Without paying attention to anybody, Father Dámaso went straight to the sick room and took hold of Maria’s hand.
“Maria!” said he, with indescribable tenderness, as tears dropped from his eyes. “Maria, my child, you are not going to die!”
Maria opened her eyes and looked at him with surprise.
None who knew the Franciscan suspected that he ever had such tender thoughts. No one ever supposed that a heart existed under that gross and rude aspect.
Father Dámaso could say no more and left the maiden, weeping like a child. He went out through the room at the head of the stairs, to give free vent to his grief, on Maria Clara’s balcony under her favorite vines.
“How he loves his god-daughter!” thought they all.
Father Salví witnessed the scene, immovable and silent, lightly biting his lips.
When his grief was somewhat soothed, Father Dámaso was introduced by Doña Victorina to the young Linares, who approached the friar with respect.
Father Dámaso gazed at him in silence from head to foot. He took the letter which the young man handed to him and read it apparently without understanding it, for he asked him:
“And who are you?”
“Alfonso Linares, the god-son of your brother-in-law,” stammered the young man.
Father Dámaso leaned back and examined the young man again. His face brightened up and he rose to his feet.
“And so you are the god-son of little Charles!” he exclaimed. “Come here and let me embrace you. It was some days ago that I received your letter. So it is you! I did not know you—but that is easily explained, for you were not yet born when I left the country. I never knew you.”
And Father Dámaso stretched out his robust arms to the young man who blushed, either from shame or suffocation. Father Dámaso seemed to have completely forgotten his grief.
After the first moments of effusion had passed, and questions had been asked about Carlicos, as he called little Charles, Father Dámaso asked:
“Well. What does Carlicos want me to do for you?”
“I believe he says something in the letter,” stammered Linares again.
“In the letter? Let us see. ’Tis so! And he wants me to get you a job and a wife! Hm! Employment—employment: that is easy. Do you know how to read and write?”
“I have graduated in law from the Central University.”
“Carambas! So you are a pettifogger? Well, you don’t look it—you look more like a young gentleman. But so much the better! But to find you a wife—hm! hm! a wife.”
“Father, I am not in a hurry about it,” said Linares, confused.
But Father Dámaso began to walk from one end of the room to the other, muttering: “A wife! A wife!”
His face by this time was no longer sad, nor was it cheerful. It expressed the greatest seriousness and he seemed to be meditating. Father Salví surveyed the scene from a distance.
“I did not believe that it could give me such pain,” murmured Father Dámaso in a mournful voice. “But of two evils the lesser.”
And raising his voice and approaching Linares, he said:
“Come here, my boy! We will speak with Santiago.”
Linares turned pale and allowed himself to be led along by the priest, who was deep in thought.
Then it was Father Salví’s turn to walk up and down the room and he did so, meditating, as was his custom.
A voice bidding him good morning stopped his monotonous tread. He raised his head and his eyes met Lucas, who saluted him humbly.
“What do you want?” asked the eyes of the curate.
“Father, I am the brother of the man who was killed on the day of the fiesta,” replied Lucas, in a tearful tone.
Father Salví stepped back.
“And what of it?” he muttered, in an unintelligible voice.
Lucas made an effort to weep, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Father,” said he, crying, “I have been to Crisostomo’s house to ask him for indemnity. At first, he received me with kicks, saying that he would not pay anything, since he had run the risk of being killed through the fault of my dear, unfortunate brother. Yesterday, I went to talk with him again, but he had already left for Manila, leaving me for charity’s sake five hundred pesos for my poor brother—five hundred pesos—ah! Father.”
The curate listened to the first part of his story with surprise and attention, but slowly there appeared on his lips a smile—a smile of such contempt and sarcasm at the comedy that was being played, that if Lucas had seen it he would have fled in all haste.
“And what do you want now?” he asked, turning his back to him.
“Alas! Father, for love of God tell me what I ought to do. Father, you have always given good advice.”
“Who has told you that? You do not live here.”
“But the whole province knows you, Father!”
Father Salví went up to him with his eyes full of anger and, motioning to the street, said to the frightened Lucas:
“Go to your house and give thanks to Don Crisostomo that he has not sent you to jail. Get away from here.”
Forgetting his rôle, Lucas muttered:
“Out of here!” cried Father Salví, in a nervous tone.
“I want to see Father Dámaso.”
“Father Dámaso is busy. Out of here!” ordered the curate, in an imperative tone, again.
Lucas went down the stairs murmuring: “He is another. How poorly he pays! He who pays better....”
The voice of the curate had reached the ears of all in the house, even Father Dámaso, Captain Tiago and Linares.
“An insolent beggar who came to ask alms and doesn’t want to work,” said Father Salví, taking his hat and cane and starting toward the convent.
By the dim light which the moon diffused through the thick branches of the trees, a man wandered along the forest trails slowly and cautiously. From time to time, as if to find out where he was, he whistled a particular melody, to which another in the distance responded with the same air. The man listened attentively, and afterward proceeded in the direction of the distant sound.
Finally, passing through the thousand difficulties which a virgin forest offers in the night time, he came to a small clearing. High rocks, crowned with trees, surrounded the place, forming a sort of ruined amphitheatre. Recently cut trees, with their charred trunks and enormous rocks, which Nature had covered with her mantle of green foliage, filled the middle of the open space.
Scarcely had the unknown man arrived, when another figure quickly appeared from behind one of the large rocks, advanced and drew a revolver.
“Who are you?” he asked in Tagalog and, in an imperious voice, as he cocked the hammer of his weapon.
“Is old Pablo among you?” asked the first calmly, without replying to the question or becoming intimidated.
“Do you refer to the Captain? Yes, he is.”
“Tell him, then, that Elias is looking for him here,” said the man.
“Are you Elias?” asked the other with a certain respect, and approaching him without lowering his revolver. “Then come.”
Elias followed him.
They penetrated into a kind of cavern, which was hollowed out in the depths of the earth. The guide, who knew the way, told the pilot when he ought to get down, stoop or crawl. However, it was not long before they came to a sala or room in the cave, miserably illuminated by pitch torches, and occupied by twelve or fifteen armed men. The faces of the men were dirty and their clothes ragged; some were sitting down, others lying down, conversing among themselves in a low tone. Leaning his elbows on a stone which served as a table and contemplating thoughtfully the lamp, which was shedding very little light for the amount of smoke it made, sat an old man. His countenance was sad, and his head wrapped in a bloody rag. If we had not known that the place was a cave of tulisanes, we would have said, on reading the desperation on the face of the old man, that it was the Tower of Hunger on the eve when Ugolino devoured his sons.
At the arrival of Elias and the guide, the men were about to arise, but, at a signal from the guide, they were quieted and contented themselves with examining the pilot, who was entirely unarmed.
The old man turned his head slowly and his eyes met the sturdy figure of Elias. The latter, in turn, with his head uncovered, full of sadness and interest, gazed upon the old man.
“Is it you?” asked the old man, his face brightening a little as he recognized the youth.
“How badly off you are!” murmured Elias, in an half-intelligible tone of voice.
The old man bowed in silence, made a sign to the men, who then arose and left, not, however, without first directing glances at the pilot, measuring his stature and muscles.
“Yes!” said the old man to Elias as soon as they found themselves alone. “Six months ago, I gave you refuge in my house. Then, it was I who sympathized with you; now, fortune has changed and it is you who pity me. But sit down, and tell me how you came here.”
“Some fifteen days ago they told me of your misfortune,” replied the young man slowly, and in a low voice, looking toward the light. “I at once set out on the road and I have been searching for you from mountain to mountain. I have travelled over the greater part of two provinces.
“Rather than spill innocent blood,” said Pablo, “I have had to flee. My enemies are afraid to show themselves and shield themselves behind some unhappy fellows who have never done me the slightest injury.”
Then, after a short pause, of which Elias took advantage to read the thoughts in that melancholy countenance, he replied:
“I have come to make a proposition. Having searched in vain for some member of the family which has caused me my misfortunes, I have decided to leave the province where I am living and to emigrate to the north and live there among the heathen and independent tribes. Do you want to leave this life and go with me? I will be your son, since you have lost those whom you had, and I, who have no family, will take you as my father.”
The old man shook his head and said:
“At my age, when a person makes a desperate resolution it is because there is no other course open. A man who, like me has passed his youth and the best years of his life working for his own future and for the future of his sons, a man who has been submissive to all the wishes of his superiors, who has discharged conscientiously all his duties, suffered everything in order to live in peace and in tranquillity; when such a man, whose blood has been chilled by Time, renounces all his past and all his future, on the very edge of his grave—when a man does this, it is because he has decided with mature judgment that peace does not exist, and that there is no Supreme Good. What use is there in living a few miserable days in a foreign land? I had two sons, a daughter, a fireside, a fortune. I enjoyed consideration and esteem. Now I am like a tree that has been stripped of its branches; a wandering fugitive, hunted like a wild beast in the forest, and all—why? Because a man dishonored my daughter, because her brothers wanted to make that man account for his infamous deed, and because that man is placed above all others with a title of Minister of God. But despite it all, I, a father, I, dishonored in my old age, pardoned the injury, for I was indulgent with the passions of youth and the weakness of the flesh, and, as the evil was irreparable, I wanted to save what still remained to me. But the criminal, afraid that vengeance was near at hand, sought the destruction of my sons. What did he do? You do not know? Do you know how they feigned that there had been a robbery in the convent and how one of my sons figured among the accused? The other son they could not include because he was away. Do you know the tortures to which they were submitted? You know them because they are like those in other towns. I saw my son hung by the hair, I heard his cries, I heard him call me, and, coward that I was, and, accustomed to peace, I was not brave enough to kill or be killed. Do you know that the robbery was not proved, that it was seen that it was a calumny, that the curate was transferred to another town and that my son died from the result of his tortures? The other boy, who was still left for me, was not a coward like his father. The executioner was afraid that this son would take revenge for the death of his brother and so, under pretense of his not having a cedula,1 which for the moment had been forgotten, he was imprisoned by the Civil Guard, maltreated, irritated and provoked by force and injuries until he was driven to suicide. And I have survived after such a disgrace. But, if I had not the courage of a father to defend his sons, I have left a heart to take vengeance and I shall be revenged! The discontented are uniting under my command, my enemies increase my camp, and on that day when I consider myself strong enough I will go down into the plain and extinguish in fire both my vengeance and my own existence. And that day will come or there is no God!”
The old man rose to his feet deeply agitated. With his eyes sparkling like fire and, in a hollow voice, he added, tearing his long hair:
“Curses upon me, curses upon me for having restrained the avenging hand of my sons. I have assassinated them! Had I allowed them to kill the criminal; had I had less faith in the justice of God and of men, I would now have my sons; perhaps they would have been fugitives, but I would have them and they would not have died in torture. I was not born to be a father! For that reason, I haven’t them with me now! Curses upon me for not having learned, with all my years, in what age we live! But in blood and fire, and in my own death, I will know how to take vengeance for them!”
The unfortunate father, in the paroxysm of his grief, had taken off the bandage from his head, opening up a wound which he had on the forehead and from which the blood oozed out.
“I respect your grief,” replied Elias, “and I understand your desire for vengeance. I, too, am like you, but, for fear of harming an innocent one, I prefer to forget my misfortunes.”
“You can forget them because you are young, and because you have not lost your son, have not lost your last hope! But, I assure you, I will not harm an innocent person. Do you see that wound? I allowed myself to receive that in order not to kill a poor cuaderillero who was fulfilling his duty.”
“But see!” said Elias, after a moment’s silence. “See what frightful destruction you will bring upon our unfortunate country. If you seek revenge by your own hand your enemies will retaliate, not against you, not against those who are armed, but against the people, who are always accused, and then how many more injustices!”
“Let the people learn to defend themselves. Let each learn to defend himself.”
“You know that that is impossible. Señor, I have known you in other times when you were happy, then you gave me wise advice. Will you permit me...?”
The old man crossed his arms and seemed to meditate upon what he was going to say.
“Señor,” continued Elias, measuring his words well, “I have had the fortune to be of service to a young man, rich, of good heart, noble, and a lover of his country’s welfare. They say that this young man has friends in Madrid. I do not know it, but I can positively assure you that he is a friend of the Governor General. What do you say if we make him the bearer of the people’s complaints, if we can interest him in the cause of the unhappy?”
The old man shook his head.
“Do you say that he is a rich man? The rich think of nothing but to increase their riches. Pride and pomp blind them, and, since they are generally well off, especially if they have powerful friends, none of them ever troubles himself about the unfortunates. I know it all, for I was once rich myself.”
“But the man of whom I am speaking does not seem to be like the others. He is a son who would not allow the memory of his father to be dishonored. He is a young man who thinks about the future—thinks of a good future for his sons, for he may in a short time have a family of his own.”
“Then he is a man who is going to be happy. Our cause is not a cause for happy men.”
“But it is a cause for men of good hearts.”
“That may be,” replied the old man sitting down. “Suppose that he consented to carry our complaints to the Governor General. Suppose that he finds in the court those who will argue for us. Do you think we will get justice?”
“Let us try it before resorting to bloody measures,” replied Elias. “It must seem strange to you that I, another unfortunate, young, robust—that I should propose to you old and weak—peaceful measures. But it is because I have seen so many miseries caused by us similar to those caused by tyrants. The unarmed is the one who suffers.”
“And if we do not accomplish anything?”
“Something will be accomplished, believe me! Not all who govern are unjust. And if we do not accomplish anything, if our voice is not listened to, if the man turns a deaf ear to the grief of his fellow men, then we will put ourselves under your orders.”
The old man, full of enthusiasm, embraced the young man.
“I accept your proposition, Elias. I know that you will keep your word. You come to me and I will help you take vengeance for your father. You will help me to take vengeance for my sons—my sons who were like you!”
“In the meantime, Señor, avoid all violent measures.”
“You can expound the complaints of the people. You certainly know them. When will we know the answer?”
“Within four days send a man to meet me on the beach at San Diego and I will tell him what the person in whom I have hope says. If he accepts, we will get justice, and if he does not accept, I will be the first to fall in the fight which we will begin.”
“Elias will not die. Elias will be chief, when Captain Pablo falls, satisfied in his revenge,” said the old man.
1 Certificate of identification required of all Filipinos under Spanish domination.
In order to keep the Sabbath holy in the Philippines the people generally go to the cock fight, just as in Spain they go to the bull fight. Cock fighting, a passion introduced into the country and exploited for a century, is one of the vices of the people, more deeply rooted than the opium vice among the Chinese. The poor go there to risk what little they have, desirous of making money without working; the rich go there to amuse themselves, using the money which they have left over from their feasts and thanksgiving masses. The cock is educated with great care, with more care, perhaps, than the son who is to succeed his father in the cock-pit. The Government permits it and almost recommends it, for it decrees that the fight shall only be held in the public plazas and on holidays from after high mass till dark—eight hours.
The San Diego cock-pit does not differ from others which are found in all the towns. It consists of three parts: The first, or entrance, is a large rectangle, some twenty meters in length and fourteen in breadth. On one side is the door, generally guarded by a woman who collects the entrance fee. From the contribution which each one makes the Government receives a part, some hundred thousands of pesos each year. They say that with this money, which gives license to the vice, magnificent schools are raised, bridges and roadways constructed, and rewards offered for the encouragement of agriculture and commerce. Blessed be the vice which produces such good results! In this first precinct are the vendors of betel nut, cigars and tobacco, delicacies and refreshments. There the small boys, who accompany their fathers or uncles, are carefully initiated into the secrets of life.
This precinct communicates with another of slightly larger dimensions, a sort of vestibule, where the people gather before the fight. There, one sees most of the cocks, tied by a cord to a bone driven into the ground like a nail; there, are the bettors, the lovers of the sport, the man skilled in fastening the gaffs or spurs to the cock’s legs; there, bargains are made, the situation discussed, money borrowed, and people curse, swear and laugh boisterously. In one place, some one is caressing his game cock, passing his hand over his brilliant plumage; in another, a man examines and counts the number of scales on the rooster’s legs, for that, they say, is a sign of valor. The battles of the heroes are related. There, too, you will see many a disappointed owner, with a sour face carrying out by the legs, a dead rooster, stripped of its plumage—the animal which was a favorite for months, petted, cared for day and night, and on which flattering hopes had been founded: now, nothing more than a dead fowl, to be sold for a peseta, stewed in ginger and eaten that very night. Sic transit gloria mundi! The loser returns to his fire-side, where an anxious wife and ragged children await him, without his little capital, without his rooster. From all that gilded dream, from all the care of months, from daybreak to sunset, from all those labors and fatigue, from all that, results a peseta, the ashes left from so much smoke.
In this foyer, or vestibule, the most ignorant discuss the coming contests; the most trifling, examine conscientiously the bird, weigh it, contemplate it, extend its wings, feel of its muscles. Some of the people are very well dressed, and are followed and surrounded by the backers of their game cocks. Others, dirty, with the seal of vice imprinted on their squalid faces, anxiously follow the movements of the rich and watch their betting, for the pocketbook can be emptied and the passion still be unsatisfied. There you see no face that is not animated, no indolent Filipino; none apathetic, none silent. All is movement, passion, eagerness.
From this place, one passes into the arena or rueda, as it is called. The floor, inclosed by bamboos, is generally elevated higher than the floor of the other two parts of the cock-pit. Running up from the floor and almost touching the roof, are rows of seats for the spectators or gamblers—they come to be the same. During the combat these seats are filled with men and children who cry, shout, perspire, quarrel, and blaspheme. Fortunately, scarcely any women visit the cock-pit. In the rueda are the prominent men, the rich class, the bettors, the bookmaker, and the referee. The cocks fight on the ground, which is beaten down perfectly smooth, and there Destiny distributes to families laughter or tears, feasts or hunger.
As we enter, we can see the gobernadorcillo, Captain Pablo, Captain Basilio, and Lucas, the man with the scar on his face who was so disconsolate over the death of his brother.
Captain Basilio approaches one of those present and asks him:
“Do you know what cock Captain Tiago is going to bring?”
“I do not know, Señor. This morning two arrived, one of them the lásak (black sprinkled with white) which whipped the Consul’s talisain (red, sprinkled with black).”
“Do you think that my bulik (black, red and white), can beat him?”
“Yes, I surely do. I’ll stake my house and shirt on him!”
At that moment Captain Tiago arrived. He was dressed, like the big gamblers, in a camisa of Canton linen, woolen pantaloons, and a panama-straw hat. Behind him came two servants, carrying the lásak and a white cock of colossal proportions.
“Sinang tells me that Maria Clara is improving steadily,” said Captain Basilio.
“She no longer has any fever, but she is still weak.”
“Did you lose last night?”
“A little. I heard that you won.... I am going to see if I can win back my money.”
“Do you want to fight your lásak?” asked Captain Basilio, looking at the rooster.
“That depends on whether there is any money up.”
“How much will you stake?”
“I don’t play less than two thousand.”
“Have you seen my bulik?” asked Captain Basilio, and then called a man to bring a small rooster.
Captain Tiago examined it, and after weighing it in his hand, and examining its scales, he handed it back.
“What do you put up?” he asked.
“Whatever you say.”
“Two thousand five hundred?”
“Make it three?”
“Three.”
“Let her go!”
The circle of curious people and gamblers learn that the two celebrated cocks are to be fought. Both the roosters have made a history for themselves; both have a reputation. All want to see and examine the two celebrities. Opinions are expressed, and prophecies made.
In the meantime the voices grow louder, the confusion is augmented, the rueda fills up and a rush is made for the seats. The soltadores bring two cocks to the ring for a preliminary contest. One of the roosters is blanco (white), the other rojo (red). They are already spurred, but the gaffs are not yet unsheathed. Cries of “Al blanco! al blanco!” are heard. Some one else shouts, “Al rojo!” The blanco is the favorite.
Civil Guards circulate among the crowd. They are not wearing the uniform of their body, nor do they wear the costume of the native. Pantaloons of guingon with a red fringe, a blue-spotted blouse shirt, and the cuartel cap—you have here their disguise, in harmony with their deportment; watching and betting, making disturbance and talking of maintaining the peace.
While the shouting is going on and men are jingling money in their hands; while the people are going down in their pockets for the last cuarto, or, if that is wanting, pledging their word, promising to sell their carabao, or their next harvest, two young men, apparently brothers, follow the gamblers with envious eyes. They approach, timidly murmur words which nobody catches, and each time become more and more melancholy, and look at each other with disgust and indignation. Lucas observes them, smiles malignantly, rattles some silver pesos, passes near to the two brothers, and looks toward the rueda, shouting:
“I am betting fifty, fifty against twenty on the white!”
The two brothers exchanged looks.
“I told you,” murmured the older, “not to bet all your money. If you had obeyed me, we would have it now to put on the red.”
The younger one approached Lucas timidly and touched him on the arm.
“Is it you?” exclaimed the latter turning around and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition or did you come to bet?”
“How can we bet when we have lost all?”
“Then you accept?”
“He does not want to! If you could lend us something: you have already said that you knew us....”
Lucas scratched his head, pulled down his camisa and replied:
“Yes, I know you. You are Tarsilo and Bruno, both young and strong. I know that your brave father died from the result of the hundred lashes which the soldiers gave him. I know that you do not think of avenging him.”
“You need not meddle in our history,” interrupted Tarsilo, the older. “That is a disgrace. If we did not have a sister, we would have been hanged long ago.”
“Hanged? They only hang cowards, or some one who has no money or protection. Certainly the mountains are near.”
“A hundred against twenty on the blanco,” cried one as he passed the group.
“Loan us four pesos ... three ... two,” begged the younger brother. “Presently I will return it to you doubled. The fight is going to begin.”
Lucas scratched his head again.
“Tst! This money is not mine. Don Crisostomo has given it to me for those who want to serve him. But I see that you are not like your father. He was really courageous.”
And, saying this, he went away from them, although not far.
“Let us accept. What does it matter?” said Bruno to his brother. “It amounts to the same thing whether you are hanged or shot down. We poor serve for nothing else.”
“You are right, but think of our sister.”
In the meantime, the circle around the ring had been dispersed; the fight was going to commence. The voices began to die away, and the two soltadores and the skilled gaff fitter, were alone in the middle of the rueda. At a signal from the referee, the sheaths were removed from the razor-like knives on the cocks’ legs, and the fine blades glistened in a menacing way.
The two brothers, gloomy and silent, approached the ring and, resting their faces against the bamboo railing, watched the preparations. A man approached them and said in their ears: “Hundred to ten on the blanco!”
Tarsilo looked at him stupidly. Bruno elbowed his brother, who responded with a grunt.
The soltadores handle the roosters with masterly skill, taking great care not to wound them. A deep silence reigns throughout the pit. You would think that those present, with the exception of the two soltadores, were horrible wax figures. The two roosters are brought close together and allowed to pick at each other and thus become irritated. Then they allow them to look at each other, so that the poor little birds may know who has plucked out their feathers, and with whom they should fight. The feathers around the neck stand up; they look at each other fixedly; flashes of wrath escape from their little, round eyes. The moment has come. The birds are placed on the ground in the ring at a certain distance from each other.
The cocks advance slowly. Their little steps are heard upon the hard floor. Nobody speaks; nobody breathes. Lowering and raising their heads, as if measuring each other with a look, the two roosters mutter sounds, perhaps of threat or contempt. They have perceived the shining blades. Danger animates them, and they turn toward each other decided, but they stop at a short distance, and, as they look at each other, they bow their heads and again raise their feathers on end. With their natural valor, they rush at each other impetuously; they strike beak against beak; breast against breast, blade against blade, and wing against wing. The blows have been stopped with dexterity and skill, and only a few feathers have fallen. They again measure each other! Suddenly the blanco turns and, raising himself in the air, flashes his death-dealing knife, but the rojo has already doubled up his legs, ducked his head and the blanco has only cut the air. Then, on touching the ground, to avoid being wounded from behind, he turns quickly and faces the other. The red attacks him with fury, but he defends himself with coolness. Not without reason was he the favorite of the crowd. All, trembling and anxious, follow the movements of the battle, now this one and now that one giving an involuntary shout. The ground is being covered with red and white feathers, tinged with blood. But the duel does not go to the one who draws first blood. The Filipino here follows the laws laid down by the Government, which say that the cock which is killed or flees loses the fight. The blood now wets the ground; the blows are repeated, but the victory is still undecided. Finally, making a supreme effort, the blanco throws himself forward to give a last blow; he drives his knife into the wing of the rojo and buries it among the bones. But the blanco has been wounded in the breast, and both, weak from loss of blood, and panting, fastened together, remain immovable until the blanco falls, bleeds through his neck, kicks violently and is in the agony of death. The rojo, pinned by his wing, is held to the other’s side; and little by little he doubles up his legs and slowly closes his eyes.
Then the referee, in accordance with the regulations prescribed by the Government, declares the rojo the winner. A wild and prolonged outcry greets the decision, an outcry which is heard throughout the town. He, who, from afar, hears the cry, understands that the dejado has beaten the favorite, for otherwise the outcry would not have lasted so long. So it happens among nations: when a small nation succeeds in gaining a victory over a greater one, the song and story of it last through centuries.
“Do you see?” said Bruno, with indignation, to his brother, “if you had taken my advice to-day, we would have had one hundred pesos. On your account we are without a cuarto.”
Tarsilo did not reply, but, with wide-open eyes, looked around him as if in search of some one.
“There he is talking with Pedro,” added Bruno. “He is giving him money—what a lot of money!”
Tarsilo remained silent and thoughtful. With the arm of his camisa, he wiped away the sweat which formed in drops on his forehead.
“Brother,” said Bruno, “I am decided, even if you are not. The lásak ought to win and we ought not to lose the opportunity. I want to bet on the next fight. What does it matter? Thus, we will avenge our father.”
“Wait!” said Tarsilo to him, and looked him in the eyes. Both were pale. “I am with you. You are right. We will avenge our father.”
He stopped, however, and again wiped away the perspiration.
“Why do you stop?” asked Bruno impatiently.
“Do you know what fight is the next one? Is it worth the trouble?”
“What! Haven’t you heard? Captain Tiago’s lásak against Captain Basilio’s bulik. According to the run of luck, the lásak ought to win.”
“Ah! The lásak. I would bet ... but let us make sure first.”
Bruno made a gesture of impatience, but followed his brother. The latter looked the rooster over carefully, thought about it, debated with himself and asked a few questions. The unfortunate fellow was in doubt. Bruno was nervous and looked at him angrily.
“Why, don’t you see that wide scale which he has there near the spur? Do you see those feet? What more do you want? Look at those legs. Stretch out his wings. And that broken scale on top of that wide one, and that double one?”
Tarsilo did not hear him, he kept on examining the cock. The rattle of silver coins reached his ears.
“Let us see the bulik now,” said he, in a choking voice.
Bruno stamped the ground with his feet, grated his teeth, but obeyed his brother.
They approached the other group. There they were arming the cock, they were selecting gaffs for him, and the expert, in fitting them to the rooster’s legs, was preparing a piece of red silk. He waxed it and rubbed it over his knee a number of times.
Tarsilo gazed at the bird with a sombre air. It seemed that he was not looking at the cock, but at something in the future. He passed his hand over his forehead.
“Are you ready?” he asked his brother, his voice scarcely perceptible.
“I? Long ago. Without having to see them.”
“It is our poor sister——”
“Bah! Didn’t they tell you that the leader is Don Crisostomo? Have you not seen him walking with the Governor General? What danger will we run?”
“And if we are killed?”
“What does it matter? Our father died from being whipped to death.”
“You are right.”
Both brothers sought Lucas in the crowd.
As soon as they caught sight of him, Tarsilo stopped.
“No! Let us go away from here! We are going to lose,” he exclaimed.
“Go if you wish. I am going to accept.”
“Bruno!”
Unfortunately, a man approached them and said:
“Are you betting? I am backing the bulik.”
The two brothers did not reply.
“I’ll give you odds.”
“How much?” asked Bruno.
The man counted out four peso pieces. Bruno looked at him, breathless.
“I have two hundred. Fifty to forty.”
“No,” said Bruno promptly. “Make it ...”
“All right! fifty to thirty.”
“Double it if you wish!”
“Well! The bulik is my winning color and I have just won. Hundred against sixty!”
“That’s a go! Wait till I go and get my money.”
“But I will be the stake-holder,” said the other, in whom the manner of Bruno inspired little confidence.
“It’s all the same to me!” responded the latter, trusting in the strength of his fists.
And, turning to his brother, he said:
“Go away, if you wish; I’m going to stay.”
Then Tarsilo reflected. He loved his brother and the game. He could not leave him alone, and he murmured. “Let it be so!”
They approached Lucas. The latter saw them coming and smiled.
“Eh! there!” said Tarsilo.
“What is it?”
“How much do you give?” asked the two brothers.
“I have already told you. If you want to find some others to help us surprise the cuartel, I will give you thirty pesos apiece, and ten pesos for each companion you get. If all comes out well, each will receive one hundred pesos and you two, double that amount. Don Crisostomo is rich.”
“Accepted,” exclaimed Bruno. “Hand over the money.”
“I knew well that you were brave, like your father. Come! Don’t let them hear us or they will kill us,” said Lucas, pointing to the Civil Guards.
And taking them into a corner, he told them, as he counted out the money to them:
“To-morrow Don Crisostomo will arrive and bring arms. Day after to-morrow, about eight o’clock at night, come to the cemetery. I will tell you about the final arrangements. You have time to find some other companions.”
They took leave of each other. Now the two brothers seemed to have changed their rôles. Tarsilo was calm; Bruno, pale.
While Captain Tiago was fighting his lásak against the bulik, Doña Victorina took a walk through the town, with the intention of seeing the condition of the indolent natives, and of their houses and fields. She had dressed as elegantly as she could, putting all her ribbons and flowers on her silk gown, in order to impress the provincials, and make them see how great a distance was between them and her sacred person. Giving her arm to her lame husband, she fluttered through the streets of the town, among the stupefied and wondering inhabitants. Cousin Linares had remained in the house.
“What ugly houses these natives have,” began Doña Victorina, making a grimace. “I don’t know how they can live there: one must be a native to do it. They meet us and don’t uncover their heads! Hit them over the head as the curates and tenientes of the Guardia Civil do when they don’t take off their hats. Teach them manners.”
“And if they hit me?” asked Dr. de Espadaña.
“Aren’t you a man?”
“Bu—bu—but, I am la—la—lame.”
Doña Victorina was becoming bad-humored. The streets were not paved, and the train of her gown was covered with dust. Besides, they met many young women, who, on passing her, cast down their eyes and did not admire her lavish dress as they should have done. Sinang’s coachman, who was driving her and her cousin in an elegant carriage, had the impudence to call out tabi1 to them in such a warning voice that she had to get out of the way, and was only able to exclaim, “Look at that brute of a coachman! I am going to tell his master that he should educate his servants better!”
“Let us go back to the house,” she ordered her husband.
He, fearing that there was going to be a storm, turned on his heels and obeyed the command.
They met the alferez on the way back and greeted him. He increased the discontent of Doña Victorina, for he not only failed to compliment her on her dress, but surveyed it almost with a mocking manner.
“You ought not to extend your hand to a simple alferez,” said she to her husband as soon as they were some distance away. “He scarcely touches his helmet, and you take off your hat. You don’t know how to maintain your rank.”
“He is ch—ch—chief here!”
“And what does that matter to us? Are we, perchance, natives?”
“You are right,” replied he, not wishing to quarrel.
They passed by the officer’s house. Doña Consolacion was in the window, as usual, dressed in her flannel outfit and smoking her cigar. As the house was rather low, they could see each other as they passed, and Doña Victorina could distinguish her very well. The Muse of the Guardia Civil examined her with tranquillity from head to foot, and, afterward, sticking out her lower lip, spit, turning her face to the other side. That put an end to Doña Victorina’s patience, and, leaving her husband without any support, she squared herself in front of the alfereza, trembling with rage, and unable to speak. Doña Consolacion turned her head slowly, looked her over again, and then spit again, but with still greater disdain.
“What is the matter with you, Doña?” said the alfereza.
“Can you tell me, Señora, why you look at me so? Are you envious?” Doña Victorina finally succeeded in saying.
“I envious of you?” said the Medusa with scorn. “O, yes! I envy those curls.”
“Come, wife!” said the doctor. “Do—don’t take no—no—notice of her!”
“Let me give this shameless common person a lesson!” replied the woman, giving her husband a push. He nearly fell to the ground. Turning to Doña Consolacion, she continued:
“Look how you treat me! Don’t think that I am a provincial, or a soldiers’ querida! In my house in Manila alferezas never are allowed to come in. They wait at the door.”
“Oh-oh! Most Excellent Señora! Alferezas don’t enter, but invalids like that out there. Ha, ha, ha!”
If it hadn’t been for all the paint on her face, one could have seen Doña Victorina blush. She wanted to throw herself upon her enemy, but the sentry stopped her. In the meantime, the street was filling up with curious people.
“Listen! I lower myself talking with you. People of categoría ... Do you want my clothes to wash? I will pay you well. Do you think that I don’t know that you are a washerwoman?”
Doña Consolacion became furious. The reference to her being a washerwoman wounded her.
“Do you think that we do not know what you are? Get out! My husband has already told me. Señora, I, at least, have not belonged to more than one man, but you? One must be pretty hard up to take the leavings.”
This shot struck Doña Victorina square in the breast. She rolled up her sleeves, clenched her fists, and, gnashing her teeth, began:
“Come down here, you nasty old thing, that I may smash your filthy mouth.”
The Medusa disappeared quickly from the window, but was soon seen coming down the stairs on a run, swinging her husband’s whip.
Don Tiburcio interposed, pleading with them, but they would have come to blows if the alferez had not arrived.
“But, señoras!... Don Tiburcio!”
“Teach your woman better; buy her better clothes. If you haven’t the money, rob the people. You have your soldiers for that!” shouted Doña Victorina.
“Señora,” said the alferez furiously. “Thank yourself that I don’t forget that you are a woman; for if you were not, I would kick you to pieces, with all your curls and ribbons.”
“Se—se—señor al—alferez!” said Don Tiburcio.
“Go ahead! Kill us! You don’t wear big enough trousers, you quack.”
And so the battle waged: words, gestures, cries, insults, and injuries. They brought out all the nasty things they could think of, all four speaking at the same time, and, saying so many things and bringing to light so many truths, that we will not relate here all that was said. The people who had gathered around to satisfy their curiosity, if they understood all the remarks, must have enjoyed themselves not a little. They were all waiting to see them come to blows. Unfortunately for the spectators, the curate came along and pacified them.
“Señoras! señoras! What a shame. Señor alferez.”
“What are you meddling in these matters for, you hypocrite, you Carlist?”
“Don Tiburcio, take away your wife! Señora, hold your tongue!”
“Tell that to those robbers of the poor!”
Finally, the dictionary of epithets was exhausted. The review of the disgraces of each couple was ended, and little by little they were separated, threatening and insulting each other. Father Salví kept going from one side to the other, adding life to the scene.
“This very day we will go to Manila and we will present ourselves to the Governor General,” said Doña Victorina, in fury to her husband. “You are not a man. It is a shame that you spend money for trousers.”
“B—b—but, wife, and the Guardia Civil? I—I—am lame.”
“You must challenge him to a duel with pistol or sword or, or——”
And Doña Victorina looked at his false teeth.
“Daughter, I never have used——”
Doña Victorina did not let him finish. With a sublime movement she jerked out his false teeth in the middle of the street, and throwing them to the ground stepped on them. He, half crying, and she sputtering away, arrived at the house. At that time, Linares was talking with Maria Clara, Sinang, and Victoria, and, as he knew nothing about the quarrel, the sudden arrival of his cousins gave him a shock. Maria Clara was lying on a sofa among pillows and blankets, and was not a little surprised at the doctor’s new physiognomy.
“Cousin,” said Doña Victorina, “you have got to challenge the alferez immediately to a duel, or——”
“And why? what for?” asked Linares, surprised.
“You challenge him right off, or I will tell them all who you are.”
“But, Doña Victorina!”
The three young women looked at one another.
“The alferez has insulted us. The old witch came down with her whip, and that thing there allowed it all. A man!”
“Pshaw!” said Sinang. “They have been fighting and we haven’t seen it.”
“The alferez has broken the doctor’s teeth,” added Victoria.
“This very day we are going to Manila. You stay here to challenge him to a duel, and, if you don’t, I’ll tell Don Santiago that all that you have told him is a lie. I will tell him——”
“But, Doña Victorina! Doña Victorina!” interrupted Linares, pale and going closer to her. “You keep quiet. Don’t make me call to mind”——and he added in a low voice—“Don’t be imprudent, especially just now.”
Just at that time, when this was going on, Captain Tiago arrived home from the cock-pit. He was downhearted. He had lost his lásak.
But Doña Victorina did not give him much time to sigh. In a few words, and with many insults, she related to him what had passed, she, of course, trying to put herself in a good light.
“Linares is going to challenge him. Do you hear? If he don’t, I won’t let him marry your daughter. Don’t you permit it. If he has no courage, he does not merit Clarita.”
“Then you are going to marry this gentleman?” asked Sinang, with her jolly eyes full of tears. “I knew that you were discreet, but I did not think you so fickle.”
Maria Clara, pale as wax, raising herself half up, looked at her father with frightened eyes, and then at Doña Victorina and Linares. The latter turned red in the face, Captain Tiago looked down, and the señora added:
“Clarita, bear it in mind, and never marry a man who does not wear trousers. You expose yourself to insults like a dog, if you do.”
But the young maiden did not reply and said to her friends:
“Take me to my room, for I cannot go alone.”
They helped her to her feet, and, leaning her marble-like head on pretty Sinang’s shoulder, and, with the arms of her friend around her waist, she went to her bedroom.
That night the doctor and his wife collected their things together, submitted their account to Captain Tiago—which amounted to several thousand pesos—and very early on the following day, left for Manila in the Captain’s carriage. To timid Linares they intrusted the rôle of the avenger.
1 Warning cry of a coachman, meaning “turn.”