One was the original of the portrait in oil, and he led by the hand a young man in deep black. “Good evening, seÑores; good evening, fathers,” said Captain Tiago, kissing the hands of the priests, “I have the honor of presenting to you Don CrisÓstomo Ibarra.”

At the name of Ibarra there were smothered exclamations. The lieutenant, forgetting to salute the master of the house, surveyed the young man from head to foot. Brother DÁmaso seemed petrified. The arrival was evidently unexpected. SeÑor Ibarra exchanged the usual phrases with members of the group. Nothing marked him from other guests save his black attire. His fine height, his manner, his movements, denoted sane and vigorous youth. His face, frank and engaging, of a rich brown, and lightly furrowed—trace of Spanish blood—was rosy from a sojourn in the north.

“Ah!” he cried, surprised and delighted, “my father’s old friend, Brother DÁmaso!”

All eyes turned toward the Franciscan, who did not stir.

“Pardon,” said Ibarra, puzzled. “I am mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken,” said the priest at last, in an odd voice; “but your father was not my friend.”

Ibarra, astonished, drew slowly back the hand he had offered, and turned to find himself facing the lieutenant, whose eyes had never left him.

“Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?”

CrisÓstomo bowed.

“Then welcome to your country! I knew your father well, one of the most honorable men of the Philippines.”

“SeÑor,” replied Ibarra, “what you say dispels my doubts as to his fate, of which as yet I know nothing.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He turned away to hide them, and moved off into the crowd.

The master of the house had disappeared. Ibarra was left alone in the middle of the room. No one presented him to the ladies. He hesitated a moment, then went up to them and said:

“Permit me to forget formalities, and salute the first of my countrywomen I have seen for years.”

No one spoke, though many eyes regarded him with interest. Ibarra turned away, and a jovial man, in native dress, with studs of brilliants down his shirt-front, almost ran up to say:

“SeÑor Ibarra, I wish to know you. I am Captain Tinong, and live near you at Tondo. Will you honor us at dinner to-morrow?”

“Thank you,” said Ibarra, pleased with the kindness, “but to-morrow I must leave for San Diego.”

“What a pity! Well then, on your return——”

“Dinner is served,” announced a waiter of the CafÉ La Campana.

The guests began to move toward the table, not without much ceremony on the part of the ladies, especially the natives, who required a great deal of polite urging.