There, under the shade of the decorated pavilion, the great men of the province were banqueting. The Alcalde occupied one end of the table; Ibarra, the other. On the young man’s right sat Maria Clara, and on his left, the Notary. Captain Tiago, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo, the friars, the employees, and the few seÑoritas who were present were seated, not according to rank but according to their own fancy.

The banquet was very animated, but, before it was half over, a messenger with a telegram came in search of Captain Tiago. The Captain asked permission to read the message, and naturally all begged of him to do so.

The worthy Captain at first knit his eyebrows; and then raised them. His face became pale, and then brightened up. Doubling up the sheet of paper hurriedly, he arose.

“Gentlemen,” said he, confused, “His Excellency, the Governor General, is coming this afternoon to honor my house.”

And then he started on a run, taking with him the telegram and the napkin, but not his hat. All sorts of questions and exclamations were shouted after him. The announcement of the coming of the tulisanes could not have had a greater effect. “But listen! When does he come? Tell us about it! His Excellency!” But Captain Tiago was already far away.

“His Excellency is coming and will be a guest at Captain Tiago’s house!” exclaimed some one, without considering that the Captain’s daughter and future son-in-law were present.

“The choice could not have been a better one,” replied another.

The friars looked at each other. Their expressions seemed to say: “The Governor General is committing another of his errors, offending us in this way. He ought to be the guest of the convent.” But despite the fact that they thought this, they all kept silent and no one of them expressed his opinion.

“Even yesterday he was speaking to me about it,” said the Alcalde, “but, at that time, His Excellency was not decided.”

“Do you know, Your Excellency, SeÑor Alcalde, how long the Governor General intends to remain here?” asked the alferez, a little uneasy.

“No, not positively. His Excellency likes surprises.”

“Here come some other telegrams!”

The messages were for the Alcalde, the alferez, and the gobernadorcillo, and announced the same thing to each of them. The friars noticed that none came addressed to the curate.

“His Excellency will arrive at four o’clock this afternoon, gentlemen,” said the Alcalde solemnly. “We can finish at our leisure.”

Leonidas, in the pass of ThermopylÆ, could not have said with better grace “To-night we will dine with Pluto.”

“I notice the absence of our great preacher,” said one of the government employees timidly. The speaker had an inoffensive look and before this had not opened his mouth, except to eat, during the entire morning.

All who knew the life of Crisostomo’s father twitched their eyes significantly and seemed to say by their movements: “Go on! It’s a bad beginning that you have made!” But others, more benevolently disposed, replied: “He must be somewhat fatigued.”

“What? Somewhat fatigued!” exclaimed the alferez. “Why, he must be exhausted. What did you think of the sermon this morning?”

“Superb, gigantic!” said the Notary.

“To be able to speak like Father DÁmaso, a man needs lungs,” observed Father Manuel Martin.

The Augustine did not concede more than lung power.

“And such easiness of expression,” added Father SalvÍ.

“Do you know that SeÑor Ibarra has the best cook in the province,” remarked the Alcalde, cutting off the conversation.

“So they say,” replied one of the Government employees, “but his fair neighbor does not wish to do honor to his table, for she scarcely takes a mouthful.”

Maria Clara blushed.

“I thank you, Senor.... You occupy yourself too much about me ... but ...” she said timidly.

“But your presence honors him sufficiently,” concluded the gallant Alcalde. Then turning to Father SalvÍ: “Father Curate, I notice that you have been silent and pensive all day long.”

“It is my nature,” muttered the Franciscan. “I would rather listen than talk.”

“Your Reverence seeks always to gain and never to lose,” replied the alferez, in a joking manner.

But Father SalvÍ did not take it as a joke. His eyes flashed a moment and he replied: “You know very well, SeÑor Alferez, that, during these days, I am not the one who gains most!”

The alferez overlooked the fling with a false laugh and pretended not to hear it.

“But, gentlemen, I do not understand how you can be talking about gains and losses,” intervened the Alcalde. “What will these amiable and discreet young women, who honor us with their presence, think of us? To my mind, the young women are like Æolian harps in the night. It is only necessary to lend an attentive ear to hear them, for their unspeakable harmonies elevate the soul to the celestial spheres of the infinite and of the ideal....”

“Your Excellency is a poet,” said the Notary gayly; and both drained their wine glasses.

“I cannot help it,” said the Alcalde, wiping his lips. “The occasion, if it does not always make the thief, makes the poet. In my youth I composed verses, and they certainly were not bad ones.”

“So Your Excellency has been unfaithful to the Muses, deserting them for Themis.”

“Psh!” What would you do? It has always been my dream to run through the whole social scale. Yesterday I was gathering flowers, and singing songs; to-day I hold the wand of Justice and serve Humanity. To-morrow....”

“To-morrow Your Excellency will throw the wand into the fire to warm yourself with it in the winter of life, and will then take a portfolio in the Ministry,” added Father Sibyla.

“Psh! Yes ... no.... To be a Minister is not precisely my ideal. The unexpected always happens, though. A little villa in the north of Spain to pass the summer in, a mansion in Madrid, and some possessions in Andalusia for the winter.... We will live remembering our dear Philippines.... Of me Voltaire will not say: ‘Nous n’avons jamais ÉtÉ chez ces peuples que pour nous y enrichir et pour les calomnier.’”

The Government employees thought that His Excellency intended a joke and they began to laugh to make a show of appreciating it. The friars imitated them since they did not know that Voltaire was the Volta-i-rÉ whom they had so often cursed and condemned to Hades. Father Sibyla, however, recognized the name and assumed a serious air, supposing that the Alcalde had uttered some heresy.

Father DÁmaso was waddling down the road. He was half smiling, but in such a malignant manner, that on seeing him, Ibarra, who was in the act of speaking, lost the thread of his remarks. All were surprised to see Father DÁmaso, but, excepting Ibarra, they greeted him with marks of pleasure. They had already reached the last course of the dinner, and the champagne was foaming in the glasses.

Father DÁmaso showed a little nervousness in his smile when he saw Maria Clara seated on the right of Crisostomo. But, taking a chair by the side of the Alcalde, he asked in the midst of a significant silence: “Were you not talking about something, seÑores? Continue!”

“We were drinking a toast,” replied the Alcalde. “SeÑor Ibarra was mentioning those who had aided him in his philanthropic enterprise and was speaking of the architect when Your Reverence....”

“Well, I don’t understand architecture,” interrupted Father DÁmaso, “but architects and the dunces who go to them make me laugh! You have an example right here. I drew the plan for a church and it has been constructed perfectly: so an English jeweler who was one day a guest at the convent told me. To draught a plan, one need have but a small degree of intelligence.”

“However,” replied the Alcalde, seeing that Ibarra was silent, “when we are dealing with certain edifices, for example a school, we need a skilled man (perito).”

“He who needs a perito is a perrito (little dog)!” exclaimed Father DÁmaso, with a scoff. “One would have to be more of a brute than the natives, who erect their own houses, if he did not know how to build four walls and put a covering over them. That’s all that a school house is.”

All looked toward Ibarra. But the young man, even if he did look pale, kept on conversing with Maria Clara.

“But Your Reverence should consider....”

“Just look you,” continued the Franciscan without allowing the Alcalde to speak. “See how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid one we have, has built a good hospital, handsome and cheap. It is well built and he did not pay more than eight cuartos a day to those whom he employed even those who came from other towns. That fellow knows how to treat them. He does not do like many fools and mesticillos1 who spoil them by paying them three or four reales.”

“Does Your Reverence say that he only paid eight cuartos? Impossible!” said the Alcalde, trying to change the course of the conversation.

“Yes, SeÑor; and those who brag of being good Spaniards ought to imitate him. You can see very well now, since the Suez Canal was opened, corruption has come here. Before, when we had to double the Cape, there were not so many worthless people coming out here, nor did Filipinos go abroad to be corrupted and spoiled.”

“But, Father DÁmaso!”

“You know very well what the native is. As quickly as he learns anything, he goes and becomes a doctor. All these ignoramuses who go to Europe....”

“But listen, Your Reverence ...” interrupted the Alcalde, becoming uneasy at such harsh words.

“They are all going to end as they merit,” he continued. “The hand of God is upon them and one must be blind not to see it. Even in this life, the fathers of such vipers receive their punishment.... They die in prison, eh?”

But he did not finish his remarks. Ibarra, his face flushing, had been following him with his eyes. On hearing the allusion to his father, he rose and, with a single bound, brought down his strong hand on the head of the priest. Stunned with the blow, the friar fell on his back.

Full of astonishment and terror, no one dared to intervene.

“Keep back!” cried the young man, with a menacing voice, and brandishing a sharp knife in his hand. In the meantime, he held the friar down with his foot on his neck. The latter was recovering consciousness. “Let no one approach who does not want to die!”

Ibarra was beside himself. His body trembled, and his threatening eyes almost burst from their sockets. Friar DÁmaso struggled and raised himself, but the young man, seizing him by the collar, shook him till he fell on his knees and collapsed.

“SeÑor Ibarra! SeÑor Ibarra!” cried some.

But nobody, not even the alferez, dared to approach the glistening blade, considering the strength of the young man and the state of his mind. All were paralyzed.

“All of you people here have said nothing! Now the matter concerns me! I have avoided him. God now brings him to me. Let God judge!”

The young man was breathing hard. With iron hand he held the Franciscan down, and the latter struggled in vain to break loose.

“My heart beats tranquilly. My hand is sure.”

He looked about him and continued: “Is there among you any one who does not love his father; any one who hates his memory, any one who was born in disgrace and humiliation? See! Do you observe this silence? Priest of a peaceful God, with your mouth full of sanctity and religion, and a miserable heart, you could not have known what a father is. You should have thought of your own! Do you see? Among this crowd which you scorn, there is none such as you! You are judged!”

The people around him made a stir, believing that he was going to strike.

“Back!” he again cried in a threatening voice. “What? Do you fear that I would soil my hand with his impure blood? Have I not told you that my heart beats tranquilly? Back from us, all! Listen, priests, judges, you who think yourselves different from other men, and who claim other rights for yourselves! Listen! My father was an honorable man. Ask these people who venerate his memory. My father was a good citizen. He sacrificed himself for me and for the good of his country! His house was open. His table was ready for the stranger or the exile who came to it in his misery. He was a good Christian; he always did what was right. He never oppressed the helpless, nor brought sorrow to the miserable and wretched. To this man, he opened the door of his house. He had him sit at his table and he called him his friend. What has he done in return? He has calumniated him, persecuted him, has armed ignorance against him, violating the sanctity of his office, has thrown him out of his tomb, dishonored his memory, and persecuted him even in death’s repose. And not content with that, he now persecutes his son. I have fled from him, I have avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the pulpit; you saw him point me out to the popular fanaticism; I said nothing. Now he comes here in search of a quarrel. To your surprise, I suffered in silence; but he again insults the sacred memory of my father, that memory which every son holds dear.... You who are here, you priests, you judges, have you seen your father watching over you night and day and working for you? Have you seen him deprive himself of you for your good? Have you seen your father die in prison, heart broken, sighing for some one to caress him, searching for some being to console him, alone in sickness, while you were in a foreign land? Have you heard his name dishonored afterward? Have you found his tomb vacant when you wished to pray upon it? No? You are silent. Then by that silence you condemn him!”

He raised his arm; but a young maiden, quick as a flash, put herself between them and with her delicate hands stopped the arm of the avenger. It was Maria Clara.

Ibarra looked at her with an expression that seemed to reflect madness. Gradually, he loosened the vise-like fingers of his hand, allowed the body of the Franciscan to fall, and dropped his knife upon the ground. Covering his face, he fled through the crowd.