Just as the old man was leaving the cemetery, a carriage stopped at the entrance. It looked as though it had made a long journey; the horses were sweating and the vehicle was covered with dust. Ibarra stepped out and was followed by an old servant. He made a gesture to the driver and then turned down the path into the cemetery. He was silent and grave.

“My sickness and my work have not permitted me to return, since the day of the funeral,” said the old servant timidly. “Captain Tiago said that he would see to it that a niche was arranged for, but I planted some flowers on the grave and erected a cross made by my own hands.”

Ibarra did not reply.

“Right there behind that large cross, seÑor,” continued the servant, making a gesture toward one of the corners just as they passed through the gate.

Ibarra was so preoccupied with sad thoughts that he did not notice the astonishment which some of the people in the cemetery manifested when they saw him enter. Those who were kneeling broke off their prayers and followed the young man, their eyes full of curiosity.

Ibarra walked along very carefully, and avoided stepping on the graves, which could be easily distinguished by the sunken ground. In other times he had walked over them; but to-day he respected them. His father lay in one of them. On coming to the other side of the large cross, he stopped and looked in all directions. His companion was confused and out of countenance. He searched for marks on the ground but could not find the cross anywhere.

“Is it here?” he murmured between his teeth. “No, it is over there, but the earth has been removed.”

Ibarra looked at him with an expression of anguish.

“Yes,” he continued. “I remember that there was a stone by the side of the grave. The grave was a little short, a farm hand had to dig it, as the grave-digger was sick at the time, but we will ask him what he has done with the cross.”

They turned toward the grave-digger, who looked at them with curiosity. He saluted them, taking off his hat.

“Can you tell us which of the graves over there is the one which had a cross?” asked the servant.

The grave-digger looked toward the place and seemed to reflect. “A large cross?”

“Yes, a large cross,” answered the old man with joy, looking significantly at Ibarra, whose face was somewhat animated.

“An ornamented cross, and fastened with reeds?” repeated the grave-digger, questioning the servant.

“That’s it, that’s it, yes, yes! Like this, like this,” and the servant traced an outline of a Byzantine cross.

“And were there some flowers sown on the grave?”

“Adelphas, sampagas and pansies! That’s it,” added the servant, delighted, and offering the grave-digger a cigar. “Tell us where the grave is and where the cross.”

The grave-digger scratched his ear and replied, yawning: “Well, the cross—I have already burned it up.”

“Burned it? and why have you burned it?”

“Because the head priest so ordered.”

“Who is the head priest?” asked Ibarra.

“Who? The one who does the whipping.”

Ibarra put his hand to his head.

“But you can at least tell us where the grave is? You ought to remember.”

The grave-digger smiled. “The body is no longer there,” he replied tranquilly.

“What do you say?”

“Yes, no longer,” the man added in a joking tone. “Only a week ago I buried a woman in its place.”

“Are you crazy?” the servant asked. “Why, it is not yet a year since we buried him.”

“Then that is the one, for it was many months ago that I took up the body. The head priest of the parish ordered me to do it, in order to bury it in the Chinese cemetery. But as it was heavy and it was raining that night——”

The man could not finish. He stepped back, half frightened at the expression on Crisostomo’s face. Ibarra made a rush at him, and, grabbing him by the arm, shook him.

“And what did you do?” the young man asked, in an indescribable tone.

“Honored sir, do not get angry,” he replied, pale and trembling. “I did not bury the body among the Chinese. In my opinion a person might better be a suicide than be buried among the Chinese. I threw the body into the lake.”

Ibarra laid both his hands on the man’s shoulders and looked at him for a long time in a terrifying manner. “You are only an unfortunate fellow,” he said, at last, and left the place on a run across bones, graves, and crosses, like a madman.

The grave-digger felt of his arm and murmured: “What would they do with the dead! The head priest whips me with his cane for having left the body in the cemetery when I was sick. Now this fellow comes along and nearly breaks my arm for having taken it up. That is just like the Spaniards! I’ll lose my place yet.”

Ibarra went on in great haste, keeping his eyes fixed in the distance. The old servant followed him, crying. Already the sun was hidden; a large, dark cloud hung over the western horizon; and a dry wind bent the tops of the trees and made the fields of sugar cane groan. With hat in hand, he went on. Not one tear dropped from his eye, not one sigh came from his breast. He hurried on as if he were fleeing from somebody, or something—perhaps the shade of his father, perhaps the tempest which was approaching. He hurried through the town and headed toward the outlying country, toward that old house which he had not entered for so many years. The house was surrounded by a wall, near which many cacti grew, and as he approached they seemed to signal to him. The windows seemed to open, the ilang-ilang joyfully waved its branches, and the doves fluttered about the little tower on the peak of their garden house.

But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his return to his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest who was advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of San Diego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom we have mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat, and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind to the outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. In his right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he and Ibarra had met.

As they approached each other, the young man stopped and looked at him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhat distracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rush toward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping his shoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed:

“What have you done with my father?”

Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentiments which were depicted on the young man’s face, could not reply.

“What have you done with my father?” he asked again, his voice almost choking him.

The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra’s hand, at last made a great effort and said: “You are mistaken. I have done nothing with your father.”

“What? No?” continued the young man, the weight of his hand on the priest’s shoulder almost making him kneel.

“No, I assure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father DÁmaso——”

“Ah!” exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and giving him a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quickly and went toward the house.