All the distinguished people of the province were united in the carpeted and decorated booth. The alcalde was at one end of the table, Ibarra at the other. The talk was animated, even gay. The meal was half finished when a despatch was handed to Captain Tiago. He asked permission to read it; his face paled; then lighted up. “SeÑores,” he cried, quite beside himself, “His Excellency the captain-general is to honor my house with his presence!” And he started off running, carrying his despatch and his napkin, forgetting his hat, and pursued by exclamations and questions. The announcement of the tulisanes could not have put him to greater confusion.

“Wait a moment! When is he coming? Tell us?”

Captain Tiago was already in the distance.

“His Excellency asks the hospitality of Captain Tiago!” the guests exclaimed, apparently forgetting that they spoke before his daughter and his future son-in-law.

“He could hardly make a better choice,” said Ibarra, with dignity.

“This was spoken of yesterday,” said the alcalde, “but His Excellency had not fully decided.”

“Do you know how long he is to stay?” asked the alfÉrez, uneasily.

“I’m not at all sure! His Excellency is fond of surprising people.”

Three other despatches were brought. They were for the alcalde, the alfÉrez, and the gobernadorcillo, and identical, announcing the coming of the governor. It was remarked that there was none for the curate.

“His Excellency arrives at four this afternoon,” said the alcalde, solemnly. “We can finish our repast.” It might have been Leonidas saying: “To-night we sup with Pluto!”

The conversation returned to its former course.

“I notice the absence of our great preacher,” said one of the clerks, an honest, inoffensive fellow, who had not yet said a word. Those who knew the story of Ibarra’s father looked significantly at one another. “Fools rush in,” said the glances of some; but others, more considerate, tried to cover the error.

“He must be somewhat fatigued——”

“Somewhat!” cried the alfÉrez. “He must be spent, as they say here, malunqueado. What a sermon!”

“Superb! Herculean!” was the opinion of the notary.

“Magnificent! Profound!” said a newspaper correspondent.

In the other booth the children were more noisy than little Filipinos are wont to be, for at table or before strangers they are usually rather too timid than too bold. If one of them did not eat with propriety, his neighbor corrected him. To one a certain article was a spoon; to others a fork or a knife; and as nobody settled their questions, they were in continual uproar.

Their fathers and mothers, simple peasants, looked in ravishment to see their children eating on a white cloth, and doing it almost as well as the curate or the alcalde. It was better to them than a banquet.

“Yes,” said a young peasant woman to an old man grinding his buyo, “whatever my husband says, my Andoy shall be a priest. It is true, we are poor; but Father Mateo says Pope Sixtu was once a keeper of carabaos at Batanzas! Look at my Andoy; hasn’t he a face like St. Vincent?” and the good mother’s mouth watered at the sight of her son with his fork in both hands!

“God help us!” said the old man, munching his sapa. “If Andoy gets to be pope, we will go to Rome! I can walk yet! Ho! Ho!”

Another peasant came up.

“It’s decided, neighbor,” he said, “my son is to be a doctor.”

“A doctor! Don’t speak of it!” replied Petra. “There’s nothing like being a curate! He has only to make two or three turns and say ‘dÉminos pabiscum’ and he gets his money.”

“And isn’t it work to confess?”

“Work! Think of the trouble we take to find out the affairs of our neighbors! The curate has only to sit down, and they tell him everything!”

“And preaching? Don’t you call that work?”

“Preaching? Where is your head? To scold half a day from the pulpit without any one’s daring to reply and be paid for it into the bargain! Look, look at Father DÁmaso! See how fat he gets with his shouting and pounding!”

In truth, Father DÁmaso was that moment passing the children’s booth in the gait peculiar to men of his size. As he entered the other booth, he was half smiling, but so maliciously that at sight of it Ibarra, who was talking, lost the thread of his speech.

The guests were astonished to see the father, but every one except Ibarra received him with signs of pleasure. They were at the dessert, and the champagne was sparkling in the cups.

Father DÁmaso’s smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara sitting next CrisÓstomo, but, taking a chair beside the alcalde, he said in the midst of a significant silence:

“You were talking of something, seÑores; continue!”

“We had come to the toasts,” said the alcalde. “SeÑor Ibarra was mentioning those who had aided him in his philanthropic enterprise, and he was speaking of the architect when your reverence——”

“Ah, well! I know nothing about architecture,” interrupted Father DÁmaso, “but I scorn architects and the simpletons who make use of them.”

“Nevertheless,” said the alcalde, as Ibarra was silent, “when certain buildings are in question, like a school, for example, an expert is needed——”

“An expert!” cried the father, with sarcasm. “One needs be more stupid than the Indians, who build their own houses, not to know how to raise four walls and put a roof on them. Nothing else is needed for a school!”

Every one looked at Ibarra, but, though he grew a little pale, he pursued his conversation with Maria Clara.

“But does your reverence consider——”

“See here!” continued the Franciscan, again cutting off the alcalde. “See how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid one we have, built a hospital. He paid the workmen eight cuartos a day, and got them from other pueblos, too. Not much like these young feather-brains who ruin workmen, paying them three or four rÉales!”

“Does your reverence say he paid but eight cuartos? Impossible!” said the alcalde, hoping to change the course of the conversation.

“Yes, seÑor, and so should those do who pride themselves upon being good Spaniards. Since the opening of the Suez Canal, corruption has reached even here! When the Cape had to be doubled, not so many ruined men came here, and fewer went abroad to ruin themselves!”

“But Father DÁmaso——”

“You know the Indian; as soon as he has learned anything, he takes a title. All these beardless youths who go to Europe——”

“But, your reverence, listen——” began the alcalde, alarmed by the harshness of these words.

“Finish as they merit,” continued the priest. “The hand of God is in it; he is blind who does not see that. Already even the fathers of these reptiles receive their chastisement; they die in prison! Ah——”

He did not finish. Ibarra, livid, had been watching him. At these words he rose, gave one bound, and struck out with his strong hand. The monk, stunned by the blow, fell backward.

Surprised and terrified, not one of the spectators moved.

“Let no one come near!” said the young man in a terrible voice, drawing his slender blade, and holding the neck of the priest with his foot. “Let no one come, unless he wishes to die.”

Ibarra was beside himself, his whole body trembled, his threatening eyes were big with rage. Father DÁmaso, regaining his senses, made an effort to rise, but CrisÓstomo, grasping his neck, shook him till he had brought him to his knees.

“SeÑor de Ibarra! SeÑor de Ibarra!” stammered one and another. But nobody, not even the alfÉrez, risked a movement. They saw the knife glitter; they calculated CrisÓstomo’s strength, unleashed by anger; they were paralyzed.

“All you here, you have said nothing. Now it rests with me. I avoided him; God brings him to me. Let God judge!”

Ibarra breathed with effort, but his arm of iron kept harsh hold of the Franciscan, who struggled in vain to free himself.

“My heart beats true, my hand is firm——” And he looked about him.

“I ask you first, is there among you any one who has not loved his father, who has not loved his father’s memory; any one born in shame and abasement? See, hear this silence! Priest of a God of peace, thy mouth full of sanctity and religion, thy heart of corruption! Thou canst not know what it is to be a father; thou shouldst have thought of thy own! See, in all this crowd that you scorn there is not one like you! You are judged!”

The guests, believing he was going to strike, made their first movement.

“Do not come near us!” he cried again in the same threatening voice. “What? You fear I shall stain my hand in impure blood? Did I not tell you that my heart beats true? Away from us, and listen, priests, believing yourselves different from other men, giving yourselves other rights! My father was an honorable man. Ask the country which venerates his memory. My father was a good citizen, who sacrificed himself for me and for his country’s good. His house was open, his table set for the stranger or the exile who should turn to him! He was a Christian; always doing good, never pressing the weak, nor forcing tears from the wretched. As to this man, he opened his door to him, made him sit down at his table, and called him friend. And how did the man respond? He falsely accused him; he pursued him; he armed ignorance against him! Confiding in the sanctity of his office, he outraged his tomb, dishonored his memory; his hate troubled even the rest of the dead. And not yet satisfied, he now pursues the son. I fled from him, avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the chair, point me out to the people’s fanaticism; but I said nothing. Now, he comes here to seek a quarrel; I suffer in silence, until he again insults a memory sacred to all sons.

“You who are here, priests, magistrates, have you seen your old father give himself for you, part from you for your good, die of grief in a prison, looking for your embrace, looking for consolation from any one who would bring it, sick, alone; while you in a foreign land? Then have you heard his name dishonored, found his tomb empty when you went there to pray? No? You are silent; then you condemn him!”

He raised his arm. But a girl, rapid as light, threw herself between him and the priest, and with her fragile hands held the avenging arm. It was Maria Clara. Ibarra looked at her with eyes like a madman’s. Then, little by little, his tense fingers relaxed; he let fall the knife, and, covering his face with his hands, he fled.