It was about ten o’clock at night. The last rockets lazily soared into the dark sky, where paper balloons shone like new stars. Some of the fireworks had set fire to houses and were threatening them with destruction; for this reason men could be seen on the ridges of the roofs carrying buckets of water and long bamboo poles with cloths tied on the ends. Their dark shadows seemed descended from ethereal space to be present at the rejoicings of human beings. An enormous number of wheels had been burned, also castles, bulls, caraboas and other pieces of fireworks, and finally a great volcano, which surpassed in beauty and grandeur anything that the inhabitants of San Diego had ever seen.

Now the people turned in one great crowd toward the plaza to attend the last theatrical performance. Here and there could be seen the colored Bengal lights, fantastically illuminating groups of merry people. The small boys were making use of their torches to search for unexploded firecrackers in the grass, or, in fact, for anything else that might be of use to them. But the music was the signal and all abandoned the lawn for the theatre.

The large platform was splendidly illuminated. Thousands of lights surrounded the pillars and hung from the roof, while a number, in pyramid-shaped groups, were arranged on the floor of the stage. An employee attended to these and whenever he would come forward to regulate them, the public would whistle at him and shout: “There he is! There he is now!”

In front of the stage, the orchestra tuned its instruments, and behind the musicians sat the principal people of the town. Spaniards and rich visitors were occupying the reserved chairs. The public, the mass of people without titles or rank, filled the rest of the plaza. Some carried with them benches, not so much for seats as to remedy their lack of stature. When they stood upon them, rude protests were made on the part of those without benches or things to stand on. Then they would get down immediately, but soon mount up on their pedestals again as if nothing had happened.

Comings and goings, cries, exclamations, laughter, squibs that had been slow in going off, and firecrackers increased the tumult. Here, a foot broke through a bench, and some one fell to the floor, while the crowd laughed and made a show of him who had come so far to see a show. There, they fought and disputed over positions, and, a little farther on, the noise of breaking bottles and glasses could be heard: it was Andeng. She was carrying drinks and refreshments on a tray which she was balancing with both hands, but she had met her lover and he tried to take advantage of her helplessness by tickling....

The teniente mayor presided at the production since the gobernadorcillo was fonder of monte.

Maria Clara and her friends had arrived, and Don Filipo received them, and accompanied them to their seats. Behind came the curate with another Franciscan and some Spaniards. With the curate were some other people who make it their business to escort the friars.

“May God reward them in another life,” said the old man, referring to them as he walked away from Maria Clara’s party.

The performance began with Chananay and Marianito in CrispinoÉ la Comare. Everybody had eyes and ears intent upon the stage, except one, Father SalvÍ. He seemed to have come to the theatre for no other purpose than to watch Maria Clara, whose sadness gave to her beauty an air so ideal and interesting that everybody looked upon her with rapture. But the Franciscan’s eyes, deeply hidden in their hollow orbits, spoke no words of rapture. In that sombre look one could read something desperately sad. With such eyes Cain might have contemplated from afar the Paradise whose delights his mother had pictured to him.

The act was just ending when Ibarra arrived. His presence occasioned a buzz of conversation. The attention of everybody was fixed on him and on the curate.

But the young man did not seem to be aware of it, for he greeted Maria Clara and her friends with naturalness and sat down at their side. The only one who spoke was Sinang.

“Did you see the volcano when they touched it off?” she asked.

“No, my little friend. I had to accompany the Governor General.”

“Well, that is too bad! The curate came with us and he was telling us stories about condemned people. What do you think? Doesn’t he do it to make us afraid so that we cannot enjoy ourselves? How does it appear to you?”

The curate arose and approached Don Filipo, with whom he seemed to be having a lively discussion. He was speaking with animation and Don Filipo replying with moderation and in a low voice.

“I am sorry that I cannot please Your Reverence,” said the latter. “SeÑor Ibarra is one of the heaviest tax-payers and has a right to sit here as long as he does not disturb the public order.”

“But is not scandalizing good Christians disturbing the public order? You let a wolf into the flock. You will be held responsible for this before God and before the authorities of the town.”

“I always hold myself responsible for acts which emanate from my own will, Father,” replied Don Filipo, slightly inclining his head. “But my little authority does not give me power to meddle in religious affairs. Those who wish to avoid contact with him do not have to speak to him. SeÑor Ibarra does not force himself on any one.”

“But he affords danger. He who loves danger perishes in it.”

“I don’t see any danger, Father. The Alcalde and the Governor General, my superiors, have been talking with him all the afternoon, and it is not for me to give them a lesson.”

“If you don’t put him out of here, we will leave.”

“I am very, very sorry, but I cannot put any one out of here.”

The curate repented having said what he did, but now there was no alternative. He made a signal to his companion, who laboriously rose to his feet and both went out. The persons attached to the friars imitated the priests, not, however, without first glancing with hatred at Ibarra.

Murmurs and whispers increased. Then various persons approached and saluted the young man and said:

“We are with you. Take no notice of them.”

“Who are ’them’?” he asked with surprise.

“Those who have gone out in order to avoid contact with you.”

“To avoid contact with me? Contact with me?”

“Yes, they say that you are excommunicated.”

Ibarra, surprised, did not know what to say and looked around him. He saw Maria Clara, who was hiding her face behind her fan.

“But is it possible?” he exclaimed at last. “Are we still in the darkness of the Middle Ages? So that——”

And turning to the young women and changing his tone, he said:

“Excuse me; I have forgotten an appointment. I will return to accompany you home.”

“Stay!” said Sinang. “Yeyeng is going to dance in the ‘La Calandria.’ She dances divinely.”

“I cannot, my little friend, but I will certainly return.”

The murmurs increased.

While Yeyeng, dressed in the style of the lower class of Madrid, was coming on the stage with the remark: “Da UstÉ su permiso?” (Do you give your permission?) and as Carvajal was replying to her “Pase ustÉ adelante” (Pass forward), two soldiers of the Civil Guard approached Don Filipo, asking him to suspend the performance.

“And what for?” asked he, surprised at the request.

“Because the alferez and his SeÑora have been fighting and they cannot sleep.”

“You tell the alferez that we have permission from the Alcalde, and that no one in the town has any authority over him, not even the gobernadorcillo, who is my on-ly su-per-ior.”

“Well, you will have to suspend the performance,” repeated the soldiers.

Don Filipo turned his back to them. The guards marched off.

In order not to disturb the general tranquillity, Don Filipo said not a word about the matter to any one.

After a piece of light opera, which was heartily applauded, the Prince Villardo presented himself on the stage, and challenged all the Moros, who had imprisoned his father, to a fight. The hero threatened to cut off all their heads at a single blow and to send them all to the moon. Fortunately for the Moros, who were making ready to fight to the tune of the “Riego Hymn,”1 a tumult intervened. All of a sudden, the orchestra stopped playing and the musicians made a rush for the stage, throwing their instruments in all directions. The brave Villardo was not expecting such a move, and, taking them for allies of the Moros he also threw down his sword and shield and began to run. The Moros, seeing this terrible giant fleeing, found it convenient to imitate him. Cries, sighs, imprecations and blasphemies filled the air. The people ran, trampled over each other, the lights were put out, and the glass lamps with their cocoanut oil and little wicks were flying through the air. “Tulisanes! Tulisanes!” cried some. “Fire! Fire! Ladrones!” cried others. Women and children wept, chairs and spectators were rolled over on the floor in the midst of the confusion, rush and tumult.

“What has happened?”

Two Civil Guards with sticks in hand had gone after the musicians in order to put an end to the spectacle. The teniente mayor, with the cuaderilleros,2 armed with their old sabers, had managed to arrest the two Civil Guards in spite of their resistance.

“Take them to the tribunal!” shouted Don Filipo. “Be careful not to let them get away!”

Ibarra had returned and had sought out Maria Clara. The terrified young maidens, trembling and pale, were clinging closely to him. Aunt Isabel was reciting the litanies in Latin.

The crowd having recovered a little from the fright and some one having explained what had caused the rush and tumult, indignation arose in everyone’s breast. Stones rained upon the Civil Guards who were being conducted to the tribunal by the cuaderilleros. Some one proposed that they burn the barracks of the Civil Guards and that they roast DoÑa Consolacion and the alferez alive.

“That is all that they are good for,” cried a woman, rolling up her sleeves and stretching out her arms. “They can disturb the people but they persecute none but honorable men. They do nothing with the tulisanes and the gamblers. Look at them! Let us burn the cuartel.”

Somebody had been wounded in the arm and was asking for confession. A plaintive voice was heard coming from under an upset bench. It was a poor musician. The stage was filled with the players and people of the town and they were all talking at the same time. There was Chananay, dressed in the costume of Leonor in the “Trovador,” talking in corrupted Spanish with Ratia, who was in a school teacher’s costume. There too, was Yeyeng, dressed in a silk wrapper, talking with the Prince Villardo. There too, Balbino and the Moros, trying to console the musicians who were more or less sorry sights. Some Spaniards were walking from one place to another, arguing with every one they met.

But a nucleus for a mob already formed. Don Filipo knew what was their intention and tried to stop them.

“Do not break the peace!” he shouted. “To-morrow we will demand satisfaction: we will have justice. I will take the responsibility for our getting justice.”

“No!” some replied. “They did the same thing in Calamba. The same thing was promised, but the Alcalde did nothing. We want justice done by our own hands. To the cuartel!”

In vain the teniente mayor argued with them. The group that had gathered showed no signs of changing its attitude or purpose. Don Filipo looked about him, in search of help. He saw Ibarra.

“SeÑor Ibarra, for my sake, as a favor, hold them while I seek some cuaderilleros.”

“What can I do?” asked the young man, perplexed. But the teniente mayor was already in the distance.

Ibarra in turn looked about him, for he knew not whom. Fortunately, he thought he discerned Elias, in the crowd, but not taking an active part in it. Ibarra ran up to him, seized his arm and said to him in Spanish:

“For heaven’s sake! Do something, if you can! I cannot do anything.”

The pilot must have understood, for he lost himself in the mob.

Lively discussions were heard mingled with strong interjections. Soon the mob began to disperse, each one of the participants becoming less hostile. And it was time for them to do so, for the cuaderilleros were coming to the scene with fixed bayonets.

In the meantime, what was the curate doing?

Father SalvÍ had not gone to bed. Standing on foot, immovable and leaning his face against the shutter, he was looking toward the plaza and, from time to time, a suppressed sigh escaped his breast. If the light of his lamp had not been so dim, perhaps one might have seen that his eyes were filling with tears. Thus he stood for almost an hour.

The tumult in the plaza roused him from this state. Full of surprise, he followed with his eyes the people as they rushed to and fro in confusion. Their voices and cries he could vaguely hear even at that distance. One of the servants came running in breathlessly and informed him what was going on.

A thought entered his mind. Amid confusion and tumult libertines take advantage of the fright and the weakness of woman. All flee to save themselves; nobody thinks of anyone else; the women faint and their cries are not heard; they fall; are trampled over; fear and fright overcome modesty, and under cover of darkness.... He fancied he could see Ibarra carrying Maria Clara fainting in his arms, and then disappearing in the darkness.

With leaps and bounds, he went down the stairs without hat, or cane, and, almost like a crazy person, turned toward the plaza.

There he found some Spaniards reproving the soldiers. He looked toward the seats which Maria Clara and her friends had been occupying, and saw that they were vacant.

“Father curate! Father curate!” shouted the Spaniards to him, but he took no notice and ran on in the direction of the house of Captain Tiago. There he recovered his breath. He saw through the transparent shade, a shadow—that adorable shadow, so graceful and delicate in its contour—that of Maria Clara. He could also see another shadow, that of her aunt carrying cups and glasses.

“Well!” he muttered to himself. “It seems that she has only fallen ill.”

Aunt Isabel afterward closed the shell windows and the graceful shadow could no longer be seen.

The curate walked away from there without seeing the crowd. He was looking at the bust of a beautiful maiden which he had before his eyes, a maiden sleeping and breathing sweetly. Her eyelids were shaded by long lashes, which formed graceful curves like those on Rafael’s virgins. Her small mouth was smiling, and her whole countenance seemed to breathe virginity, purity and innocence. That sweet face of hers on the background of the white draperies of the bed was a vision like the head of a cherubim among the clouds. His impassioned imagination went on and pictured to him.... Who can describe all that a burning brain can conceive?