With threatening air the guards marched back and forth before the door of the town hall, menacing with the butt of their rifles intrepid small boys, who came and raised themselves on tiptoe to see through the gratings.

The court room had not the same appearance as the day of the discussion of the fÊte. The guards and the cuadrilleros spoke low; the alfÉrez paced the room, looking angrily at the door from time to time. In a corner yawned DoÑa Consolacion, her steely eyes riveted on the door leading into the prison. The arm-chair under the picture of His Majesty was empty.

It was almost nine o’clock when the curate arrived.

“Well,” said the alfÉrez, “you haven’t kept us waiting!”

“I did not wish to be here,” said the curate, ignoring the tone of the alfÉrez. “I am very nervous.”

“I thought it best to wait for you,” said the alfÉrez. “We have eight here,” he went on, pointing toward the door of the prison; “the one called Bruno died in the night. Are you ready to examine the two unknown prisoners?”

The curate sat down in the arm-chair.

“Let us go on,” he said.

“Bring out the two in the cepo!” ordered the alfÉrez in as terrible a voice as he could command. Then turning to the curate:

“We skipped two holes.”

For the benefit of those not acquainted with the instruments of torture of the Philippines, we will say that the cepo, a form of stocks, is one of the most innocent; but by skipping enough holes, the position is made most trying. It is, however, a torture that can be long endured.

The jailor drew the bolt and opened the door. A sickening odor escaped, and a match lighted by one of the guards went out in the vitiated air; when it was possible to take in a candle, one could see dimly, from the rooms outside, the forms of men crouching or standing. The cepo was opened.

A dark figure came out between two soldiers; it was TÁrsilo, the brother of Bruno. His torn clothing let his splendid muscles show. The other prisoner brought out was weeping and lamenting.

“What is your name?” the alfÉrez demanded of TÁrsilo.

“TÁrsilo Alasigan.”

“What did Don CrisÓstomo promise you for attacking the convent?”

“I have never had any communication with Don CrisÓstomo.”

“Don’t attempt to deny it: what other reason had you for joining the conspiracy?”

“You had killed our father, we wished to avenge him, nothing more. Go find two of your guards. They’re at the foot of the precipice, where we threw them. You may kill me now, you will learn nothing more.”

There was silence and general surprise.

“You will name your accomplices,” cried the alfÉrez, brandishing his cane.

The accused man smiled disdainfully. The alfÉrez talked apart with the curate.

“Take him where the bodies are,” he ordered.

In a corner of the patio, on an old cart, five bodies were heaped under a piece of soiled matting.

“Do you know them?” asked the alfÉrez, lifting the covering. TÁrsilo did not reply. He saw the body of Sisa’s husband, and that of his brother, pierced through with bayonet strokes. His face grew darker, and a great sigh escaped him; but he was mute.

“Beat him till he confesses or dies!” cried the exasperated alfÉrez.

They led him back where the other prisoner, with chattering teeth, was invoking the saints.

“Do you know this man?” demanded Father Salvi.

“I never saw him before,” replied TÁrsilo, looking at the poor wretch with faint compassion.

“Fasten him to the bench; gag him!” ordered the alfÉrez, trembling with rage. When this was done, a guard began his sad task.

Father Salvi, pale and haggard, rose trembling, and left the tribunal. In the street he saw a girl, leaning against the wall, rigid, motionless, her eyes far away. The sun shone full down on her. She seemed not to breathe but to count, one after another, the muffled blows inside. It was TÁrsilo’s sister.

The torture continued until the soldier, breathless, let his arm fall, and the alfÉrez ordered his victim released. But TÁrsilo still refused to speak. Then DoÑa Consolacion whispered in her husband’s ear; he nodded.

“To the well with him!” he said.

The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalo it is called timbaÎn. We do not know who invented this judiciary process, but it must belong to antiquity. Truth coming out of a well is perhaps a sarcastic interpretation.

In the middle of the patio of the tribunal was a picturesque well curb of uncut stones. It had a rustic crank of bamboo; its water was slimy and putrid. All sorts of refuse had been thrown around it and in it.

Toward this TÁrsilo was led. He was very pale, and his lips trembled, if he was not praying. The pride he had shown appeared now to be crushed out; he seemed resigned to suffer. The poor wretch looked enviously at the pile of bodies, and sighed heavily.

“Speak then!” said the directorcillo. “You will be hung anyway. Why not die without so much suffering?” But TÁrsilo remained mute.

When the well was reached, they bound his feet. He was to be let down head foremost. He was fastened to the curb; the crank turned, and his body disappeared. The alfÉrez noted the seconds with his watch. At the signal the body was drawn up, too pitiable to describe; but TÁrsilo was still mute. Again he was let down, again he refused to speak; when he was drawn up the third time, he no longer breathed.

His torturers looked at each other in consternation. The alfÉrez ordered the body taken down, and they all examined it for signs of life; but there were none.

“See,” said a cuadrillero, at last, “he has strangled himself with his tongue!”

“Put the body with the others,” ordered the alfÉrez nervously. “We must examine the other unknown prisoner.”