It was not yet dawn. The street in which were the barracks and tribunal was still deserted; none of its houses gave a sign of life. Suddenly the shutter of a window opened with a bang and a child’s head appeared, looking in all directions, the little neck stretched to its utmost—plas! It was the sound of a smart slap in contact with the fresh human skin. The child screwed up his face, shut his eyes, and disappeared from the window, which was violently closed again.

But the example had been given: the two bangs of the shutter had been heard. Another window opened, this time with precaution, and the wrinkled and toothless head of an old woman looked stealthily out. It was Sister PutÁ, the old dame who had caused such a commotion during Father DÁmaso’s sermon. Children and old women are the representatives of curiosity in the world; the children want to know, the old women to live over again. The old sister stayed longer than the child, and gazed into the distance with contracted brows. Timidly a skylight opened in the house opposite, giving passage to the head and shoulders of sister Rufa. The two old women looked across at each other, smiled, exchanged gestures, and signed themselves.

“Since the sack of the pueblo by BÂlat I’ve not known such a night!” said Sister PutÁ.

“What a firing! They say it was the band of old Pablo.”

“Tulisanes? Impossible! I heard it was the cuadrilleros against the guards; that’s why Don Filipo was arrested.”

“They say at least fourteen are dead.”

Other windows opened and people were seen exchanging greetings and gossip.

By the light of the dawn, which promised a splendid day, soldiers could now be seen dimly at the end of the street, like gray silhouettes coming and going.

“Do you know what it was?” asked a man, with a villainous face.

“Yes, the cuadrilleros.”

“No, seÑor, a revolt!”

“What revolt? The curate against the alfÉrez?”

“Oh, no; nothing of that kind. It was an uprising of the Chinese.”

“The Chinese!” repeated all the listeners, with great disappointment.

“That’s why we don’t see one!”

“They are all dead!”

“I—I suspected they had something on foot!”

“I saw it, too. Last night——”

“What a pity they are all dead before Christmas!” cried Sister Rufa. “We shall not get their presents!”

The streets began to show signs of life. First the dogs, pigs, and chickens began to circulate; then some little ragged boys, keeping hold of each other’s hands, ventured to approach the barracks. Two or three old women crept after them, their heads wrapt in handkerchiefs knotted under their chins, pretending to tell their beads, so as not to be driven back by the soldiers. When it was certain that one might come and go without risking a pistol shot, the men commenced to stroll out. Affecting indifference and stroking their cocks, they finally got as far as the tribunal.

Every quarter hour a new version of the affair was circulated. Ibarra with his servants had tried to carry off Maria Clara, and in defending her, Captain Tiago had been wounded. The number of dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. At half-past seven the version which received most credit was clear and detailed.

“I’ve just come from the tribunal,” said a passer, “where I saw Don Filipo and Don CrisÓstomo prisoners. Well, Bruno, son of the man who was beaten to death, has confessed everything. You know, Captain Tiago is to marry his daughter to the young Spaniard. Don CrisÓstomo wanted revenge, and planned to massacre all the Spaniards. His band attacked the convent and the barracks. They say many of them escaped. The guards burned Don CrisÓstomo’s house, and if he hadn’t been arrested, they would have burned him, too.”

“They burned the house?”

“You can still see the smoke from here,” said the narrator.

Everybody looked: a column of smoke was rising against the sky. Then the comments began, some pitying, some accusing.

“Poor young man!” cried the husband of Sister PutÁ.

“What!” cried the sister. “You are ready to defend a man that heaven has so plainly punished? You’ll find yourself arrested too. You uphold a falling house!”

The husband was silent; the argument had told.

“Yes,” went on the old woman. “After striking down Father DÁmaso, there was nothing left but to kill Father Salvi!”

“But you can’t deny he was a good child.”

“Yes, he was good,” replied the old woman; “but he went to Europe, and those who go to Europe come back heretics, the curates say.”

“Oho!” said the husband, taking his advantage. “And the curate, and all the curates, and the archbishop, and the pope, aren’t they all Spaniards? What? And are they heretics?”

Happily for Sister PutÁ, the conversation was cut short. A servant came running, pale and horror-stricken.

“A man hung—in our neighbor’s garden!” she gasped.

A man hung! Nobody stirred.

“Let’s come and see,” said the old man, rising.

“Don’t go near him,” cried Sister PutÁ, “’twill bring us misfortune. If he’s hung, so much the worse for him!”

“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go and inform them at the tribunal; he may not be dead.” And the old man went off, the women, even Sister PutÁ, following at a distance, full of fear, but also of curiosity.

Hanging from the branch of a sandal tree in the garden a human body met their gaze. The brave man examined it.

“We must wait for the authorities; he’s been dead a long time,” he said.

Little by little the women drew near.

“It’s the new neighbor,” they whispered. “See the scar on his face?”

In half an hour the authorities arrived.

“People are in a great hurry to die!” said the directorcillo, cocking his pen behind his ear, and he began his investigation.

Meanwhile a peasant wearing a great salakat on his head and having his neck muffled was examining the body and the cord. He noticed several evidences that the man was dead before he was hung. The curious countryman noticed also that the clothing seemed recently torn and was covered with dust.

“What are you looking at?” demanded the directorcillo, who had gathered all his evidence.

“I was looking, seÑor, to see if I knew him,” stammered the man, half uncovering, in which he managed to lower his salakat even farther over his eyes.

“But didn’t you hear that it is a certain JosÉ? You must be asleep!”

Everybody laughed. The confused countryman stammered something else and went away. When he had reached a safe distance, he took off his disguise and resumed the stature and gait of Elias.