The house of Captain Tiago was no less disturbed than the imagination of the people. Maria Clara, refusing to listen to the consolation of her aunt and foster sister, did nothing but weep. Her father had forbidden her to speak to Ibarra until the priests should absolve him from the excommunication which they had pronounced upon him.

Captain Tiago, though very busy preparing his house for the reception of the Governor General, had been summoned to the convent.

“Don’t cry, my girl,” said Aunt Isabel as she dusted off the mirrors. “They will certainly annul the excommunication; they will write the Pope.... We will make a large donation.... Father DÁmaso had nothing more than a fainting spell.... He is not dead.”

“Don’t cry,” said Andeng to her, in a low voice. “I will certainly arrange it so that you can speak to him. What are the confessionals made for, if we are not expected to sin? Everything is pardoned when one has told it to the curate.”

Finally, Captain Tiago arrived. They scanned his face for an answer to their many questions, but his expression announced too plainly his dismay. The poor man was sweating, and passing his hand over his forehead. He seemed unable to utter a word.

“How is it, Santiago?” asked Aunt Isabel, anxiously.

He answered her with a sigh and dried away a tear.

“For God’s sake, speak! What has happened?”

“What I had already feared!” he broke out finally half crying. “All is lost! Father DÁmaso orders that the engagement be broken. If it is not broken off, I am condemned in this life and in the next. They all tell me the same thing, even Father Sibyla! I ought to shut the doors of my house and ... I owe him more than fifty thousand pesos. I told the Fathers so, but they would take no notice of it. ‘Which do you prefer to lose,’ they said to me, ‘fifty thousand pesos, or your life and your soul?’ Alas! Ay! San Antonio! If I had known it, if I had known it!”

Maria Clara was sobbing.

“Do not cry, my daughter,” he added, turning to her. “You are not like your mother. She never cried ... she never cried except when she was whimsical just before your birth.... Father DÁmaso tells me that a relative of his has just arrived from Spain ... and that he wants him to be your fiancÉ.”...

Maria Clara stopped up her ears.

“But, Santiago, are you out of your head?” cried Aunt Isabel. “Speak to her now of another fiancÉ! Do you think that your daughter can change lovers as easily as she changes her dress?”

“I was thinking the same thing, Isabel. Don Crisostomo is rich.... The Spaniards only marry for love of money.... But what would you have me do? They have threatened me with excommunication. They say that I am in great peril: not only my soul, but also my body ... my body, do you hear? My body!”

“But you only give sorrow to your daughter. Are you not a friend of the Archbishop? Why don’t you write him?”

“The Archbishop is also a friar. The Archbishop does only what the friars say. But, Maria, do not cry. The Governor General will come. He will want to see you and your eyes are all inflamed.... Alas! I was thinking what a happy afternoon I was going to pass.... Without this misfortune, I would be the happiest of men and all would envy me.... Calm yourself, my girl. I am more unfortunate than you and I do not cry. You can have another and better fiancÉ, but I lose fifty thousand pesos. Ah! Virgin of Antipolo! If I could only have some luck to-night!”

Noises, detonations, the rumbling of carriages, the galloping of horses, and a band playing the Marcha Real announced the arrival of His Excellency, the Governor General of the Philippine Islands. Maria Clara ran to hide in her bedroom.... Poor girl! Gross hands were playing with her heart, ignorant of the delicacy of its fibers.

In the meantime, the house filled with people. Loud steps, commands, and the clanking of sabers and swords resounded on all sides. The afflicted maiden was half kneeling before an engraving of the Virgin, a picture representing her in that attitude of painful solitude, known only to Delaroche, as if she had been surprised on returning from the sepulchre of her Son. But Maria Clara was not thinking of the grief of that Mother; she was thinking of her own. With her head resting on her breast and her hands on the floor, she looked like a lily bent by the storm. A future, cherished for years in her dreams; a future whose illusions, born in her infancy and nursed through her youth, gave form to the cells of her being—that future was now to be blotted from the mind and heart by a single word!

Maria Clara was as good and as pious a Christian as her aunt. The thought of an excommunication terrified her. The threat to destroy the peace of her father demanded that she sacrifice her love. She felt the entire strength of that affection which until now she had not known. It was like a river which glides along smoothly; its banks carpeted with fragrant flowers, its bed formed by fine sand, the wind scarcely rippling its surface, so quiet and peaceful that you would say that its waters were dead; until suddenly its channel is pent up, ragged rocks obstruct its course, and the entangled trunks of trees form a dike. Then the river roars; it rises up; its waves boil; it is lashed into foam, beats against the rocks and rushes into the abyss.

She wanted to pray, but who can pray without hope? One prays when there is hope. When there is none, we surrender ourselves to God and wail. “My God!” cried her heart, “why shouldst thou separate me thus from him I love? Why deny me the love of others? Thou dost not deny me the sun, nor the air, nor dost thou hide the heavens from my sight. Why dost thou deny me love, when it is possible to live without sun, without air, and without the heavens, but without love, never?”

“Mother, mother,” she was moaning.

Aunt Isabel came to take her from her grief. Some of her girl friends had arrived and the Governor General also desired to talk with her.

“Aunt, tell them that I am ill!” begged the frightened maiden. “They wish to make me play the piano and sing.”

“Your father has promised it. You are not going to go back on your father?”

Maria Clara arose, looked at her aunt, clasped her beautiful arms about her and murmured: “Oh, if I had ...”

But, without finishing the sentence, she dried her tears and began to make her toilet.