A cloudy sky hides the moon, and a cold wind, the omen of approaching December, whirls the dry leaves and dust in the narrow path leading to the cemetery.
Under the gate, three forms are conversing in a low tone.
“Have you spoken to Elias?” asked a voice.
“No; you know he is very odd and discreet. But he ought to be with us. Don Crisostomo saved his life.”
“I accepted the offer for the same reason,” said the first voice. “Don Crisostomo is having my wife treated at a doctor’s house in Manila. I have agreed to take charge of the convent in the attack, so that I can settle my accounts with the curate.”
“And we, we will have charge of the attack on the cuartel, so that we can say to the members of the Guardia Civil that our father had sons.”
“How many will there be of you?”
“Five! Five will be enough. Don Crisostomo’s servant says that there will be twenty in all.”
“And if things don’t turn out well?”
“St!” said one, and they all became silent.
In the semi-darkness, a form could be seen crawling along the fence. From time to time it stopped, as if to look behind.
And it did so not without reason. Behind, at some twenty paces, came another form. This one was taller and seemed to be darker than the first. Each time that the first stopped this second one would disappear as if the earth had swallowed it.
“They are following me,” murmured the one ahead. “Is it a Guardia Civil? Has the sacristan lied?”
“It appears that the appointment is here,” said the second, in a low voice. “They are up to something bad, when the two brothers hide it from me.”
The first form finally arrived at the gate of the cemetery. The three who were already there advanced.
“Is it you?”
“Is it you?”
“Let us separate. Some one is following me. To-morrow we will have the arms and to-morrow night will be our time. The cry is ‘Viva Don Crisostomo!’ Begone!”
The three persons disappeared behind the wall. The recent arrival hid himself in the hollow of the gate and waited silently.
“Let’s see who is following me!” he murmured.
The second person came along very cautiously, and stopped to look around.
“I have arrived late!” said he in a half intelligible voice. “But perhaps they will return.”
And, as a fine rain began to fall and threatened to continue, he took refuge under the gate. Naturally, he met the other.
“Ah! who are you?” asked the one who had just come up, in a manly voice.
“And who are you?” replied the other tranquilly.
There was a moment’s pause. Each tried to recognize the other by the tone of his voice and to distinguish the other’s features.
“What are you waiting here for?” asked the one with the heavy voice.
“Till the clock strikes eight, so as to have a game of cards with the dead. I want to win some money to-night,” replied the other, in an ordinary tone. “And you: what do you come here for?”
“A—a—for the same thing.”
“Well! I am glad. So I will not be without a companion. I have brought some cards. At the first stroke of the bell, I put down the albur (the first two cards put on the board in monte). At the second stroke, I put down the gallo (the second pair). The cards which move after I have put them down, are those which the dead choose for themselves. Did you also bring some cards?”
“Then?”
“It is simple. Just as you act as ‘banker’ for them, so I hope that they will ‘bank’ for me.” (In monte the banker deals the cards and bets that one of the cards in either the albur or gallo is turned up by dealing off the pack, before the card chosen by the other person is turned up. A banker can play against two others.)
“And if the shades do not care to ‘bank’?”
“What can be done? The game is not obligatory upon the dead.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Did you come armed? What if you have to fight with the shades of the dead?”
“I’ll use my fists,” replied the taller of the two.
“Ah! The devil! Now, I remember! The dead do not bet when there is more than one live person around. There are two of us.”
“Is that true? Well, I don’t want to go away.”
“Nor I. I need some money,” replied the smaller one. “But let us do this: We will decide by the cards which one shall go away.”
“All right!” replied the other, showing a certain amount of displeasure.
“Then let us go in. Have you any matches?”
They entered the cemetery and in the obscurity they searched for a place where they might decide the question with the cards. They soon found a niche upon which they sat down. The shorter one took from his hat some playing cards and the other lighted a match.
Each one looked at the other in the light which the match made, but, judging from the expression on their faces, they did not recognize each other. However, we can recognize in the taller one, the one with the manly voice, Elias; and in the smaller one, Lucas, with the scar on his cheek.
“Cut the cards!” said the latter, without ceasing to look at the other.
He pushed aside some bones which were found on the niche and turned up an ace and a jack for the albur. Elias lighted one match after another.
“On the jack!” said he and, in order to show which of the cards he was betting on, he placed upon it a piece of vertebræ.
“I deal!” said Lucas and, after turning up four or five cards, an ace came up.
“You have lost,” he added. “Now leave me alone so that I may win some money.”
Elias, without saying a word, disappeared in the darkness.
Some minutes afterward, the clock in the church struck eight and the bell announced the hour of prayer. But Lucas did not invite anybody to play with him. He did not call out the shades, as superstition demanded. Instead, he uncovered his head, murmured some prayers and crossed himself with the same fervor as the chief of the Brotherhood of the Most Sacred Rosary would have done at that moment.
The drizzling rain continued all night. At nine o’clock the streets were dark and lonely. The little cocoanut oil lanterns, which each citizen had to hang out in front of his house gave light scarcely a meter around. It seemed as though they had been lighted so one might see the darkness.
Two Civil Guards were walking from one side of the street to the other near the church.
“It is cold,” said one in Tagalog with a Visayan accent. “We aren’t catching any sacristans. There is nobody to clean out the alferez’s hen yard and we ought to catch some sacristan and make him do it. Since that one was killed, they have taken warning. I am getting tired of this.”
“So am I,” replied the other. “Nobody commits any robbery; no one disturbs the peace; but, thank God, they say that Elias is in town. The alferez says that the one who catches him will be free from whippings for three months.”
“Ah! Do you know his identification marks?” asked the Visayan.
“I certainly do! Stature, tall, according to the alferez’s description; ordinary, according to the description of Father Dámaso; color, brunette; eyes, black; nose, regular; mouth, regular; beard, none; hair, black.”
“Camisa, black; pantaloons, black; a wood-cutter——”
“Ah! He will not escape. I think I see him already.”
“I don’t confuse him with anybody else, although you might think so.”
Both soldiers continued their beats.
By the light of the lantern two forms could again be seen, one following the other cautiously. A forcible “Quien vive?” stops them both. The first one replied “España,” in a trembling voice.
The two soldiers drag him along and bring him up to the light, to recognize him. It was Lucas, but the soldiers were in doubt and questioned each other with a glance.
“The alferez said nothing about his having a scar,” said the Visayan in a low voice. “Where are you going?”
“To order a mass for to-morrow.”
“Have you not seen Elias?”
“I do not know him, señor,” replied Lucas.
“You dunce! I am not asking if you know him. Nor do we know him. I am asking you if you have seen him.”
“No, señor.”
“Listen closely. I will give you his description. Stature, at times tall, at times regular; skin and eyes, black; all the others are regular,” said the Visayan. “Do you know him now?”
“No, señor,” replied Lucas, frightened.
“Then, sulung! (Go along). You brute! You ass!” And they gave him a shove.
“Do you know why Elias is tall, according to the alferez, and why he is short, according to the curate?” asked the Tagalog of the other.
“No.”
“Because the alferez was stuck in a mud hole when he observed him, and the curate was on foot when he saw him.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed the Visayan. “You are bright. Why are you a Guardia Civil?”
“I haven’t been always. I was a smuggler at one time,” replied the Tagalog boastingly.
But another form attracted their attention. They called out “Quien Vive?” and brought him up to the light. This time it was Elias himself.
“Where are you going?”
“I am pursuing, señor, a man who has whipped and threatened my brother. He has a scar on his face and his name is Elias——”
“Ha?” exclaimed the two, and looked at each other frightened.
And at once they started on a run toward the church, where a few minutes before Lucas had disappeared.
The bell announces the hour of evening prayer. On hearing the religious sound, all stop, leave their work and uncover their heads; the laborer, coming from the fields on the carabao’s back, suspends the song to which the animal keeps step, and prays; the women in the middle of the street make the sign of the cross, and move their lips with affectation so that no one may doubt their devotion: the man stops fondling his game-cock and recites the Angelus so that he may have good luck; in the houses, they pray in a loud voice ... every sound which is not a part of the Ave Maria is dissipated, silenced.
However, the curate, without his hat, hastily crosses the street, scandalizing many old women. And still more scandalous, he directs his steps towards the alferez’s house. The devout women think that it is time for them to stop the movement of their lips and to kiss the curate’s hand, but Father Salví takes no notice of them. To-day he finds no pleasure in placing his bony hand under a Christian’s nose. Some important business must be occupying him that he should so forget his own interests and those of the Church!
He goes up the stairs and knocks impatiently at the alferez’s door. The latter appears, his eyebrows knit and followed by his better half, who smiles malignantly.
“Ah, Father Curate! I was just going to see you. Your he-goat....”
“I have a most important matter....”
“I can’t allow your goat to go on breaking down my fence.... I’ll shoot him if he gets in there again.”
“That is if you are alive to-morrow,” said the curate, breathless, and directing himself toward the sala.
“What! do you think that that seven-months-old puppy will kill me? I’ll kick him to pieces.”
Father Salví stepped back and looked instinctively at the feet of the alferez.
“Whom are you talking about?” asked he, trembling.
“Of whom could I be talking but that big blockhead who proposes to challenge me to a duel with revolvers at one hundred paces?”
“Ah!” sighed the curate, and added: “I have come to speak about a most urgent matter which seriously concerns the life of all of us.”
“Seriously!” repeated the alferez, turning pale in turn. “Does this young fellow shoot well...?”
“I am not speaking about him.”
“Then?”
The friar pointed to the door which the alferez shut in his customary manner, by a kick. The alferez usually found his hands superfluous. An imprecation and a groan from without were heard.
“You brute. You have cut open my head!” cried his wife.
“Now unbosom yourself,” said he to the curate in a quiet manner. The latter looked at him for some time. Afterward he asked, in that nasal and monotonous priest’s voice:
“Did you see how I came running?”
“Umph! I thought something was the matter with you.”
“When I leave my duties in this manner there are grave motives.”
“And what is it?” asked the other, stamping his foot on the floor.
“Calm yourself!”
“Then, why did you come in such a hurry?”
The curate approached him and asked in a mysterious way:
“Don’t—you—know—anything—new?”
The alferez shrugged his shoulders.
“You confess that you know absolutely nothing?”
“What! do you mean to tell me about Elias, whom your sacristan mayor hid last night?” he asked.
“No, no! I don’t speak of such matters now,” replied the curate, in a bad humor. “I am talking about a great danger.”
“Then d——n it! Let it out.”
“Now then,” said the friar slowly and with a certain disdain, “you will see again how important we priests are. The lowest layman is worth a regiment, so that a curate....”
And then lowering his voice in a very mysterious manner:
“I have discovered a great conspiracy.”
The alferez started and looked at the friar astonished.
“A terrible and well-laid conspiracy, which is to break out this very night.”
“This very night!” exclaimed the alferez, moving at first toward Father Salví, and then running after his revolver and saber, which were hanging on the wall: “Whom shall I arrest? Whom shall I arrest?” he cried.
“Be calm. It is not yet time, thanks to my great haste. At eight o’clock.”
“I’ll shoot them all!”
“Listen! This afternoon a woman, whose name I must not mention (it is a secret of the confessional) came to me and disclosed it all. At eight o’clock they will take the cuartel by surprise, sack the convent, seize the Government’s steamboat and assassinate all the Spaniards.”
The alferez was stupified.
“The woman has not told more than that,” added the curate.
“Has not told you more? Then I’ll arrest her!”
“No; I cannot consent to it. The tribunal of penitence is the throne of God of forgiveness.”
“Neither God nor forgiveness count in this matter. I’ll arrest her.”
“You are losing your head. What you ought to do is to prepare yourself. Arm your soldiers quietly and put them in ambush. Send me four Guards for the convent and notify the people on the Government steamboat.”
“The boat is not here. I’ll send to other sections for aid.”
“They would notice that and would not go on with their plans. No, don’t do that. What is important is that we catch them alive and make them talk; I say, you will make them disclose the conspiracy. I, in the capacity of a priest, ought not to mix myself in these matters. Now’s your chance! Here you can win crosses and stars. I ask only that you make it evident that I am the one who warned you.”
“It will be made evident, Father, it will be made evident! And perhaps a mitre will fall to you!” replied the radiant alferez.
“Be sure and send me four un-uniformed Civil Guards, eh? Be discreet! To-night at eight o’clock, it will rain stars and crosses.”
While this was going on, a man came running down the road which led to Ibarra’s house, and quickly went up the stairs.
“Is the Señor at home?” asked Elias of the servant.
“He is in his laboratory at work.”
Ibarra, in order to pass the time while he impatiently waited for the hour when he could make explanations to Maria Clara, had gone to work in his cabinet.
“Ah, is it you, Elias?” he exclaimed. “I was thinking about you. Yesterday, I forgot to ask you for the name of that Spaniard in whose house your grandfather lived.”
“Don’t bother yourself, Señor, about me....”
“Look!” continued Ibarra, without noting the agitation of the young man, and putting a piece of bamboo to a flame. “I have made a great discovery. This bamboo is incombustible....”
“Don’t talk about bamboo now, Señor. Talk about collecting your papers and fleeing in a minute.”
Ibarra looked at him surprised, and, on seeing the seriousness in Elias’s countenance, he dropped the object which he had in his hands.
“Burn everything that can possibly implicate you in any way and put yourself in a more secure place within an hour.”
“And what for?” he asked at last.
“Put all that you have of value in a secure place....”
“And what for?”
“Burn all papers written by you or to you. The most innocent can be interpreted in a bad sense.”
“But what for?”
“What for? Because I have just discovered a conspiracy which will be attributed to you in order to ruin you.”
“A conspiracy? And who has planned it?”
“I have been unable to learn the author of it. Only a moment ago I was talking with one of the unfortunate men who have been paid for it. I could not dissuade him.”
“And didn’t that fellow say who paid him?”
“Yes. Asking me to keep the secret, he told me that it was you.”
“My God!” exclaimed Ibarra. He stood stupefied.
“Señor, don’t hesitate, don’t doubt, don’t lose time, for undoubtedly the conspiracy will break out this very night.”
Ibarra, with staring eyes, and hands holding his head, seemed not to hear him.
“The blow cannot be thwarted,” continued Elias. “I have arrived too late. I do not know their leaders ... save yourself, Señor, save yourself for the sake of your country.”
“Where shall I flee? They are expecting me this evening,” exclaimed Ibarra, thinking of Maria Clara.
“To any other town, to Manila, to the house of some official; only flee somewhere so that they will not say that you are directing the movement.”
“And if I myself denounce the conspiracy?”
“You denounce it?” exclaimed Elias, looking at him, and stepping back. “You would pass for a traitor and a coward in the eyes of the conspirators, and for a pusillanimous person in the eyes of others. They would say that you had played a trick to win some praise, they would say....”
“But what can be done?”
“Already I have told you. Destroy all the papers you have which relate to you; flee and await developments.”
“And Maria Clara?” exclaimed the young man. “No; death first!”
Elias wrung his hands and said:
“Well, then, at least avoid the blow. Prepare yourself against their accusations.”
Ibarra looked around him in a stupefied manner.
“Then, help me! There in those bags I have my family letters. Sort out those from my father, which are, perhaps, the ones that would incriminate me. Read the signatures.”
Ibarra, stunned and overwhelmed, opened and closed drawers, collected papers, hastily read letters, tore up some, kept others, took down books and thumbed through some of them. Elias did the same, if indeed with less confusion, with equal zeal. But he stopped, with eyes wide open, turned over a paper which he had in his hand and asked in a trembling voice:
“Did your family know Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”
“Certainly!” replied Ibarra, opening a drawer and taking out a pile of papers. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great grandfather? Don Pedro Eibarramendia?” he again asked, with livid features and a changed appearance.
“Yes,” replied Ibarra, distracted. “We cut short the name, for it was too long.”
“He was a Basque?” said Elias approaching him.
“Yes; but what’s the matter?” he asked, surprised.
Elias closed his fist, shook it in Ibarra’s face and looked at him. Crisostomo stepped back as soon as he read the expression on that face.
“Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was?” he asked between his teeth. “Don Pedro Eibarramendia was that wretch who accused my grandfather and caused all our misery.... I was looking for one of his name. God has given you into my hands.... Account to me for our misfortunes.”
Ibarra looked at him terrified. Elias shook him by the arm and, in a bitter voice, filled with hate, said:
“Look at me well; see if I have suffered, and you, you live, you love, you have fortune, home, consideration. You live ... you live!”
And, beside himself, he ran toward a small collection of arms, but he had scarcely grasped two swords when he let them fall, and, like a madman, looked at Ibarra, who remained immovable.
There in the dining-room Captain Tiago, Linares, and Aunt Isabel were eating supper. In the sala the rattling of plate and tableware was heard. Maria Clara had said that she did not care to eat and had seated herself at the piano. By her side was jolly Sinang, who murmured little secrets in Maria’s ear, while Father Salví uneasily paced the sala.
It was not because the convalescent had no appetite that she was not eating. It was because she was awaiting the arrival of a certain person and had taken advantage of the moment in which her Argus could not be present, the hour when Linares ate.
“You will see how that ghost will stay till eight o’clock,” murmured Sinang, pointing to the curate. “At eight o’clock he ought to come. This priest is as much in love as Linares.”
Maria Clara looked at her friend, frightened. The latter, without noticing her expression, continued her terrible gossip:
“Ah! Now I know why he doesn’t go, in spite of all my hints. He doesn’t want to burn the lamps in the convent. Don’t you see? Ever since you fell ill, he has had the two lights which he used to burn, put out. But look at his eyes and his face!”
Just at that moment the clock in the house struck eight. The curate trembled and went and sat down in a corner of the room.
“He is coming,” said Sinang, pinching Maria Clara. “Do you hear?”
The bell in the church tolled eight and all arose to pray. Father Salví, with a weak and trembling voice, led, but, as each one had his own thoughts, nobody paid any attention to him.
The prayer had scarcely ended, when Ibarra presented himself. The young man was wearing mourning, not only in his dress, but in his face. In fact, it was so evident that Maria Clara, on seeing him, arose and took a step toward him as if to ask what ailed him, but at the same instant a discharge of musketry was heard. Ibarra stopped, his eyes rolled and he was unable to speak. The curate hid himself behind a pillar. More shooting and more noise was heard in the direction of the convent, followed by cries and the sound of people running. Captain Tiago, Aunt Isabel and Linares entered the room, hurriedly crying “tulisan! tulisan!” Andeng followed them, brandishing a spit and ran toward her foster sister.
Aunt Isabel fell on her knees and prayed the Kyrie eleison. Captain Tiago, pale and trembling, carried a chicken’s liver on his fork, and, in tears, offered it to the Virgin of Antipolo. Linares had his mouth full and was armed with a spoon. Sinang and Maria Clara embraced each other. The only person who did not move was Ibarra. He stood as if petrified, his face indescribably pale.
The cries and blows continued, the windows were shut with a bang, a whistle was heard, and occasionally a shot.
“Christe eleison! Santiago, fasten the windows,” groaned Aunt Isabel.
“Fifty great bombs and a thanksgiving mass,” replied Captain Tiago. “Ora pro nobis!”
After a time, things quieted down and there was a terrible silence. The voice of the alferez was distinguished, as he came running in, and crying: “Father curate! Father Salví! Come!”
“Misere! The alferez is asking for confession!” cried Aunt Isabel.
“Is he wounded?” asked Linares at last. “Ah!”
“Come, Father Salví! There is nothing to fear now,” continued the alferez, shouting.
Father Salví, pale, and decided at last, came out of his hiding-place and went downstairs.
“The tulisanes have killed the alferez!” said Aunt Isabel.
“Maria Clara, Sinang, go to your room! Fasten the door! Kyrie eleison!”
Ibarra also went toward the stairs, in spite of Aunt Isabel, who was saying: “Don’t go out! You haven’t confessed yet. Don’t go out!”
The good old woman had been a great friend of Ibarra’s mother.
But Ibarra left the house. It seemed to him that all about him was revolving through the air, that even the ground was gone from under his feet. His ears buzzed. His legs moved heavily and irregularly. Waves of blood, light and darkness, succeeded one another on the retina of his eye.
Despite the fact that the moon was shining brightly in the heavens, the young man stumbled on every stone in the solitary and deserted street.
Near the cuartel he saw some soldiers with their bayonets fixed, talking excitedly. He passed by unseen.
In the tribunal, blows, cries, wails, and curses were heard. The alferez’s voice drowned all the others.
“Put him in the stocks! Put handcuffs on that fellow! Two shots for whoever moves! Sergeant, you will mount your guard! Let no one pass, not even God! Corporal, let no one sleep!”
Ibarra hastened his steps toward his house. His servants were uneasily awaiting him.
“Saddle the best horse and go to bed!” said he to them.
He entered his laboratory and hurriedly began to get his travelling bag ready. He opened an iron box, took out all the money which he found there and put it in a bag. He gathered his jewels together, took down a picture of Maria Clara which was hanging upon the wall, and, arming himself with a dirk and two revolvers, he turned to the cupboard where he had some tools.
At that instant, three blows, loud and strong, sounded on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked Ibarra, in a doleful voice.
“Open in the name of the King! Open the door at once, or we will knock it down!” replied an imperious Spanish voice.
Ibarra looked toward the window. His eyes flashed and he cocked his revolver. But changing his mind, he left the arms and went to open the door at the same moment that the servants came up.
Three Guards seized him instantly.
“You are made a prisoner in the name of the King!” said the sergeant.
“What for?”
“They will tell you later. We are prohibited from saying a word.”
The young man reflected a moment and not wishing, perhaps, the soldiers to discover his preparations for flight, he took his hat and said:
“I am at your disposal. I suppose it will be only for a short time.”
“If you promise not to escape, we will not handcuff you. The alferez grants this favor, but if you flee——”
Ibarra followed, leaving the servants in consternation.
In the meantime, what had become of Elias?
On leaving Crisostomo’s house, like a madman, he ran about without knowing where. He crossed fields, and in violent agitation arrived at a forest. He was fleeing from people, and from light. The moon troubled him and he entered the mysterious shade of the forest. Sometimes stopping, sometimes following unbroken paths, leaning upon century-old trunks, entangled in the briars, he looked toward the town, which lay at his feet bathed in the light of the moon, stretching itself out on the plain, lying on the shore of the lake. Birds, disturbed in their sleep, flew away. Owls screeched and flew from one limb to another. But Elias neither heard nor saw them. He thought he was being followed by the infuriated shades of his ancestors. He saw the horrible basket hanging from every branch with the blood-covered head of Bálat, just as his father had described it to him. He thought he saw the dead body of his grandmother lying at the foot of every tree. He seemed to see the skeleton of his dishonored grandfather in the darkness, and the skeleton, the old woman, and the head all cried out to him, “Coward! Coward!”
He left the mountain and fled down toward the sea. He ran along the beach in agitation. But there in the distance, amid the waves, where the light of the moon seemed to raise a fog, he thought he saw a shade raise itself, the shade of his sister, with her breast covered with blood, her hair hanging loose in the air.
Elias fell upon his knees on the sand.
“And you, too!” he cried stretching out his arms.
Then, with his eyes fixed on the fog, he arose slowly and, advancing toward it, went into the water as if to follow somebody. He waded on over the gentle slope of the beach which forms the bar. He was already far from the shore and the water was up to his belt. He went on and on, as if fascinated by a seducing spirit. The water was now up to his breast. Suddenly, the discharge of musketry awoke him from his dream, the vision disappeared, and the young man returned to reality. He stopped, reflected, and noticed that he was in the water. The lake was smooth and he could still see the lights in the fishermen’s huts.
He returned to the shore and made his way toward the town. What for? He himself did not know.
The town seemed uninhabited. The houses were all closed. Even the animals, the dogs which are accustomed to bark at night, had hid themselves through fear. The silvery light of the moon increased the sadness and solitude.
Afraid of meeting the Civil Guards, he went through the orchards and gardens. In one of the gardens he thought he saw two human forms, but he continued his way. Jumping over fences and walls, he arrived after great labor at the other side of the town, and directed his steps toward Ibarra’s house. The servants were in the door, lamenting and commenting on the arrest of their master.
Aware of what had passed, Elias went away, but returned to the house, leaped over the wall, crawled through a window and went into the cabinet or laboratory, where the candle which Ibarra had left was still burning.
Elias saw the papers and the books. He found the arms and the little sacks which contained the money and the jewelry. All that had passed ran through his imagination again, and, seeing all the papers which might incriminate Ibarra, he thought of collecting them, throwing them through the window and burying them.
He glanced toward the garden and, by the light of the moon, he saw two Civil Guards coming with an adjutant. Their bayonets and helmets were glistening in the light.
Then he decided. He piled up the clothes and papers in the middle of the cabinet, emptied the oil in a lamp upon the pile and set fire to it. He quickly buckled the arms around him. He saw the picture of Maria Clara, hesitated—put it in one of the little sacks, and jumped out of the window with them all.
It was already time, for the two Civil Guards were forcing their entrance.
“Let us go up to get your master’s papers,” said the adjutant.
“Have you permission? If not, you shall not go up!” said an old servant.
But the soldiers pushed the servants aside with the butts of their guns and went upstairs. A thick smoke was already filling the whole house, and gigantic tongues of flame were coming out from the sala, licking the doors and windows.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” they all cried.
Each hurried to save what he could, but the fire had filled the small laboratory, breaking out furiously among the inflammable materials. The Civil Guards had to turn back. The fire, roaring and sweeping all before it, closed the passage to them. In vain they brought water from the well. All were shouting, and crying for help, but they were isolated. The fire reached the other rooms and in thick columns of smoke ascended to the heavens. Some peasants came from a distance, but they arrived only in time to see the frightful spectacle, the end of that old building, so long respected by the elements.
Day dawned at last for the terrorized people. The streets in which the cuartel and the tribunal were situated were still deserted and solitary. The houses showed no signs of life. However, a shutter was opened with a creaking noise and an infant head stuck out and looked in all directions.... Slap!... A sound announces hard contact between a strip of leather and a human body. The child made a grimace, closed its eyes and disappeared. The shutter was closed again.
The example had been set. Without any doubt the opening and closing of the shutter has been heard, for another window was opened very slowly and cautiously and a wrinkled and toothless old woman thrust out her head. She was called Sister Ruté. She looked about, knit her brows, spit noisily and then crossed herself. In the house opposite, a little window was timidly opened and her friend, Sister Rufa appeared. They looked at each other for a moment, smiled, made some signals, and again crossed themselves.
“Jesús! It was like a thanksgiving mass,” said Sister Rufa.
“Since the time that Bálat sacked the town I have never seen a night like it,” replied Sister Puté.
“What a lot of shots! They say that it was old Pablo’s gang.”
“Tulisanes? It couldn’t be. They say that it was the cuaderilleros against the Civil Guards. For this reason, they have arrested Don Filipo.”
“Sanctus Deus! They say that there are no less than fourteen killed.”
Other windows were opened and different faces appeared, exchanging salutations and commenting on the affair.
In the light of the day—which promised to be a splendid one—could be seen in the distance, like ash-colored shadows, soldiers hurrying about in confusion.
“There goes another corpse!” said some one from one of the windows.
“One? I see two.”
“And so do I. But do you know what it was?” asked a man with a crafty face.
“Certainly. The cuaderilleros.”
“No, Señor. An uprising at the cuartel.”
“What uprising? The curate against the alferez?”
“No, nothing of the sort,” said he who had asked the question. “The Chinese have risen in revolt.”
And he closed his window again.
“The Chinese!” repeated all, with the greatest astonishment.
In a quarter of an hour other versions of the affair were in circulation. Ibarra, with his servants, it was said, had tried to steal Maria Clara, and Captain Tiago, aided by the Guardia Civil had defended her.
By this time the number of the dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. Captain Tiago, it was said, was wounded and was going right off to Manila with his family.
The arrival of two cuaderilleros, carrying a human form in a wheelbarrow, and followed by a Civil Guard, produced a great sensation. It was supposed that they came from the convent. From the form of the feet which were hanging down, they tried to guess who it could be. By half-past seven, when other Civil Guards arrived from neighboring towns, the current version of the affair was already clear and detailed.
“I have just come from the tribunal, where I have seen Don Filipo and Don Crisostomo prisoners,” said a man to Sister Puté. “I talked with one of the cuaderilleros on guard. Well, Bruno, the son of the man who was whipped to death, made a declaration last night. As you know, Captain Tiago is going to marry his daughter to a Spaniard. Don Crisostomo, offended, wanted to take revenge and tried to kill all the Spaniards, even the curate. Last night they attacked the convent and the cuartel. Happily, by mercy of God, the curate was in Captain Tiago’s house. They say that many escaped. The Civil Guards burned Don Crisostomo’s house, and if they had not taken him prisoner, they would have burned him, too.”
“They burned the house?”
“All the servants were arrested. Why, you can still see the smoke from here!” said the narrator, approaching the window. “Those who come from there relate very sad things.”
All looked toward the place indicated. A light column of smoke was still ascending to the heavens. All made comments more or less pious, more or less accusatory.
“Poor young man!” exclaimed an old man, the husband of Puté.
“Yes!” replied his wife. “But he did not order a mass for the soul of his father, who undoubtedly needs it more than others.”
“But wife, you don’t have any pity....”
“Sympathy for the excommunicated? It is a sin to have pity for the enemies of God, say the curates. Don’t you remember? He ran over the sacred burial ground as if he were in a cattle pen.”
“But a cattle pen and a cemetery are much alike,” responded the old man, “except that but one class of animals enter the cemetery.”
“What!” cried Sister Puté. “Are you still going to defend him whom God so clearly punishes? You will see that they will arrest you, too. You may support a falling house, if you want to!”
The husband became silent in view of this argument.
“Yes,” continued the old woman, “after striking Father Dámaso, there was nothing left for him to do but to kill Father Salví.”
“But you can’t deny that he was a good boy when he was a child.”
“Yes, he was a good child,” replied the old woman, “but he went to Spain. All those who go to Spain return heretics, so the curates say.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the husband, seeing his revenge. “And the curate, and all the curates, and the Archbishops, and the Pope, and the Virgin—are they not Spaniards? Bah! Are they heretics, too? Bah!”
Happily for Sister Puté, the arrival of a servant, who rushed in confused and pale, cut off the discussion.
“A man hanged in a neighboring orchard!” she exclaimed breathless.
“A man hanged!” exclaimed all, full of amazement.
The women crossed themselves. No one could stir.
“Yes, Señor,” continued the servant, trembling. “I was going to gather some peas in.... I looked into the orchard next door ... to see if there ... I saw a man swinging.... I thought it was Teo ... I went nearer to gather peas, and I saw that it was not he but it was another, and was dead ... I ran, ran and....”
“Let us go and see it,” said the old man, rising. “Take us there.”
“Don’t go!” cried Sister Puté, seizing him by the shirt.
“You’ll get into trouble! He has hanged himself? Then all the worse for him!”
“Let me see it, wife! Go to the tribunal, Juan, and report it. Perhaps he is not dead yet.”
And he went ino[typo, should be into?] the orchard, followed by the servant, who kept hid behind him. The women and Sister Puté herself came along behind, full of terror and curiosity.
“There it is, Señor,” said the servant stopping him and pointing with her finger.
The group stopped at a respectful distance, allowing the old man to advance alone.
The body of a man, hanging from the limb of a santol tree, was swinging slowly in the breeze. The old man contemplated it for some time. He looked at the rigid feet, the arms, the stained clothing and the drooping head.
“We ought not to touch the corpse until some official has arrived,” said he, in a loud voice. “He is already stiff. He has been dead for some time.”
The women approached hesitatingly.
“It is the neighbor who lived in that little house; the one who arrived only two weeks ago. Look at the scar on his face.”
“Ave Maria!” exclaimed some of the women.
“Shall we pray for his soul?” asked a young girl as soon as she had finished looking at the dead body from all directions.
“You fool! You heretic!” Sister Puté scolded her. “Don’t you know what Father Dámaso said? To pray for a damned person is to tempt God. He who commits suicide is irrevocably condemned. For this reason, he cannot be buried in a sacred place. I had begun to think that this man was going to have a bad ending. I never could guess what he lived on.”
“I saw him twice speaking with the sacristan mayor,” observed a girl.
“It couldn’t have been to confess himself or to order a mass!”
The neighbors gathered together and a large circle surrounded the corpse which was still swinging. In half an hour some officers and two cuaderilleros arrived. They took the body down and put it in a wheelbarrow.
“Some people are in a hurry to die,” said one of the officers, laughing, while he took out the pen from behind his ear.
He asked some trifling questions; took the declaration of the servant, whom he tried to implicate, now looking at her with evil in his eyes, now threatening her and now attributing to her words which she did not say—so much so that the servant, believing that she was going to be taken to jail, began to weep and finished by declaring that she was looking for peas, but that ... and she called Teo to witness.
In the meantime, a peasant with a wide hat and a large plaster on his neck, was examining the body, and the rope by which it was hanging.
The face was no more livid than the rest of the body. Above the rope could be seen two scars and two small bruises. Where the rope had rubbed, there was no blood and the skin was white. The curious peasant examined closely the camisa and the pantaloons. He noted that they were full of dust and recently torn in some places. But what most attracted his attention were the “stick-tights”1 on his clothing, even up to his neck.
“What do you see?” asked the officer.
“I was trying to identify him, señor,” stammered the peasant, lowering his hat further from his uncovered head.
“But haven’t you heard that it was one Lucas? Were you sleeping?”
All began to laugh. The peasant, embarrassed, muttered a few words, and went away with head down, walking slowly.
“Here! Where are you going?” cried the old man. “You can’t get out that way. That’s the way to the dead man’s house.”
“That fellow is still asleep,” said the officer with a jeer. “We’ll have to throw some water on him!”
Those standing around laughed again.
The peasant left the place where he had played so poor a part and directed his steps toward the church. In the sacristy, he asked for the sacristan mayor.
“He is still sleeping!” they replied gruffly. “Don’t you know that they sacked the convent last night?”
“I will wait till he awakes.”
The sacristans looked at him with that rudeness characteristic of people who are in the habit of being ill-treated.
In a dark corner, the one-eyed sacristan mayor was sleeping in a large chair. His spectacles were across his forehead among his long locks of hair. His squalid, bony breast was bare, and rose and fell with regularity.
The peasant sat down near by, disposed to wait patiently, but a coin fell on the floor and he began looking for it with the aid of a candle, under the sacristan mayor’s big chair. The peasant also noted “stick-tights” on the sleeping man’s pantaloons and on the arms of his camisa. The sacristan awoke at last, rubbed his good eye, and, in a very bad humor, reproached the man.
“I would like to order a mass said, señor,” replied he in a tone of excuse.
“They have already finished all the masses,” said the one-eyed man, softening his accent a little. “If you want it for to-morrow.... Is it for souls in Purgatory?”
“No, señor;” replied the peasant, giving him a peso.
And looking fixedly in his one eye, he added:
“It is for a person who is going to die soon.” And he left the sacristy. “I could have seized him last night,” he added, sighingly as he removed the plaster from his neck. And he straightened up and regained the stature and appearance of Elias.
1 A plant (Desmodium caresceus), the dry seeds of which cling to the clothing.