The two monks finding themselves near the head of the table, like two candidates for a vacant office, began politely resigning in each other’s favor.

“This is your place, Brother DÁmaso.”

“No, yours, Brother Sibyla.”

“You are so much the older friend of the family.”

“But you are the curate of the quarter.”

This polite contention settled, the guests sat down, no one but Ibarra seeming to think of the master of the house.

“What,” said he, “you’re not to be with us, Don Santiago?”

But there was no place: Lucullus was not dining with Lucullus.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Captain Tiago, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This feast is a thank-offering for your safe return. Ho, there! bring the tinola! I’ve ordered the tinola expressly for you, CrisÓstomo.”

“When did you leave the country?” Laruja asked Ibarra.

“Seven years ago.”

“Then you must have almost forgotten it.”

“On the contrary, it has been always in my thoughts; but my country seems to have forgotten me.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the old lieutenant.

“Because for several months I have had no news, so that I do not even know how and when my father died.”

The lieutenant could not repress a groan.

“And where were you that they couldn’t telegraph you?” asked DoÑa Victorina. “When we were married, we sent despatches to the peninsula.”

“SeÑora, I was in the far north,” said Ibarra.

“You have travelled much,” said the blond provincial; “which of the European countries pleased you most?”

“After Spain, my second country, the nations that are free.”

“And what struck you as most interesting, most surprising, in the general life of nations—the genius of each, so to put it?” asked Laruja.

Ibarra reflected.

“Before visiting a country I carefully studied its history, and, except the different motives for national pride, there seems to me nothing surprisingly characteristic in any nation. Given its history, everything appears natural; each people’s wealth and misery seem in direct proportion to its freedom and its prejudices, and in consequence, in proportion to the self-sacrifice or selfishness of its progenitors.”

“Did you discover nothing more startling than that?” demanded the Franciscan, with a mocking laugh. “It was hardly worth while squandering money for so slight returns. Not a schoolboy but knows as much.”

The guests eyed one another, fearful of what might follow. Ibarra, astonished, remained silent a moment, then said quietly:

“SeÑores, do not wonder at these words of Brother DÁmaso. He was my curate when I was a little boy, and with his reverence the years don’t count. I thank him for thus recalling the time when he was often an honored guest at my father’s table.”

Brother Sibyla furtively observed the Franciscan, who was trembling slightly. At the first possible opportunity Ibarra rose.

“You will pardon me if I excuse myself,” he said. “I arrived only a few hours ago, and have matters of importance to attend to. The dinner is over. I drink little wine, and scarcely taste liquors.” And raising a glass as yet untouched, “SeÑores,” he said, “Spain and the Philippines forever!”

“You’re not going!” said Santiago in amazement. “Maria Clara and her friends will be with us in a moment. What shall I say to her?”

“That I was obliged to go,” said Ibarra, “and that I’m coming early in the morning.” And he went out.

The Franciscan unburdened himself.

“You saw his arrogance,” he said to the blond provincial. “These young fellows won’t take reproof from a priest. That comes of sending them to Europe. The Government ought to prohibit it.”

That night the young provincial added to his “Colonial Studies,” this paragraph: “In the Philippines, the least important person at a feast is he who gives it. You begin by showing your host to the door, and all goes merrily.... In the present state of affairs, it would be almost a kindness to prohibit young Filipinos from leaving their country, if not even from learning to read.”