Captain Tiago was very happy. During all this terrible time nobody had busied himself with him. They had not arrested him, nor had they submitted him to excommunications, court trials, electrical machines, continual hot foot baths in subterranean places, or to any of the other punishments which are well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. He had returned to his Manila house. Those who had been the Captain’s friends—for he had renounced all his Filipino friends from the moment that they were suspected by the Government—had also returned to their homes after some days of vacation spent in the Government buildings. The Governor General had himself ordered these people to leave their possessions, for he had not thought it fitting that they should remain in them during the great danger.

Captain Tiago was overflowing with gratitude, but he did not know exactly to whom he was indebted for such signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo, to the Virgin of the Rosary, or at least to the Virgin of Carmen. The least that she would concede was that it was due to Our Lady of Corea. According to the Aunt, the miracle was certainly due to one of these Virgins. Captain Tiago did not deny that it was a miracle, but he added:

“I do not believe, Isabel, that the Virgin of Antipolo could have done it alone. My friends have aided in it; my future son-in-law, SeÑor Linares has, as you know, joked with SeÑor Antonio Canovas himself, whose portrait we saw in ‘Illustracion.’”

And the good man could not suppress a smile every time that he heard any important news about the event. And there was good reason for it. It was whispered about that Ibarra was going to be hanged; that, even if many proofs had been lacking, at last one had appeared which could confirm the accusation; and that skilled workmen had declared that, as a matter of fact, the work for the school-house could pass for a fort or a fortification. Even if defective in some parts, that was as much as could be expected from ignorant Indians. These rumors quieted the Captain and made him smile.

Just as the Captain and his cousin, Aunt Isabel, were of different opinions about the miracle, so, too, the other friends of the family were divided into different parties—those who followed the miracle monger, and those who followed the Government. The latter party, however, was quite insignificant. The miracle mongers were sub-divided into other factions: the Sacristan Mayor of Binondo, the woman who sold the wax candles, and the chief of one of the brotherhoods, all saw the hand of God in the miracle, moved by the Virgin of the Rosary. The Chinese candle maker, who provided the Captain whenever he went on a pilgrimage to Antipolo, was saying as he sat fanning himself and wiggling his foot:

“What for you b’long foolish? Thisee belong Mergin Antipolo. She can do muchy more: others, no can do. No b’long plopper say pidgin b’long other man.”

Captain Tiago held the Chinaman in great estimation and made him pass for a prophet and doctor. Examining the hand of his deceased wife in the sixth month of her pregnancy, he had prophesied:

“If thisee one no b’long man, and no go dead side, will b’long bery good woman.”

And so it was that Maria Clara came to this earth and fulfilled the Chinaman’s prophecy.

Captain Tiago, being a prudent and timid person, could not decide the question of the miracle as easily as the Trojan Paris. He could not give preference to one of the Virgins for fear of offending some other of them, a thing which might bring about grave results. “Prudence,” he said to himself. “Be prudent! Let us not lose all now.”

He was in the midst of these doubts when the party in favor of the Government, or the Governmental party, arrived, viz., DoÑa Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares.

DoÑa Victorina did all the talking for the three men and for herself also. She mentioned the visits which Linares had made to the Governor General, and repeatedly brought out the benefits derived from having a relative of categorÍa.

For some days past, she had been trying to be Andalusian by suppressing the d in all words and in changing the s to z. No one could get the idea out of her head; she would prefer to lose her front curls first.

“Yes,” she said, in speaking of Ibarra. “That fellow merits very well all that he is going to get. I told you so when I saw him for the first time. I told you he was a filibustero. What did the General tell you, cousin? What did he say? What news did you give him about Ibarra?”

Seeing that the cousin hesitated in his reply, she went on, directing her words to Captain Tiago.

“Believe me, if they convict him, as is to be hoped, it will be through my cousin.”

“SeÑora, SeÑora!” protested Linares.

But she did not give him any time.

“Oh, what a diplomat you have turned out to be! But we all know that you are the adviser of the Governor General, that he could not live without you. Ah! What a pleasure to see you, Clarita.”

Maria Clara seemed paler than ever, although she was now quite recovered from her illness. Sadly smiling, she approached and greeted DoÑa Victorina with a formal kiss.

After the customary words had been exchanged, DoÑa went on with her false Andalusian.

“We came to visit you. You have been saved by the efforts of your friends,”—looking significantly at Linares.

“God has protected my father,” said the girl, in a low voice.

“Yes, Clarita, but the time for miracles has passed long ago. As we Spaniards say: ‘Have no trust in the Virgin and save yourself by running.’”

“The—th—the ot—ot—other way,” said the doctor, correcting her proverbial quotation.

Captain Tiago, who had not yet found opportunity to say a word, ventured to ask her, giving much attention to her reply: “So you, DoÑa Victorina, believe that the Virgin...?”

“That is precisely what we came for, to speak to you about the Virgin,” replied she, indicating Maria Clara. “We have a matter to talk over.”

The maiden understood that she ought to retire. She sought an excuse and went away, supporting herself on the furniture as she walked along.

What was said in the conference which followed was so low and mean that we prefer to omit it. It is sufficient for us to say that when they took their leave all were happy, and that Captain Tiago afterward said to his cousin:

“Isabel, send word to the restaurant that we are going to give a fiesta to-morrow. You get Maria ready to be married in a short time.”

Aunt Isabel looked at him, surprised.

“You will see! When SeÑor Linares is our son-in-law all the palaces will be open to us. They will be envying us; they will all die with envy.”

And thus it was that at eight o’clock on the following evening, Captain Tiago’s house was again full of guests, only that this time the men whom he had invited were either Spaniards or Chinamen, while the fair sex was represented by Spaniards born in the Peninsula or in the Philippines.

The larger part of our acquaintances was there: Father Sibyla, Father SalvÍ and several other Franciscans and Dominicans, the old lieutenant of the Civil Guard, SeÑor Guevara, more melancholy than ever; the alferez, who related his battle for the thousandth time, feeling himself head and shoulders above everybody and a veritable Don Juan de Austria, now a lieutenant with the rank of commander; De EspadaÑa, who looked at the former with respect and fear and avoided his glance; and the indignant DoÑa Victorina. Linares was not yet present, for, being a very important personage, it was fitting that he should arrive later than the others.

Maria Clara, the subject of all the gossip, was the center of a group of women. She had greeted and received them ceremoniously, but did not throw off her air of sadness.

“Psh!” said one of the girls. “A little stuck-up!”

“A cute little thing,” replied another, “but he might have selected some one of a more intelligent appearance.”

“It’s the money; he’s a good-looking fellow and sells himself for a good price.”

In another part of the room they were talking like this:

“Marry, when her former betrothed is about to be hanged!”

“I call that prudence; to have one on hand as a substitute.”

Possibly the young maiden heard these remarks as she sat in a chair near by, arranging a tray of flowers, for her hand was seen to tremble, she turned pale and bit her lips a number of times.

The conversation among the men was in a loud tone. Naturally, they were conversant with the recent happenings. All were talking, even Don Tiburcio, with the exception of Father Sibyla, who maintained a disdainful silence.

“I have heard that Your Reverence leaves the town, Father SalvÍ?” asked the newly made lieutenant, now made more amiable by the star on his sleeve.

“I have nothing more to do now in San Diego. I am permanently settled in Manila now ... and you?”

“I also leave the town,” replied the former alferez, straightening up. “The Government needs me to take command of a flying column to clear the provinces of filibusteros.”

Friar SalvÍ looked him over from head to foot, and turned his back to him completely.

“Is it yet known for a certainty what is to become of the leader of the revolutionists?” asked a Government employee.

“Are you referring to Crisostomo Ibarra?” asked another. “What is most probable and most just is that he be hanged, as those were in ’72.”

“He will be exiled,” said the old lieutenant, dryly.

“Exiled! Nothing more than exiled! But it will be a perpetual exile!” exclaimed several at the same time.

“If that young fellow,” Lieutenant Guevara went on to say in a loud voice, “had been more cautious; if he had trusted certain people less with whom he had correspondence; and if the officers had not made a subtle interpretation of what was written—if it had not been for all of this, that young man would surely have gone free.”

This statement by the old lieutenant and the tone of his voice produced a great surprise in the room. Those who heard it did not know what to say. Father SalvÍ looked in another direction, perhaps so as not to meet the dark look which the old man directed toward him. Maria Clara dropped her flowers and sat motionless. Father Sibyla, the one who knew how to keep silent, appeared to be the only one who knew how to ask questions.

“Are you referring to the letters, SeÑor Guevara?”

“I am telling what the defendant’s attorney told me. He has taken up the case with zeal and interest. Aside from some ambiguous lines which this young man wrote to a young woman before departing for Europe, they have found no proof to sustain the accusation. In these few lines, the officers saw a plan and threat against the Government.”

“And what about the declaration made by the bandit before he died?”

“That statement has proved of no account, since, according to the bandit himself, the conspirators never had communicated with the young man, but only with one, Lucas, who was Ibarra’s enemy, as they have been able to prove, and who committed suicide, perhaps from remorse. It has been proved that the papers found in the possession of the dead man were forged, since the handwriting was like that of Ibarra seven years ago, but not like that of to-day—a fact which shows that it was copied from the letter used as evidence against him. Besides, his attorney says that if Ibarra had not admitted the genuineness of the letter, he would have been able to do much for him; but, at the sight of it, the young man turned pale, lost heart and acknowledged that he had written it.”

“Do you say,” asked a Franciscan, “that the letter was directed to a young woman? How did it get into the hands of the officers?”

The lieutenant did not reply. He looked for a moment at Friar SalvÍ and then walked off, twisting nervously the end of his grey beard. In the meantime, others were commenting something like this:

“There you see the hand of God!” said one. “Even the women hate him.”

“He had his house burned, thinking that he could thus save himself. But he did not reckon with his host—that is, with his querida,1 with his babai,”1 added another, smiling. “That is God’s work. Santiago protects Spain!”

The old army officer stopped and approached Maria Clara. She was listening to the conversation, immovable in her seat. The flowers were at her feet.

“You are a very prudent young woman,” said the old lieutenant to her in a low voice. “You have done well to hand over the letter.... In this way you will assure yourself of a peaceful future.”

With dull eyes, and biting her lips, she looked at him as he walked away. Luckily, Aunt Isabel passed her at this moment. Maria Clara summoned enough strength to catch hold of her aunt’s dress.

“Aunt,” she murmured.

“What is the matter with you?” asked the latter, frightened, as she saw the young woman’s face.

“Take me to my room!” she begged, clinging to the arm of the old woman in order to raise herself to her feet.

“Are you sick, my child? You seem to have lost all your strength. What is the matter with you?”

“A little sick to my stomach ... the crowd in the sala ... so much light ... I need to rest. Tell father that I am going to sleep.”

“You are cold! Do you want some tea?”

Maria Clara shook her head negatively. She closed the door of her room and locked it, and, her strength failing her, she fell to the floor, at the feet of an image, weeping and sobbing:

“Mother, mother, my mother!”

The moonlight was shining through the open window and door which led out upon the azotea.

The orchestra continued playing gay waltzes. The laughter and the hum of conversation could be heard in her bedroom. A number of times her family, Aunt Isabel, DoÑa Victorina, and even Linares, knocked at her door, but Maria Clara did not move. There was a rattle in her throat.

Hours passed. The pleasures of the table ended, and dancing followed. Her little candle burned out, but the maiden lay quietly on the floor, the rays of moonlight shining upon her at the foot of an image of the Mother of Jesus.

Gradually the noises in the house died away, the lights were put out, and Aunt Isabel again knocked at the door of her room.

“Let us leave her; she is sleeping,” said her aunt. “At her age, with nothing to trouble her, she sleeps like a corpse.”

When all was again silent, Maria arose slowly and glanced around her. She saw the azotea and the small climbing plants bathed in the melancholy light of the moon.

“A peaceful future! Sleeping like a corpse!” she murmured in a low voice, and turned toward the azotea.

The city was quiet. Only the noise of an occasional carriage passing over the wooden bridge could be heard in the stillness of the night, while the tranquil waters of the river were reflecting the moonlight.

The maiden raised her eyes to the pure, sapphire-colored sky. Slowly she took off her rings, her hair-combs, her earrings, and her breast-pin, and placing them upon the balustrade of the azotea she looked out toward the river.

A banca, loaded with rice grass, stopped at the foot of the landing on the bank of the river at the rear of the house. One of the two men who were propelling the boat went up the stone steps, leaped over the wall, and a few seconds afterward, steps were heard coming up the azotea.

Maria Clara saw him stop on discovering her, but it was for only a moment. The man advanced slowly and at about three steps from the maiden, stopped again. Maria Clara stepped back.

“Crisostomo!” she gasped, full of terror.

“Yes, I am Crisostomo!” replied the young man, in a grave voice. “An enemy, a man who has good reason to hate me, Elias, has helped me out of the prison into which my friends had thrown me.”

Silence followed these words. Maria Clara bowed her head and allowed both her hands to drop at her side.

Ibarra continued:

“Beside the dead body of my mother, I swore to make you happy, whatever might be my destiny. You can break your oath; she was not your mother. But I, who am her son, I hold her memory sacred, and, running great risk, I have come here to fulfill my oath. Fortune permits me to speak with you personally. Maria, we shall not see each other again. You are young and perhaps some day your conscience may accuse you.... I come to tell you, before leaving, that I forgive you. Now, may you be happy, and good-bye!”

Ibarra tried to leave, but the maiden stopped him.

“Crisostomo!” she said. “God has sent you to save me from desperation.... Hear me and judge me!”

Ibarra wished to withdraw gently from her.

“I have not come,” said he, “to call you to account.... I have come to give you peace.”

“I do not want the peace which you give me. I will give myself peace. You despise me, and your contempt will make my life bitter till death.”

Ibarra saw the poor girl’s desperation, and asked her what she desired.

“That you may believe that I have always loved you.”

Crisostomo smiled bitterly.

“Ah! You doubt me, you doubt the friend of your infancy, who has never hidden a single thought from you,” exclaimed she in grief. “I understand you. When you know my history, the history which they revealed to me during my illness, you will pity me and you will no longer answer my grief with that bitter smile. Why did you not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor? You and I would have been happier then.”

Maria Clara rested a moment and then continued:

“You have doubted me; you have wished my mother to pardon me. During one of those nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my true father, and forbade me to love you ... unless my true father should pardon you for the offense you committed against him.”

Ibarra recoiled and looked in terror at the maiden.

“Yes,” she continued. “This man told me that he could not permit our marriage, since his conscience would not allow it, and he would find himself compelled to publish the truth at the risk of causing a great scandal, because my father is ...”

And she whispered a name in the young man’s ear in a scarcely audible voice.

“What was I to do? Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of the man who innocently supposes himself my father, and the good name of my real father? Could I do that without you despising me for it?”

“But the proof? Have you proof? You need proof!” exclaimed Crisostomo, deeply agitated.

The maiden drew two letters from her bosom.

“Two of my mother’s letters: two letters written in remorse before I was born. Take them, read them and you will see how she cursed me and desired my death, which my father in vain tried to cause by drugs. These letters were forgotten in the house where he lived; a man found them and kept them. They would only give them to me in exchange for your letter ... to make certain, as they said, that I would not marry you without the consent of my father. From the time that I began to carry them in my bosom instead of your letter, my heart was chilled. I sacrificed you, I sacrificed my love.... What would not a person do for a dead mother and two living fathers? Did I suspect the use to which they were going to put your letter?”

Ibarra was prostrated. Maria Clara went on:

“What was there left for me? Could I tell you who was my father? Could I ask you to seek the pardon of him who had so much desired my death, and who made your father suffer? There was nothing left for me but to keep the secret to myself, and to die suffering.... Now, my friend, you know the sad history of your poor Maria. Will you still have that contemptuous smile for her?”

“Maria, you are a saint.”

“I am happy now that you believe me.”

“However,” added the young man, changing his tone. “I have heard that you are about to marry.”

“Yes,” sobbed the maiden. “My father asked this sacrifice of me. He has fed me and loved me, and it was not his duty. I pay him this debt of gratitude which I owe him by assuring him peace through this new relative, but ...”

“But?”

“I shall not forget the oaths of fidelity which I made to you.”

“What do you think of doing?” asked Ibarra, trying to read her eyes.

“The future is obscure and Destiny is hidden in darkness. I do not know what I am to do; but I know that I can love only once, and that without love I never will belong to any one. And you, what is to become of you?”

“I am nothing but a fugitive.... I am fleeing. In a very short time, they will discover my escape, Maria....”

Maria Clara clasped her arms about her lover’s neck, kissed his lips repeatedly, hugged him, and then, abruptly breaking away from him, said:

“Flee! flee! Adios!”

Ibarra looked at her, his eyes sparkling, but she motioned and he went away, staggering like a drunken man. Again he leaped over the wall and entered the banca. Maria Clara, leaning on the door casing, watched him depart.

Elias took off his hat and bowed profoundly.