Civil Guards were passing with a sinister air to and fro in front of the door of the tribunal, threatening with the butts of their guns the daring boys who stood on tip-toe or raised each other up in order to look through the grates in the windows.

The sala did not present that same joyful aspect as it did when the program for the festival was being discussed. It was gloomy and the silence was almost death-like. The Civil Guards and the cuaderilleros who were occupying the room scarcely spoke and the few words that they did pronounce were in a low tone. Around the table sat the directorcillo, two writers and some soldiers scribbling papers. The alferez walked from one side to the other, looking from time to time ferociously toward the door. Themistocles after the battle of Salamis could not have shown more pride at the Olympic games. DoÑa Consolacion yawned in one corner of the room, and disclosed her black palate and her crooked teeth. Her cold and evil look was fixed on the door of the jail, covered with indecent pictures. Her husband, made amiable by the victory, had yielded to her request to be allowed to witness the interrogation and, perhaps, the tortures which were to follow. The hyena smelled the dead body, she licked her chops and was wearied at the delay in the punishment.

The gobernadorcillo’s chair, that large chair under the portrait of His Majesty, was empty and seemed destined for some other person.

At nearly nine o’clock, the curate, pale and with eyebrows knit, arrived.

“Well, you haven’t made any one wait!” said the alferez sarcastically to the friar.

“I would have preferred not to be present,” replied Father SalvÍ, in a low voice, without taking notice of the bitter tone.... “I am very nervous.”

“As no one came, I decided that, in order not to leave the chair empty, your presence.... You already know that the prisoners are to leave town this afternoon.”

“Young Ibarra and the teniente mayor?”

The alferez pointed toward the jail.

“Eight are in there,” said he. “Bruno died last night at midnight, but his declaration has been obtained.”

The curate saluted DoÑa Consolacion, who responded with a yawn and an “aah!” The friar took the big chair under the picture of His Majesty.

“We can begin,” said he.

“Bring out the two who are in the stocks!” ordered the alferez in his most terrifying voice. And turning to the curate, he added, changing his tone:

“They are fastened in the stocks with two holes vacant!”

For those who are interested in instruments of torture, we will say that the stocks is one of the most innocent. The holes in which are fastened the legs of the prisoner are a little more or less than a palm apart. Leaving two holes vacant, and putting the prisoner’s legs in the holes on either side, would make the position strained, so that the ankles would suffer peculiarly and the lower extremities be stretched apart more than a yard. It does not kill instantly, as may well be imagined.

The turnkey, followed by four soldiers, drew back the bolt and opened the door. A nauseating odor, and the thick, damp air escaped from the dense darkness of the prison and, at the same time, groans and sighs were heard. A soldier lighted a match, but the flame was extinguished in that foul, vitiated atmosphere, and they had to wait till the air was renewed.

In the vague light of a candle, several human forms could be discerned. They were men, some of whom locked their arms around their knees and hid their heads between them, others were lying down, with their mouths to the ground, some standing, and some leaning against the wall. A blow and a creaking sound was heard, accompanied by oaths; the stocks were being opened.

DoÑa Consolacion’s body was bent forward, the muscles of her neck were rigid, her eyes riveted to the half open door.

Between the soldiers came out Tarsilo, the brother of Bruno. He wore handcuffs. His torn clothes disclosed well-developed muscles. His eyes were fixed insolently on the alferez’s wife.

“This is the one who defended himself most bravely, and who ordered his companions to flee,” said the alferez to Father SalvÍ.

Behind came another miserable sight, a man crying and weeping like a child. He was limping and his pantaloons were stained with blood.

“Mercy, seÑor, have mercy! I will not enter the cuartel yard again,” he cried.

“He is a crafty fellow,” said the alferez, speaking to the curate. “He wanted to flee, but had received a flesh wound.”

“What is your name?” asked the alferez, speaking to Tarsilo.

“Tarsilo Alasigan.”

“What did Don Crisostomo promise you for attacking the cuartel?”

“Don Crisostomo has never communicated with us.”

“Don’t deny it! You wanted to surprise us for him!”

“You are mistaken. You whipped our father to death. We avenged him and nothing more. Look for your two soldiers!”

The alferez looked at the sergeant, surprised.

“They are at the bottom of that precipice. We threw them there yesterday. There they will rot. Now kill me! You will know nothing more.”

Silence and general surprise.

“You are not going to tell who were your accomplices?” said the alferez in a threatening manner and brandishing a whip.

A scornful smile curled the lips of the culprit.

The alferez conferred for some minutes with the curate in a low voice. Then turning to the soldiers, he ordered:

“Take him to where the dead bodies are!”

In a corner of the yard, upon an old wagon, were five bodies close together and half covered by a filthy piece of torn matting. A soldier on guard was pacing up and down, and constantly spitting.

“Do you recognize them?” asked the alferez, lifting the matting.

Tarsilo did not respond. He saw the dead body of Pedro, with two others; one, his own brother, riddled with bayonet wounds, and the other, Lucas, with the rope still around his neck. His look became gloomy and a sigh seemed to escape from his breast.

“Do you know them?” they asked him.

Tarsilo remained silent.

There was a whistling sound and the whip came down across his back. He trembled, and his muscles contracted. The lashes were repeated, but Tarsilo continued impassive.

“Let them whip him till they cut him to pieces or till he makes a declaration,” cried the alferez, exasperated.

“Speak then!” said the directorcillo to him. “They will surely kill you.”

They led him back to the sala of the tribunal, where the other prisoner was invoking God, grating his teeth and shaking on his legs.

“Do you know this man?” asked Father SalvÍ.

“This is the first time I have ever seen him,” replied Tarsilo, looking with a certain pity on the other.

The alferez gave him a cuff with his fist and kicked him.

“Tie him to the bench!”

Without taking off the bloody handcuffs, he was fastened to the wooden bench. The unhappy fellow looked about him as if in search of some one, and his eyes fell on DoÑa Consolacion. He smiled sardonically. Those present were surprised and followed his glance and saw the seÑora. She was biting her lips.

“I have never seen an uglier woman,” exclaimed Tarsilo amid the general silence. “I prefer to lie down on this bench as I am doing than to lie by her side, like the alferez.”

The Muse turned pale.

“You are going to whip me to death, alferez,” he continued, “but to-night I will be avenged by your woman.”

“Gag him!” shouted the alferez, furious and trembling with rage.

It seemed as though Tarsilo had wanted the gag, for when he had it in his mouth, his eyes gleamed with a ray of satisfaction.

At a signal from the alferez a guard, armed with a whip, began his cruel task. The whole body of Tarsilo shrank. A groan, suppressed and prolonged, could be heard in spite of the rag which stopped up his mouth. He lowered his head. His clothes were being stained with blood.

Father SalvÍ, pale and with a wild look, rose to his feet laboriously, made a sign with his hand and left the sala with vacillating steps. In the street, he saw a girl, leaning her back against the wall, rigid, immovable, listening attentively, looking into space, her marble-like hands extended along the old wall. The sun was shining full upon her. She was counting, it seemed without breathing, the sharp blows and listening to that heart-rending groan. She was Tarsilo’s sister.

In the meantime, the scene was continuing in the sala. The unfortunate fellow, overcome with pain, had become silent and waited for his punishers to tire. At last, the soldier breathless, let fall his arm. The alferez, pale with wrath and astonishment, made a signal for them to unloose him.

DoÑa Consolacion then arose and whispered something into her husband’s ear. He nodded his head, signifying that he understood.

“To the well with him!” said he.

The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalog they call it timbain. We do not know who could have been the inventor of this method of punishment, but we are of the opinion that he must have lived long ago. In the middle of the tribunal yard there was a picturesque stone-wall, roughly made out of cobble stones, around a well. A rustic apparatus of bamboo in the form of a lever serves to draw out the vile, dirty and bad smelling water. Broken dishes, refuse and all sorts of filth collected there, since the well was a common receptacle for everything that the people threw away or found useless. An object which fell into the place, no matter how good it may have been, was thereafter surely lost. However, the well was never closed up. At times, prisoners were condemned to go down and make it deeper, not because it was thought that the work would be useful in any way, but because the work was so difficult. If a prisoner went down in the well once, he invariably contracted a fever, from which he died.

Tarsilo contemplated all the preparations of the soldiers with a firm look. He was very pale and his lips were trembling or murmuring a prayer. The haughtiness of his desperation seemed to have disappeared, or at least to have weakened. A number of times he bent his head, fixed his eyes on the ground, resigned to his suffering.

They took him to one side of the stone wall. DoÑa Consolacion followed smiling. The unfortunate wretch glanced enviously toward the pile of dead bodies, and a sigh escaped from his breast.

“Speak now!” said the directorcillo again. “They will certainly drown you. At least, die without having suffered so much.”

“When you come out of this, you will die,” said a cuaderillero.

They took the gag out of his mouth and hung him by his feet. He had to go down head first and remain under the water some time just like a bucket, except that a man is left under the water a longer time.

The alferez went to look for a watch that he might count the minutes.

In the meantime, Tarsilo was hanging, his long hair waving in the air and his eyes half closed.

“If you are Christians, if you have hearts,” he begged, in a low voice, “let me down rapidly and make my head strike against the wall that I may die. God would reward such a good deed.... Perhaps some day you will be in the same straits as I am now.”

The alferez returned and with watch in hand witnessed the descent.

“Slowly, slowly!” cried DoÑa Consolacion following the poor fellow with her eyes. “Be careful!”

The pole was being lowered slowly. Tarsilo rubbed against the projecting stones and the dirty plants which grew in the crevices. Then, the pole ceased to move. The alferez was counting the seconds.

“Up!” he ordered dryly, at the end of a half minute.

The silvery harmony of the drops of water falling back into the well, announced the return of the unfortunate man to the light. As the weight on the end of the lever was heavy, he came up quickly. The rough pieces of stone and pebbles, torn loose from the walls, fell with splashes to the bottom.

His face and hair full of filthy mud, his body wet and dripping, he appeared again in the sight of the silent crowd. The wind made him shiver with cold.

“Do you want to make a declaration?” they asked him.

“Take care of my sister!” the unhappy one murmured, looking at the cuaderillero, with supplication.

The bamboo pole creaked again, and again the condemned man disappeared. DoÑa Consolacion observed that the water remained still. The alferez counted a minute.

When Tarsilo came up again, his face was livid and his features contracted. He glanced at those standing around and kept open his bloodshot eyes.

“Will you make a declaration?” asked the alferez again, with vexation.

Tarsilo shook his head and again they let him down. His eyelids were almost closed and his eyes were gazing at the white clouds floating in the heavens. He bent his neck to keep sight of the light of day, but he was soon submerged in the water. That filthy curtain closed from him the sight of the world.

A minute passed. The Muse saw large bubbles of air come up to the surface of the water.

“He is thirsty,” said she, laughing.

The water was again smooth.

This time a minute and a half had passed when the alferez gave the signal.

Tarsilo’s features were no longer contracted. The half opened lids showed the white of his eyes. Muddy water, clotted with blood, ran out of his mouth. The cool wind was blowing, but his body no longer shivered.

Those present, pale and terrified, looked at each other in silence. The alferez made a signal for them to take him down from where he was hanging, and stepped aside for a few moments. DoÑa Consolacion a number of times applied the lighted end of her cigar to the bare legs of Tarsilo, but his body did not quiver. It put out the light.

“He has asphyxiated himself,” murmured a cuaderillero. “See how his tongue is turned, as if he wanted to swallow it.”

The other prisoner, trembling and perspiring, contemplated the scene. Like a madman he looked about him.

The alferez ordered the directorcillo to question him.

“SeÑor, SeÑor,” he groaned. “I will tell you all that you wish.”

“Good. Let us see! What is your name?”

“Andong, SeÑor!”

“Bernardo ... Leonardo ... Ricardo ... Educardo. Gerardo ... or what?”

“Andong, SeÑor,” repeated the imbecile.

“Call it Bernardo or whatever you please,” said the alferez, decided not to bother more about it.

“What family name?”

The man looked at him frightened.

“What’s your name? What do you add to the name Andong?”

“Ah, SeÑor! Andong Medio-tonto (half-fool), SeÑor.”

Those standing around could not resist a laugh. The alferez himself stopped short.

“What is your business?”

“Cocoanut tree pruner, SeÑor, and servant for my mother-in-law.”

“Who ordered you to attack the cuartel?”

“Nobody, SeÑor.”

“What’s that; nobody? Don’t you lie or we will put you in the well. Who ordered you to do it? Speak the truth.”

“That’s the truth, SeÑor.”

“Who?”

“Who?”

“I ask you who ordered you to revolt.”

“What revolt, SeÑor?”

“That one last night, when you were in the tribunal yard.”

“Ah, SeÑor!” exclaimed Andong, blushing.

“Who was to blame for that?”

“My mother-in-law, SeÑor.”

A laugh of surprise followed this reply. The alferez stopped and looked sharply at the simple peasant, who believed that his words had produced a good effect. More animated, he was about to continue when the crack of a whip cut him short.

“To the jail!” ordered the alferez. “This afternoon, send him to the capital.”