“I have nothing more to do there. I’m going to stay permanently in Manila. And you?”
“I’m also leaving the town,” answered the ex-alferez, swelling up. “The government needs me to command a flying column to clean the provinces of filibusters.”
Fray Sibyla looked him over rapidly from head to foot and then turned his back completely.
“Is it known for certain what will become of the ringleader, the filibuster?” inquired a government employee.
“Do you mean Crisóstomo Ibarra?” asked another. “The most likely and most just thing is that he will be hanged, like those of ’72.”
“He’s going to be deported,” remarked the old lieutenant, dryly.
“Deported! Nothing more than deported? But it will be a perpetual deportation!” exclaimed several voices at the same time.
“If that young man,” continued the lieutenant, Guevara, in a loud and severe tone, “had been more cautious, if he had confided less in certain persons with whom he corresponded, if our prosecutors did not know how to interpret so subtly what is written, that young man would surely have been acquitted.”
This declaration on the part of the old lieutenant and the tone of his voice produced great surprise among his hearers, who were apparently at a loss to know what to say. Padre Salví stared in another direction, perhaps to avoid the gloomy look that the old soldier turned on him. María Clara let her flowers fall and remained motionless. Padre Sibyla, who knew so well how to be silent, seemed also to be the only one who knew how to ask a question.
“You’re speaking of letters, Señor Guevara?”
“I’m speaking of what was told me by his lawyer, who looked after the case with interest and zeal. Outside of some ambiguous lines which this youth wrote to a woman before he left for Europe, lines in which the government’s attorney saw a plot and a threat against the government, and which he acknowledged to be his, there wasn’t anything found to accuse him of.”
“But the declaration of the outlaw before he died?”
“His lawyer had that thrown out because, according to the outlaw himself, they had never communicated with the young man, but with a certain Lucas, who was an enemy of his, as could be proved, and who committed suicide, perhaps from remorse. It was proved that the papers found on the corpse were forged, since the handwriting was like that of Señor Ibarra’s seven years ago, but not like his now, which leads to the belief that the model for them may have been that incriminating letter. Besides, the lawyer says that if Señor Ibarra had refused to acknowledge the letter, he might have been able to do a great deal for him—but at sight of the letter he turned pale, lost his courage, and confirmed everything written in it.”
“Did you say that the letter was directed to a woman?” asked a Franciscan. “How did it get into the hands of the prosecutor?”
The lieutenant did not answer. He stared for a moment at Padre Salví and then moved away, nervously twisting the sharp point of his gray beard. The others made their comments.
“There is seen the hand of God!” remarked one. “Even the women hate him.”
“He had his house burned down, thinking in that way to save himself, but he didn’t count on the guest, on his querida, his babaye,” added another, laughing. “It’s the work of God! Santiago y cierra España!”170
Meanwhile the old soldier paused in his pacing about and approached María Clara, who was listening to the conversation, motionless in her chair, with the flowers scattered at her feet.
“You are a very prudent girl,” the old officer whispered to her. “You did well to give up the letter. You have thus assured yourself an untroubled future.”
With startled eyes she watched him move away from her, and bit her lip. Fortunately, Aunt Isabel came along, and she had sufficient strength left to catch hold of the old lady’s skirt.
“Aunt!” she murmured.
“What’s the matter?” asked the old lady, frightened by the look on the girl’s face.
“Take me to my room!” she pleaded, grasping her aunt’s arm in order to rise.
“Are you sick, daughter? You look as if you’d lost your bones! What’s the matter?”
“A fainting spell—the people in the room—so many lights—I need to rest. Tell father that I’m going to sleep.”
“You’re cold. Do you want some tea?”
María Clara shook her head, entered and locked the door of her chamber, and then, her strength failing her, she fell sobbing to the floor at the feet of an image.
“Mother, mother, mother mine!” she sobbed.
Through the window and a door that opened on the azotea the moonlight entered. The musicians continued to play merry waltzes, laughter and the hum of voices penetrated into the chamber, several times her father, Aunt Isabel, Doña Victorina, and even Linares knocked at the door, but María did not move. Heavy sobs shook her breast.
Hours passed—the pleasures of the dinner-table ended, the sound of singing and dancing was heard, the candle burned itself out, but the maiden still remained motionless on the moonlit floor at the feet of an image of the Mother of Jesus.
Gradually the house became quiet again, the lights were extinguished, and Aunt Isabel once more knocked at the door.
“Well, she’s gone to sleep,” said the old woman, aloud. “As she’s young and has no cares, she sleeps like a corpse.”
When all was silence she raised herself slowly and threw a look about her. She saw the azotea with its little arbors bathed in the ghostly light of the moon.
“An untroubled future! She sleeps like a corpse!” she repeated in a low voice as she made her way out to the azotea.
The city slept. Only from time to time there was heard the noise of a carriage crossing the wooden bridge over the
