Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila, is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gently to lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hat and drew a deep, long breath.

Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going, rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristic alike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward the Plaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiar objects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses with white and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash or repainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old church tower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there, too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and iron rods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it when a boy.

“Things go slowly here!” he muttered and continued up the street past the vestry.

As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying “sorbettes.” The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light for the stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeats and fruit.

“It is marvellous,” he exclaimed. “There is the same Chinaman who was at that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom I remember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe but a night’s sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired this broken place in the pavement!”

Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement before he left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditating upon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country, some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up, and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left the Captain’s house. A smile had displaced the officer’s usual harsh expression and characteristic frown.

“Be careful, young man!” said he. “Remember what happened to your father!”

“I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father very highly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?” asked Ibarra, gazing intently into the lieutenant’s eyes.

“Do you not know?” said the officer.

“I asked Don Santiago, but he said that he would tell me nothing until to-morrow. Have you no information regarding him?”

“Why, yes; everybody knows about him. He died in prison.”

The young man stepped back and stared wildly at the officer. “In prison! Who died in prison?” he asked in astonishment.

“Why, your father, who had been arrested,” answered the officer somewhat surprised.

“What! My father in prison! Arrested and imprisoned! Man, what are you talking about? Do you know who my father was? Are you——?” asked the young man, nervously grasping the officer’s arm.

“I don’t think that I am mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra.”

“Yes. Don Rafael Ibarra,” repeated the young man, scarcely able to utter the words.

“I thought that you knew it,” said the officer, in a sympathetic voice, as he saw the emotion his words had caused. “I thought that you knew it; but be brave. Here, you know, no man can be honorable without being imprisoned.”

“I cannot believe that you are not jesting,” replied Ibarra, after a few minutes of deep silence. “Can you tell me for what offense he was imprisoned?”

The old man paused as if to meditate. “It seems strange to me that you have not been kept informed as to the affairs of your family.”

“My father’s last letter, which I received a year ago, told me not to be uneasy if he failed to write to me, for he was very busy. He advised me to continue my studies, he sent me his blessing——”

“In that case, he must have written the letter to you shortly before his death. It is almost a year since we buried him in his own town.”

“Why was my father arrested?” asked Ibarra in a voice full of emotion.

“The cause of his arrest was an honorable one. I must go to my quarters now; walk along with me and then I can tell you on the way. Take my arm.”

They walked for some time in melancholy silence. Deep in thought and nervously stroking his goatee, the officer sought inspiration before he could begin the pitiful tale.

“As you very well know,” he at last began, “your father was the richest man in the province, and, although he was loved and highly respected by many, there were some envious persons who hated him. Your father had a great many enemies among the priests and the Spaniards. Some months after your departure, trouble arose between Don Rafael and Father DÁmaso, but I do not know what it was all about. Father DÁmaso accused your father of not attending confession. In former times, however, he had never attended confession. Nothing was said about it, and he and the priest were good friends, as you will remember. Furthermore, Don Rafael was a very honorable man and much more upright and just than many who go to confession regularly. He was very conscientious, and, in speaking to me in regard to his troubles with Father DÁmaso, used to say:

“‘SeÑor Guevara, do you believe that God will forgive a crime, a murder for instance, simply because that crime has been confessed to a priest—confessed to a man who is in duty bound to keep it secret? Will God pardon a man whose repentance is brought about by his cowardly fear of hell? I have a very different opinion of God. I cannot see how one evil can be corrected by another, nor how pardon can be procured by mere idle tears and donations to the Church.’ Your father always followed the strictest rules of morality. I may safely say that he never harmed any one, but, on the contrary, always sought by doing good to offset certain unjust deeds committed by your grandfathers. However, his troubles with the priests continued and took on a dangerous aspect. Father DÁmaso alluded to him from the pulpit, and, if he did not do so directly by name, it was an oversight on his part, for anything might be expected from a man of his character. I foresaw that sooner or later the affair would have a bad ending.”

The old lieutenant paused for a few minutes and then continued: “About this time there came to the province a man who had been in the artillery, but had been thrown out of the ranks on account of his brutality and ignorance. This man had to make a livelihood. He was not allowed to engage in the work of an ordinary laborer, since that might damage Spain’s prestige, but somehow obtained the position of collector of taxes on vehicles. He had no education whatever, and the natives soon found it out. A Spaniard who cannot read and write is a wonder to them, and hence he became the subject of all sorts of ridicule. Knowing that he was being laughed at, he became ashamed to collect his taxes. This had a bad effect on his character, which was already bad enough. People used to give him documents upside down to see him pretend to read them. He would make a show of doing so, and then, on the first blank space he found, would fill in some sprawling characters which, I may say, represented him very accurately. The natives continued to pay their taxes, but kept on ridiculing him. He fairly raved with anger and worked himself up to such a frame of mind that he respected none. Finally, he had some words with your father. It happened that one day, while the collector was studying a document which had been given to him in a store, some school boys came along. One of them called the attention of his companions to the collector, and they all began to laugh and point their fingers at the unhappy man. The collector finally lost his patience, turned quickly and chased his tormentors. The boys, of course, ran in all directions, at the same time mimicking a child learning the alphabet. Blind with rage because he could not reach them, he threw his cane, struck one of the boys on the head and knocked him down. Not content with this, he went up and kicked the boy several times. Unfortunately, your father happened to be passing just at the moment. Indignant at what he saw, he seized the tax collector by the arm and severely reproached him for his actions. The tax collector in anger raised his cane to strike, but your father was too quick for him. With that strength which he inherited from his forefathers, he, as some say, struck the collector, or, as others claim, only gave him a push. The fact is that the man staggered and fell to the ground, and, in falling, struck his head against a stone. Don Rafael quietly lifted up the wounded boy and carried him to the court house near by, leaving the collector where he had fallen. The ex-artilleryman began to bleed at the mouth and died without regaining consciousness.

“Naturally the law stepped in. They showered calumnies of all kinds upon your father and accused him of being a heretic and a revolutionist. To be a heretic is a great misfortune anywhere or at any time, but it was especially so at this particular time, for the chief magistrate of the province was the loudest prayer maker in the Church. To be a revolutionist is still worse. One might better have killed three highly educated tax collectors than be thus accused. Everybody deserted your father, and his books and papers were seized. He was accused of being a subscriber to ‘El Correo del Ultramar’ and to Madrid newspapers, of having sent you to Germany, of having in his possession incriminating papers and pictures, and—well, I don’t know what not. He was even attacked because, although he was the descendant of Spaniards, he wore the dress of the natives. If your father had been anybody else, he would have been acquitted, for the doctors pronounced the death of the collector due to natural causes. His fortune, however, his confidence in the law, and his hatred for everything which seemed unlawful and unjust, cost him his life. I myself, much as I dislike begging for mercy, called upon the Governor General, the predecessor of the present Governor. I brought out the fact that a man who aided every poor Spaniard, who gave food and shelter to all, and whose veins were filled with the generous blood of Spain—such a man could not be a revolutionist. In vain I argued for him, pledged my own life for him, and swore by my military honor. What did it all amount to? I was badly received, curtly and summarily dismissed, and called a fool.”

The old man paused to take breath. His young companion neither looked up nor made a sound. The narrator proceeded: “I took charge of the case for your father. I called upon the celebrated Filipino lawyer, young A——a, but he refused to undertake the defense. ‘I would lose the case,’ he said, ‘my defense would cause new accusations against him, and perhaps bring them upon me. Go and see SeÑor M——, who is an eloquent orator, a Spaniard and a man of great reputation.’ I did so, and the celebrated lawyer took charge of the case, which he conducted in a masterful and brilliant manner. But your father had many enemies, some of whom did their work secretly. There were many false witnesses in the case, and their calumnies, which anywhere else would have been overthrown by a single sarcastic phrase from the defending attorney, were here given a great deal of weight. As fast as the attorney proved the falsity of their accusations, new charges were brought forward. They accused him of having wrongfully taken possession of a large tract of land. They sued him for damages and for injuries caused. They said that he had dealings with the organized bandits or tulisanes, and that thus he had been able to keep his property unmolested. In fact, the case became so complicated that within a year no one understood it. The chief magistrate was called away from his post and replaced by another of good reputation, but unfortunately this magistrate, too, was displaced in a few months.

“The sufferings, disappointments and discomforts of prison life, and his great grief at seeing the ingratitude of so many supposed friends, finally broke down your father’s iron constitution and he became fatally ill. When it was all over; when he had proved himself not guilty of being an enemy to his country, and innocent of the death of the tax collector, he died in prison, with no one to care for him in his last hours. I arrived just as he was expiring.”

The old man had finished all he had to say. Ibarra, overcome with grief at the pathetic story he had heard, could not utter a word. The two had arrived at the gate of the barracks. Stopping and shaking hands with the young man, the officer said: “My boy, Captain Tiago can give you the details. I must say good night, for my duty calls me.” With deep emotion, Ibarra grasped the lean hand of the lieutenant, and then looked after him in silence until he disappeared in the building. Turning slowly about, he saw a carriage passing and made a sign to the cabman.

“Lala’s Hotel,” he said in a low voice.

“This fellow is just out of jail,” said the cabman to himself as he whipped up his horses.