know it is enough to get you executed without so much as a trial? Go on, say it!”

But though Captain Tinong had wished, he couldn’t have done it. His wife held his mouth with both her hands, squeezing his little head against the back of the chair. Perhaps the poor man would have died of asphyxia, had not a new person come on the stage.

It was their cousin, Don Primitivo, who knew Amat by heart; a man of forty, large and corpulent, and dressed with the utmost care.

“Quid video?” he cried, upon entering; “what is going on?”

“Ah, cousin!” said the wife, weeping, and running to him, “I had you sent for, for I don’t know what will become of us! What do you advise—you who have studied Latin and understand reasoning——”

“Butquid quæritis? Nihil est in intellectu quod prius non fuerit in sensu.” And he sat down sedately. The Latin phrases seemed to have a tranquillizing effect; the husband and wife ceased to lament, and came nearer, awaiting the counsel of their cousin’s lips, as once the Greeks awaited the saving phrase of the oracle.

“Why are you mourning?Ubinam gentium sumus?”

“You know the story of the uprising——”

“Well, what of it? Don Crisóstomo owes you?”

“No! but do you know that Tinong invited him to dinner, and that he bowed to him on the bridge——in the middle of the day? They will say he was a friend of ours!”

“Friend?” cried the Latin, in alarm, rising; “tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are yourself!Malum est negotium et est timendum rerum istarum horrendissimum resultatum. Hum!”

So many words in um terrified Captain Tinong. He became frightfully pale. His wife joined her hands in supplication.

“Cousin, you speak to us now in Latin, but you know we haven’t studied philosophy like you. Speak to us in Tagal or Castilian; give us your advice.”

“It is deplorable that you do not know Latin, my cousin: Latin verities are lies in Tagalo.Contra principi negantem fustibus est arguendum, is, in Latin, a truth as veritable as Noah’s ark. I once put it in practice in Tagalo, and it was I who got beaten. It is indeed a misfortune that you do not know Latin! In Latin it might all be arranged. You have done wrong, very wrong, cousins, to make friends with this young man. The just pay the dues of sinners. I feel almost like advising you to make your will!” and he moved his head gloomily from side to side.

“Saturnino, what ails you?” cried Capitana Tinchang, terrified. “Ah! Heaven! he is dead! A doctor! Tinong, Tinongy!”

“He has only fainted, cousin; bring some water.” Don Primitivo sprinkled his face, and the unfortunate man revived.

“Come, come! don’t weep! I’ve found a remedy. Put him in bed. Come, come! courage! I am with you, and all the wisdom of the ancients! Call a doctor, and this very day, cousin, go present yourself to the captain-general, and take him a present, a gold chain, a ring; say it’s a Christmas present. Shut the windows and doors, and if any one asks for your husband, say he is seriously ill. Meanwhile I’ll burn all the letters, papers, and books, as Don Crisóstomo did. Scripti testes sunt! Go on to the captain’s. Leave me to myself. In extremis extrema.Give me the power of a Roman dictator, and see whether I save the coun—What am I saying—the cousin!”

He commenced to upset the shelves of the library, and tear papers and letters. Then he lighted a fire on the kitchen hearth, and theauto-da-fébegan. “‘Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres,’ by Copernicus. Whew!ite, maledicte, in ignem kalanis!” he cried, throwing it to the flames. “Revolution and Copernicus! Crime upon crime! If I don’t get through soon enough! ‘Liberty in the Philippines!’ What books! Into the fire with them!” The most innocent works did not escape the common fate. Cousin Primitivo was right. The just pay for sinners.

Four or five hours later, at a fashionable gathering, the events of the day were being discussed. There were present a number of elderly married ladies and spinsters, together with the wives and daughters of clerks of theadministration, all in European costume, fanning and yawning. Among the men, who, by their manners, showed their position, as did the women, was a man advanced in age, small and one-armed, who was treated with distinction, and who kept a reserved distance.

“I could never before suffer the monks and civil guards, because of their want of manners,” a portly lady was saying, “but now that I see of what service they are, I could almost marry one of them. I am patriotic.”

“I am of the very same mind,” said a very prim spinster. “But what a pity the former governor isn’t with us!”

“He would put an end to the race of filibusterillos!”

“Don’t they say there are many islands yet uninhabited?”

“If I were the captain-general——”

“Señoras,” said the one-armed man, “the captain-general knows his duty. I understand he is greatly irritated, for he had loaded this Ibarra with favors.”

“Loaded him with favors!” repeated the slim gentlewoman,fanning furiously. “What ingrates these Indians are! Is it possible to treat them like human beings?”

“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked an officer.

“No! What is it? What do they say?”

“People worthy of confidence say that all this noise about building a school was a pure pretext; what he meant to make was a fort for his own defence when he had been attacked.”

“What infamy! Would any one but an Indian be capable of it?”

“But they say this filibustero is the son of a Spaniard,” said the one-armed man, without looking at anybody.

“There it is again,” cried the portly lady; “always these creoles! No Indian understands anything about revolution. Train crows, and they’ll pick your eyes out!”

“Do you know what I’ve heard?” asked a pretty creole, to turn the conversation. “The wife of Captain Tinong—you remember? We danced and dined at his house at the fête of Tondo—well, the wife of Captain Tinong gave the captain-general, this afternoon, a ring worth a thousand pesos. She said it was a Christmas present.”

“Christmas doesn’t come for a month.”

“She must have feared a downpour,” said the stout lady.

“And so got under cover,” said the slim.

“That is evident,” said the one-armed man, thoughtfully. “I fear there is something back of this.”

“I also,” said the portly lady. “The wife of Captain Tinong is very parsimonious—she has never sent us presents, though we have been to her house. When such a person lets slip a little present of a thousand little pesos——”

“But is it certain?” demanded the one-armed man.

“Absolutely! His excellency’s aide-de-camp told my cousin, to whom he is engaged. I’m tempted to believe it’sa ring she wore the day of the fête. She’s always covered with diamonds.”

“That’s one way of advertising! Instead of buying a lay-figure or renting a shop——”

The one-armed man found a pretext for leaving.

Two hours later, when all the city was asleep, certain inhabitants of Tondo received an invitation through the medium of soldiers. Authority could not permit people of position and property to sleep in houses so ill guarded. In the fortress of Santiago, and in other government buildings, their sleep would be more tranquil and refreshing. Among these people was the unfortunate Captain Tinong.

LII.Maria Clara Marries.Captain Tiago was very happy. During these troublous times, no one had paid any attention to him. He had not been arrested, he had not been subjected to cross-examination, to electrical machines, to repeated foot-baths in subterranean habitations, nor to any other of these pleasantries, well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. His friends, that is to say, those who had been—for he had repudiated his Filipino friends as soon as they had become suspects in the eyes of the Government—had returned home after several days of vacation in the edifices of the State. The captain-general had ordered them out of his possessions, to the great displeasure of the one-armed man, who would have liked to celebrate the approaching Christmas in so numerous a company of the rich.Captain Tinong returned to his home, ill, pale, another man. The excursion had not been for his good. He said nothing, not even to greet his family, who laughed and wept over him, mad with joy. The poor man no longer left the house, for fear of saluting a filibuster. Cousin Primitivo himself, with all the wisdom of the ancients, could not draw him out of his mutism.Stories like that of Captain Tinong’s were numerous, and Captain Tiago was not ignorant of them. He overflowed with gratitude, without knowing exactly to whom he owed these signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo.“I too, Isabel,” said Captain Tiago, “but the Virgin of Antipolo has probably not done it alone; my friends have helped, and my future son-in-law, Señor Linares.”It was whispered that Ibarra would be hung; that in spite of lack of proofs of his guilt, one thing had been found that confirmed the accusation; the experts had declared the school was so designed that it might pass for a rampart, faulty enough, to be sure, but what one might expect of ignorant Indians.In the midst of affairs, Doña Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares arrived. As usual, Doña Victorina talked for the three men and herself; and her speech had undergone a remarkable change. She now claimed to have naturalized herself an Andalusian by suppressing d’s and replacing the sound of s by that of z. No one had been able to get the idea out of her head; one would certainly have needed to get her frizzes off the outside first. She talked of visits of Linares to the captain-general, and made continual insinuations as to advantages a relative of position would bring.“As we say,” she concluded, “he who sleeps in a good shade, leans on a good staff.”“It’s—it’s the opposite, wife.”Maria Clara was yet pale, though she had almost recovered from her illness. She kissed Doña Victorina, smiling rather sadly.“You have been saved, thanks to your connections!” said the doctora, with a significant look toward Linares.“God has protected my father,” said Maria, in a low voice.“Yes, Clarita, but the time of miracles is past. We, the Spaniards say, trust not in the Virgin, and save yourself by running.”“It’s—it’s—the contrary, wife!”“We must talk business,” said Doña Victorina, glancingat Maria. Maria found a pretext for leaving, and went out, steadying herself by the furniture.What was said in this conference was so sordid and mean, that we prefer not to report it. Suffice it to say that when they parted, they were all satisfied. Captain Tiago said a little after to Aunt Isabel:“Have the caterer notified that we give a reception to-morrow. Maria must get ready for her marriage at once. When Señor Linares is our son-in-law, all the palaces will be open to us; and every one will die of envy.”And so, toward eight o’clock the next evening, the house of Captain Tiago was once more full. This time, however, he had invited only Spaniards, peninsular and Philippine, and Chinese. Yet many of our acquaintances were there. Father Sibyla and Father Salvi, among numerous Franciscans and Dominicans; the old lieutenant of the Municipal Guard, more sombre than ever; the alférez, recounting his victory for the thousandth time, looking over the heads of everybody, now that he is lieutenant with grade of commandant; Dr. Espadaña, who looks upon him with respect and fear, and avoids his glance; Doña Victorina, who cannot see him without anger. Linares had not yet arrived; as a person of importance, he must arouse expectation. There are beings so simple, that an hour’s waiting for a man suffices to make him great in their eyes.Maria Clara was the object of interest to all the women, and the subject of unveiled comments. She had received these ceremoniously, without losing her air of sadness.“Bah! the proud little thing!” said one.“Rather pretty,” said another, “but he might have chosen some one with a more intelligent face.”“But the money, my dear! The good fellow is selling himself.”In another group some one was saying:“To marry when one’s first fiancé is going to be hung!”“That is what is called prudent; having a substitute at hand.”“Then, when one becomes a widow——”Possibly some of these remarks reached the ears of Maria Clara. She grew paler, her hand trembled, her lips seemed to move.In the circles of men the talk was loud, and naturally the recent events were the subject of conversation. Everybody talked, even Don Tiburcio.“I hear that your reverence is about to leave the pueblo,” said the new lieutenant, whom his new star had made more amiable.“I have no more to do there; I am to be placed permanently at Manila. And you?” asked Father Salvi.“I also leave the pueblo,” said he, throwing back his shoulders; “I am going with a flying column to rid the province of filibusters.”Father Salvi surveyed his old enemy from top to toe, and turned away with a disdainful smile.“Is it known certainly what is to be done with the chief filibuster?” asked a clerk.“You are speaking of Don Crisóstomo Ibarra,” replied another. “It is very probable that he will be hung, like those of 1872, and it will be very just.”“He is to be exiled,” said the old lieutenant dryly.“Exile! Nothing but exile?” cried numerous voices at once. “Then it must be for life!”“If the young man had been more prudent,” went on Lieutenant Guevara, speaking so that all might hear, “if he had confided less in certain persons to whom he wrote, if our attorney-generals did not interpret too subtly what they read, it is certain he would have been released.”This declaration of the old lieutenant’s, and the tone ofhis voice, produced a great surprise among his auditors. No one knew what to say. Father Salvi looked away, perhaps to avoid the dark look the lieutenant gave him. Maria Clara dropped some flowers she had in her hand, and became a statue. Father Sibyla, who knew when to be silent, seemed the only one who knew how to question.“You speak of letters, Señor Guevara.”“I speak of what I am told by Don Crisóstomo’s advocate, who is greatly interested in his case, and defended him with zeal. Outside of a few ambiguous lines in a letter addressed to a woman before he left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was no evidence against him.”“And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?”“The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except one named José, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra’s seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was supposed that the accusing letter served as a model.”“You tell us,” said a Franciscan, “that Ibarra addressed this letter to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?”The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter.“Even women seem to have hated him,” said one.“He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!” said another, laughing.Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. Shehad heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet.“You are a prudent young woman,” he said in a low voice; “by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future.” And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress.“What is the matter?” cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. “You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?”“My heart—it’s the crowd—so much light—I must rest. Tell my father I’ve gone to rest,” and steadying herself by her aunt’s arm, she went to her room.“You are cold! Do you want some tea?” asked Aunt Isabel at the door.Maria shook her head. “Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest,” she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing:“Mother, mother, my mother!”The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door—her father, her aunt, Doña Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her.Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria’s candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door.“She must have gone to bed,” the old lady called back to her brother. “At her age one sleeps like the dead.”When all was still again, Maria rose slowly, and looked out on the terrace with its vines bathed in the white moonlight.“A peaceful future!—Sleep like the dead!” she said aloud; and she went out.The city was mute; only now and then a carriage could be heard crossing the wooden bridge. The girl raised her eyes toward the sky; then slowly she took off her rings, the pendants in her ears, the comb and jewelled pins in her hair, and put them on the balustrade of the terrace; then she looked toward the river.A little bark, loaded with zacate, drew up to the landing-place below the terrace. One of the two men in it climbed the stone steps, sprang over the wall, and in a moment was mounting the stairway of the terrace. At sight of Maria, he stopped, then approached slowly.Maria drew back.“Crisóstomo!” she said, speaking low. She was terrified.“Yes, I am Crisóstomo,” replied the young man gravely. “An enemy, a man who has reason to hate me, Elias, has rescued me from the prison where my friends put me.”A sad silence followed his words. Maria Clara bent her head. Ibarra went on:“By the dead body of my mother, I pledged myself, whatever my future, to try to make you happy. I have risked all that remains to me, to come and fulfil that promise. Chance lets me speak to you, Maria; we shall never see each other again. You are young now; some day your conscience may upbraid you. Before I go away forever, I have come to say that I forgive you. Be happy—farewell!” And he began to move away; she held him back.“Crisóstomo!” she said, “God has sent you to save me from despair. Listen and judge me!”Ibarra tried gently to release himself.“I did not come to call you to account; I came to bring you peace.”“I want none of the peace you bring me. I shall find peace for myself. You scorn me and your scorn will make even death bitter.”He saw despair in her poor, young face, and asked what she wished.“I wish you to believe that I have always loved you.”He smiled bitterly.“Ah! you doubt me! you doubt your childhood’s friend, who has never hidden a single thought from you! When you know my history, the sad story that was told me in my illness, you will pity me; you will no longer wear that smile. Why did they not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor! You and I should both have been happier!”She stopped a moment, then went on:“You force me to this, by your doubts; may my mother forgive me! In one of the most painful of my nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my real father. If he had not been my father, this man said, he might have pardoned the injury you had done him.”Crisóstomo looked at Maria in amazement.“What was I to do?” she went on. “Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of him who was supposed to be my father, and the good name of him who is? And could I have done this without bringing dishonor upon you too?”“But the proof—have you had proof? There must be proof!” said Crisóstomo, staggered.Maria drew from her breast two papers.“Here are two letters of my mother’s,” she said, “written in her remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and only gave them up to me inexchange for your letter, as assurance, he said, that I would not marry you without my father’s consent. I sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could I know I was sacrificing you too?”Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on:“What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you—could I say I was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret, and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?”“Maria, you are a saint!”“I am blessed, because you believe in me——”“And yet,” said Crisóstomo, remembering, “I heard you were to marry——”“Yes,” sobbed the poor child, “my father demands this sacrifice; he has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this new connection, but——”“But?”“I shall not forget my vows to you.”“What is your thought?” asked Ibarra, trying to read in her clear eyes.“The future is obscure. I do not know what I shall do; but I know this, that I can love but once, and that I shall not belong to one I do not love. And you? What will you do?”“I am no longer anything but a fugitive—I shall fly, and my flight will soon be overtaken, Maria——”Maria took his head in her hands, kissed his lips again and again, then pushed him away with all her strength.“Fly, fly!” she said. “Adieu!”Ibarra looked at her with shining eyes, but she made a sign, and he went, reeling for an instant like a drunken man. He leaped the wall again, and was back in the little bark. Maria Clara, leaning on the balustrade, watched till it disappeared in the distance.

Captain Tiago was very happy. During these troublous times, no one had paid any attention to him. He had not been arrested, he had not been subjected to cross-examination, to electrical machines, to repeated foot-baths in subterranean habitations, nor to any other of these pleasantries, well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. His friends, that is to say, those who had been—for he had repudiated his Filipino friends as soon as they had become suspects in the eyes of the Government—had returned home after several days of vacation in the edifices of the State. The captain-general had ordered them out of his possessions, to the great displeasure of the one-armed man, who would have liked to celebrate the approaching Christmas in so numerous a company of the rich.

Captain Tinong returned to his home, ill, pale, another man. The excursion had not been for his good. He said nothing, not even to greet his family, who laughed and wept over him, mad with joy. The poor man no longer left the house, for fear of saluting a filibuster. Cousin Primitivo himself, with all the wisdom of the ancients, could not draw him out of his mutism.

Stories like that of Captain Tinong’s were numerous, and Captain Tiago was not ignorant of them. He overflowed with gratitude, without knowing exactly to whom he owed these signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo.

“I too, Isabel,” said Captain Tiago, “but the Virgin of Antipolo has probably not done it alone; my friends have helped, and my future son-in-law, Señor Linares.”

It was whispered that Ibarra would be hung; that in spite of lack of proofs of his guilt, one thing had been found that confirmed the accusation; the experts had declared the school was so designed that it might pass for a rampart, faulty enough, to be sure, but what one might expect of ignorant Indians.

In the midst of affairs, Doña Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares arrived. As usual, Doña Victorina talked for the three men and herself; and her speech had undergone a remarkable change. She now claimed to have naturalized herself an Andalusian by suppressing d’s and replacing the sound of s by that of z. No one had been able to get the idea out of her head; one would certainly have needed to get her frizzes off the outside first. She talked of visits of Linares to the captain-general, and made continual insinuations as to advantages a relative of position would bring.

“As we say,” she concluded, “he who sleeps in a good shade, leans on a good staff.”

“It’s—it’s the opposite, wife.”

Maria Clara was yet pale, though she had almost recovered from her illness. She kissed Doña Victorina, smiling rather sadly.

“You have been saved, thanks to your connections!” said the doctora, with a significant look toward Linares.

“God has protected my father,” said Maria, in a low voice.

“Yes, Clarita, but the time of miracles is past. We, the Spaniards say, trust not in the Virgin, and save yourself by running.”

“It’s—it’s—the contrary, wife!”

“We must talk business,” said Doña Victorina, glancingat Maria. Maria found a pretext for leaving, and went out, steadying herself by the furniture.

What was said in this conference was so sordid and mean, that we prefer not to report it. Suffice it to say that when they parted, they were all satisfied. Captain Tiago said a little after to Aunt Isabel:

“Have the caterer notified that we give a reception to-morrow. Maria must get ready for her marriage at once. When Señor Linares is our son-in-law, all the palaces will be open to us; and every one will die of envy.”

And so, toward eight o’clock the next evening, the house of Captain Tiago was once more full. This time, however, he had invited only Spaniards, peninsular and Philippine, and Chinese. Yet many of our acquaintances were there. Father Sibyla and Father Salvi, among numerous Franciscans and Dominicans; the old lieutenant of the Municipal Guard, more sombre than ever; the alférez, recounting his victory for the thousandth time, looking over the heads of everybody, now that he is lieutenant with grade of commandant; Dr. Espadaña, who looks upon him with respect and fear, and avoids his glance; Doña Victorina, who cannot see him without anger. Linares had not yet arrived; as a person of importance, he must arouse expectation. There are beings so simple, that an hour’s waiting for a man suffices to make him great in their eyes.

Maria Clara was the object of interest to all the women, and the subject of unveiled comments. She had received these ceremoniously, without losing her air of sadness.

“Bah! the proud little thing!” said one.

“Rather pretty,” said another, “but he might have chosen some one with a more intelligent face.”

“But the money, my dear! The good fellow is selling himself.”

In another group some one was saying:

“To marry when one’s first fiancé is going to be hung!”

“That is what is called prudent; having a substitute at hand.”

“Then, when one becomes a widow——”

Possibly some of these remarks reached the ears of Maria Clara. She grew paler, her hand trembled, her lips seemed to move.

In the circles of men the talk was loud, and naturally the recent events were the subject of conversation. Everybody talked, even Don Tiburcio.

“I hear that your reverence is about to leave the pueblo,” said the new lieutenant, whom his new star had made more amiable.

“I have no more to do there; I am to be placed permanently at Manila. And you?” asked Father Salvi.

“I also leave the pueblo,” said he, throwing back his shoulders; “I am going with a flying column to rid the province of filibusters.”

Father Salvi surveyed his old enemy from top to toe, and turned away with a disdainful smile.

“Is it known certainly what is to be done with the chief filibuster?” asked a clerk.

“You are speaking of Don Crisóstomo Ibarra,” replied another. “It is very probable that he will be hung, like those of 1872, and it will be very just.”

“He is to be exiled,” said the old lieutenant dryly.

“Exile! Nothing but exile?” cried numerous voices at once. “Then it must be for life!”

“If the young man had been more prudent,” went on Lieutenant Guevara, speaking so that all might hear, “if he had confided less in certain persons to whom he wrote, if our attorney-generals did not interpret too subtly what they read, it is certain he would have been released.”

This declaration of the old lieutenant’s, and the tone ofhis voice, produced a great surprise among his auditors. No one knew what to say. Father Salvi looked away, perhaps to avoid the dark look the lieutenant gave him. Maria Clara dropped some flowers she had in her hand, and became a statue. Father Sibyla, who knew when to be silent, seemed the only one who knew how to question.

“You speak of letters, Señor Guevara.”

“I speak of what I am told by Don Crisóstomo’s advocate, who is greatly interested in his case, and defended him with zeal. Outside of a few ambiguous lines in a letter addressed to a woman before he left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was no evidence against him.”

“And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?”

“The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except one named José, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra’s seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was supposed that the accusing letter served as a model.”

“You tell us,” said a Franciscan, “that Ibarra addressed this letter to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?”

The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter.

“Even women seem to have hated him,” said one.

“He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!” said another, laughing.

Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. Shehad heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet.

“You are a prudent young woman,” he said in a low voice; “by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future.” And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress.

“What is the matter?” cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. “You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?”

“My heart—it’s the crowd—so much light—I must rest. Tell my father I’ve gone to rest,” and steadying herself by her aunt’s arm, she went to her room.

“You are cold! Do you want some tea?” asked Aunt Isabel at the door.

Maria shook her head. “Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest,” she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing:

“Mother, mother, my mother!”

The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door—her father, her aunt, Doña Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her.

Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria’s candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door.

“She must have gone to bed,” the old lady called back to her brother. “At her age one sleeps like the dead.”

When all was still again, Maria rose slowly, and looked out on the terrace with its vines bathed in the white moonlight.

“A peaceful future!—Sleep like the dead!” she said aloud; and she went out.

The city was mute; only now and then a carriage could be heard crossing the wooden bridge. The girl raised her eyes toward the sky; then slowly she took off her rings, the pendants in her ears, the comb and jewelled pins in her hair, and put them on the balustrade of the terrace; then she looked toward the river.

A little bark, loaded with zacate, drew up to the landing-place below the terrace. One of the two men in it climbed the stone steps, sprang over the wall, and in a moment was mounting the stairway of the terrace. At sight of Maria, he stopped, then approached slowly.

Maria drew back.

“Crisóstomo!” she said, speaking low. She was terrified.

“Yes, I am Crisóstomo,” replied the young man gravely. “An enemy, a man who has reason to hate me, Elias, has rescued me from the prison where my friends put me.”

A sad silence followed his words. Maria Clara bent her head. Ibarra went on:

“By the dead body of my mother, I pledged myself, whatever my future, to try to make you happy. I have risked all that remains to me, to come and fulfil that promise. Chance lets me speak to you, Maria; we shall never see each other again. You are young now; some day your conscience may upbraid you. Before I go away forever, I have come to say that I forgive you. Be happy—farewell!” And he began to move away; she held him back.

“Crisóstomo!” she said, “God has sent you to save me from despair. Listen and judge me!”

Ibarra tried gently to release himself.

“I did not come to call you to account; I came to bring you peace.”

“I want none of the peace you bring me. I shall find peace for myself. You scorn me and your scorn will make even death bitter.”

He saw despair in her poor, young face, and asked what she wished.

“I wish you to believe that I have always loved you.”

He smiled bitterly.

“Ah! you doubt me! you doubt your childhood’s friend, who has never hidden a single thought from you! When you know my history, the sad story that was told me in my illness, you will pity me; you will no longer wear that smile. Why did they not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor! You and I should both have been happier!”

She stopped a moment, then went on:

“You force me to this, by your doubts; may my mother forgive me! In one of the most painful of my nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my real father. If he had not been my father, this man said, he might have pardoned the injury you had done him.”

Crisóstomo looked at Maria in amazement.

“What was I to do?” she went on. “Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of him who was supposed to be my father, and the good name of him who is? And could I have done this without bringing dishonor upon you too?”

“But the proof—have you had proof? There must be proof!” said Crisóstomo, staggered.

Maria drew from her breast two papers.

“Here are two letters of my mother’s,” she said, “written in her remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and only gave them up to me inexchange for your letter, as assurance, he said, that I would not marry you without my father’s consent. I sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could I know I was sacrificing you too?”

Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on:

“What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you—could I say I was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret, and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?”

“Maria, you are a saint!”

“I am blessed, because you believe in me——”

“And yet,” said Crisóstomo, remembering, “I heard you were to marry——”

“Yes,” sobbed the poor child, “my father demands this sacrifice; he has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this new connection, but——”

“But?”

“I shall not forget my vows to you.”

“What is your thought?” asked Ibarra, trying to read in her clear eyes.

“The future is obscure. I do not know what I shall do; but I know this, that I can love but once, and that I shall not belong to one I do not love. And you? What will you do?”

“I am no longer anything but a fugitive—I shall fly, and my flight will soon be overtaken, Maria——”

Maria took his head in her hands, kissed his lips again and again, then pushed him away with all her strength.

“Fly, fly!” she said. “Adieu!”

Ibarra looked at her with shining eyes, but she made a sign, and he went, reeling for an instant like a drunken man. He leaped the wall again, and was back in the little bark. Maria Clara, leaning on the balustrade, watched till it disappeared in the distance.

LIII.The Chase on the Lake.“Listen, señor, to the plan I have made,” said Elias, as he pulled toward San Gabriel. “I will hide you, for the present, at the house of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold, that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave the country——”“To live among strangers?” interrupted Ibarra.“To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty.”Crisóstomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a whistle long and shrill was heard.“Elias,” said Ibarra at length, “your misfortunes are due to my family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country; well, come with me. We will live as brothers.”Elias shook his head.“It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day——”“Unless I, too, should become a tulisan,” mused Ibarra.“Señor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this same moon. You could not have said such a thing then.”“No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society; perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence.”They came in sight of the governor-general’s palace, and thought they saw unusual movement among the guards.“Your escape must have been discovered,” said Elias. “Lie down, señor, so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine may stop us.”As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him where he came from.“From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates,” said he, imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.A sergeant came out.“Sulung,” said he to Elias, “I warn you not to take any one into your boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him to me, I will give you a fine reward.”“Good, señor; what is his description?”“He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!”The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank.“We shall lose a few minutes,” he said; “we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I’m from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang.”The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves thatare called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.“Santa Ana!” said Ibarra, speaking low; “do you know that building?” They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.“I’ve spent many happy days there,” said Elias. “When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future.”They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-batô. Those who have sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence puts out their sordid words—those who have done this will know some of the thoughts of these two young men.At Malapad-na-batô, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was no more disquieting.The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east with roses, when they arrived at the lake, smooth and placid as a great mirror. At a distance they saw a gray mass, advancing little by little.“It’s the falúa,” said Elias under his breath. “Lie down, señor, and I will cover you with these bags.”The outlines of the government boat grew more and more distinct.“She’s getting between us and the shore,” said Elias, uneasily; and very gradually he changed the direction of his bark. To his terror he saw the falúa make the same change, and heard a voice hailing him. He stopped and thought. The shore was yet some distance away; theywould soon be within range of the ship’s guns. He thought he would go back to Pasig, his boat could escape the other in that direction; but fate was against him. Another boat was coming from Pasig, and in it glittered the helmets and bayonets of the Civil Guards.“We are caught!” he said, and the color left his face. He looked at his sturdy arms, and took the only resolution possible; he began to row with all his might toward the island of Talim. The sun was coming up. The bark shot rapidly over the water; on the falúa, which changed its tack, Elias saw men signalling.“Do you know how to manage a bark?” he demanded of Ibarra.“Yes. Why?”“Because we are lost unless I take to the water to throw them off the track. They will pursue me. I swim and dive well. That will turn them away from you, and you must try to save yourself.”“No, stay, and let us sell our lives dear!”“It is useless; we have no arms; they would shoot us down like birds.”As he spoke, they heard a hiss in the water, followed by a report.“You see!” said Elias, laying down his oar. “We will meet, Christmas night, at the tomb of your grandfather. Save yourself! God has drawn me out of greater perils than this!”He took off his shirt; a ball picked it out of his hands, and two reports followed. Without showing alarm, he grasped the hand Ibarra stretched up from the bottom of the boat, then stood upright and leaped into the water, pushing off the little craft with his foot.Outcries were heard from the falúa. Promptly, and at some distance, appeared the head of the young man, returningto the surface to breathe, then disappearing immediately.“There, there he is,” cried several voices, and balls whistled.The falúa and the bark from Pasig set out in pursuit of the swimmer. A slight wake showed his direction, more and more removed from Ibarra’s little bark, which drifted as if abandoned. Every time Elias raised his head to breathe, the guards and the men of the falúa fired on him.The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left far behind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. The rowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedly raised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, to disconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the place of the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from the shore. The soldiers fired—minutes and minutes passed. Nothing again disturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.

“Listen, señor, to the plan I have made,” said Elias, as he pulled toward San Gabriel. “I will hide you, for the present, at the house of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold, that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave the country——”

“To live among strangers?” interrupted Ibarra.

“To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty.”

Crisóstomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.

They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a whistle long and shrill was heard.

“Elias,” said Ibarra at length, “your misfortunes are due to my family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country; well, come with me. We will live as brothers.”

Elias shook his head.

“It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day——”

“Unless I, too, should become a tulisan,” mused Ibarra.

“Señor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this same moon. You could not have said such a thing then.”

“No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society; perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence.”

They came in sight of the governor-general’s palace, and thought they saw unusual movement among the guards.

“Your escape must have been discovered,” said Elias. “Lie down, señor, so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine may stop us.”

As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him where he came from.

“From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates,” said he, imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.

A sergeant came out.

“Sulung,” said he to Elias, “I warn you not to take any one into your boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him to me, I will give you a fine reward.”

“Good, señor; what is his description?”

“He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!”

The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank.

“We shall lose a few minutes,” he said; “we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I’m from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang.”

The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves thatare called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.

“Santa Ana!” said Ibarra, speaking low; “do you know that building?” They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.

“I’ve spent many happy days there,” said Elias. “When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future.”

They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-batô. Those who have sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence puts out their sordid words—those who have done this will know some of the thoughts of these two young men.

At Malapad-na-batô, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was no more disquieting.

The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east with roses, when they arrived at the lake, smooth and placid as a great mirror. At a distance they saw a gray mass, advancing little by little.

“It’s the falúa,” said Elias under his breath. “Lie down, señor, and I will cover you with these bags.”

The outlines of the government boat grew more and more distinct.

“She’s getting between us and the shore,” said Elias, uneasily; and very gradually he changed the direction of his bark. To his terror he saw the falúa make the same change, and heard a voice hailing him. He stopped and thought. The shore was yet some distance away; theywould soon be within range of the ship’s guns. He thought he would go back to Pasig, his boat could escape the other in that direction; but fate was against him. Another boat was coming from Pasig, and in it glittered the helmets and bayonets of the Civil Guards.

“We are caught!” he said, and the color left his face. He looked at his sturdy arms, and took the only resolution possible; he began to row with all his might toward the island of Talim. The sun was coming up. The bark shot rapidly over the water; on the falúa, which changed its tack, Elias saw men signalling.

“Do you know how to manage a bark?” he demanded of Ibarra.

“Yes. Why?”

“Because we are lost unless I take to the water to throw them off the track. They will pursue me. I swim and dive well. That will turn them away from you, and you must try to save yourself.”

“No, stay, and let us sell our lives dear!”

“It is useless; we have no arms; they would shoot us down like birds.”

As he spoke, they heard a hiss in the water, followed by a report.

“You see!” said Elias, laying down his oar. “We will meet, Christmas night, at the tomb of your grandfather. Save yourself! God has drawn me out of greater perils than this!”

He took off his shirt; a ball picked it out of his hands, and two reports followed. Without showing alarm, he grasped the hand Ibarra stretched up from the bottom of the boat, then stood upright and leaped into the water, pushing off the little craft with his foot.

Outcries were heard from the falúa. Promptly, and at some distance, appeared the head of the young man, returningto the surface to breathe, then disappearing immediately.

“There, there he is,” cried several voices, and balls whistled.

The falúa and the bark from Pasig set out in pursuit of the swimmer. A slight wake showed his direction, more and more removed from Ibarra’s little bark, which drifted as if abandoned. Every time Elias raised his head to breathe, the guards and the men of the falúa fired on him.

The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left far behind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. The rowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedly raised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, to disconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the place of the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from the shore. The soldiers fired—minutes and minutes passed. Nothing again disturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.

A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.

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