“Was your family acquainted with Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”
“I should say so!” answered Ibarra, as he opened a chest and took out a bundle of papers. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather Don Pedro Eibarramendia?” again asked Elías with changed and livid features.
“Yes,” replied Ibarra absently, “we shortened the surname; it was too long.”
“Was he a Basque?” demanded Elías, approaching him.
“Yes, a Basque—but what’s the matter?” asked Ibarra in surprise.
Clenching his fists and pressing them to his forehead, Elías glared at Crisóstomo, who recoiled when he saw the expression on the other’s face. “Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was?” he asked between his teeth. “Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the villain who falsely accused my grandfather and caused all our misfortunes. I have sought for that name and God has revealed it to me! Render me now an accounting for our misfortunes!”
Elías caught and shook the arm of Crisóstomo, who gazed at him in terror. In a voice that was bitter and trembling with hate, he said, “Look at me well, look at one who has suffered and you live, you live, you have wealth, a home, reputation—you live, you live!”
Beside himself, he ran to a small collection of arms and snatched up a dagger. But scarcely had he done so when he let it fall again and stared like a madman at the motionless Ibarra.
“What was I about to do?” he muttered, fleeing from the house.
LV
The Catastrophe
There in the dining-room Capitan Tiago, Linares, and Aunt Isabel were at supper, so that even in the sala the rattling of plates and dishes was plainly heard. María Clara had said that she was not hungry and had seated herself at the piano in company with the merry Sinang, who was murmuring mysterious words into her ear. Meanwhile Padre Salví paced nervously back and forth in the room.
It was not, indeed, that the convalescent was not hungry, no; but she was expecting the arrival of a certain person and was taking advantage of this moment when her Argus was not present, Linares’ supper-hour.
“You’ll see how that specter will stay till eight,” murmured Sinang, indicating the curate. “And at eight he will come. The curate’s in love with Linares.”
María Clara gazed in consternation at her friend, who went on heedlessly with her terrible chatter: “Oh, I know why he doesn’t go, in spite of my hints—he doesn’t want to burn up oil in the convento! Don’t you know that since you’ve been sick the two lamps that he used to keep lighted he has had put out? But look how he stares, and what a face!”
At that moment a clock in the house struck eight. The curate shuddered and sat down in a corner.
“Here he comes!” exclaimed Sinang, pinching María Clara. “Don’t you hear him?”
The church bell boomed out the hour of eight and all rose to pray. Padre Salví offered up a prayer in a weak and trembling voice, but as each was busy with his own thoughts no one paid any attention to the priest’s agitation.
Scarcely had the prayer ceased when Ibarra appeared. The youth was in mourning not only in his attire but also in his face, to such an extent that, on seeing him, María Clara arose and took a step toward him to ask what the matter was. But at that instant the report of firearms was heard. Ibarra stopped, his eyes rolled, he lost the power of speech. The curate had concealed himself behind a post. More shots, more reports were heard from the direction of the convento, followed by cries and the sound of persons running. Capitan Tiago, Aunt Isabel, and Linares rushed in pell-mell, crying, “Tulisan! Tulisan!” Andeng followed, flourishing the gridiron as she ran toward her foster-sister.
Aunt Isabel fell on her knees weeping and reciting the Kyrie eleison; Capitan Tiago, pale and trembling, carried on his fork a chicken-liver which he offered tearfully to the Virgin of Antipolo; Linares with his mouth full of food was armed with a case-knife; Sinang and María Clara were in each other’s arms; while the only one that remained motionless, as if petrified, was Crisóstomo, whose paleness was indescribable.
The cries and sound of blows continued, windows were closed noisily, the report of a gun was heard from time to time.
“Christie eleison! Santiago, let the prophecy be fulfilled! Shut the windows!” groaned Aunt Isabel.
“Fifty big bombs and two thanksgiving masses!” responded Capitan Tiago. “Ora pro nobis!”
Gradually there prevailed a heavy silence which was soon broken by the voice of the alferez, calling as he ran: “Padre, Padre Salví, come here!”
“Miserere! The alferez is calling for confession,” cried Aunt Isabel. “The alferez is wounded?” asked Linares hastily. “Ah!!!” Only then did he notice that he had not yet swallowed what he had in his mouth.
“Padre, come here! There’s nothing more to fear!” the alferez continued to call out.
The pallid Fray Salví at last concluded to venture out from his hiding-place, and went down the stairs.
“The outlaws have killed the alferez! María, Sinang, go into your room and fasten the door! Kyrie eleison!”
Ibarra also turned toward the stairway, in spite of Aunt Isabel’s cries: “Don’t go out, you haven’t been shriven, don’t go out!” The good old lady had been a particular friend of his mother’s.
But Ibarra left the house. Everything seemed to reel around him, the ground was unstable. His ears buzzed, his legs moved heavily and irregularly. Waves of blood, lights and shadows chased one another before his eyes, and in spite of the bright moonlight he stumbled over the stones and blocks of wood in the vacant and deserted street.
Near the barracks he saw soldiers, with bayonets fixed, who were talking among themselves so excitedly that he
