Day dawned at last for the terrorized people. The streets in which the cuartel and the tribunal were situated were still deserted and solitary. The houses showed no signs of life. However, a shutter was opened with a creaking noise and an infant head stuck out and looked in all directions.... Slap!... A sound announces hard contact between a strip of leather and a human body. The child made a grimace, closed its eyes and disappeared. The shutter was closed again.

The example had been set. Without any doubt the opening and closing of the shutter has been heard, for another window was opened very slowly and cautiously and a wrinkled and toothless old woman thrust out her head. She was called Sister RutÉ. She looked about, knit her brows, spit noisily and then crossed herself. In the house opposite, a little window was timidly opened and her friend, Sister Rufa appeared. They looked at each other for a moment, smiled, made some signals, and again crossed themselves.

“JesÚs! It was like a thanksgiving mass,” said Sister Rufa.

“Since the time that BÁlat sacked the town I have never seen a night like it,” replied Sister PutÉ.

“What a lot of shots! They say that it was old Pablo’s gang.”

“Tulisanes? It couldn’t be. They say that it was the cuaderilleros against the Civil Guards. For this reason, they have arrested Don Filipo.”

“Sanctus Deus! They say that there are no less than fourteen killed.”

Other windows were opened and different faces appeared, exchanging salutations and commenting on the affair.

In the light of the day—which promised to be a splendid one—could be seen in the distance, like ash-colored shadows, soldiers hurrying about in confusion.

“There goes another corpse!” said some one from one of the windows.

“One? I see two.”

“And so do I. But do you know what it was?” asked a man with a crafty face.

“Certainly. The cuaderilleros.”

“No, SeÑor. An uprising at the cuartel.”

“What uprising? The curate against the alferez?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” said he who had asked the question. “The Chinese have risen in revolt.”

And he closed his window again.

“The Chinese!” repeated all, with the greatest astonishment.

In a quarter of an hour other versions of the affair were in circulation. Ibarra, with his servants, it was said, had tried to steal Maria Clara, and Captain Tiago, aided by the Guardia Civil had defended her.

By this time the number of the dead was no longer fourteen, but thirty. Captain Tiago, it was said, was wounded and was going right off to Manila with his family.

The arrival of two cuaderilleros, carrying a human form in a wheelbarrow, and followed by a Civil Guard, produced a great sensation. It was supposed that they came from the convent. From the form of the feet which were hanging down, they tried to guess who it could be. By half-past seven, when other Civil Guards arrived from neighboring towns, the current version of the affair was already clear and detailed.

“I have just come from the tribunal, where I have seen Don Filipo and Don Crisostomo prisoners,” said a man to Sister PutÉ. “I talked with one of the cuaderilleros on guard. Well, Bruno, the son of the man who was whipped to death, made a declaration last night. As you know, Captain Tiago is going to marry his daughter to a Spaniard. Don Crisostomo, offended, wanted to take revenge and tried to kill all the Spaniards, even the curate. Last night they attacked the convent and the cuartel. Happily, by mercy of God, the curate was in Captain Tiago’s house. They say that many escaped. The Civil Guards burned Don Crisostomo’s house, and if they had not taken him prisoner, they would have burned him, too.”

“They burned the house?”

“All the servants were arrested. Why, you can still see the smoke from here!” said the narrator, approaching the window. “Those who come from there relate very sad things.”

All looked toward the place indicated. A light column of smoke was still ascending to the heavens. All made comments more or less pious, more or less accusatory.

“Poor young man!” exclaimed an old man, the husband of PutÉ.

“Yes!” replied his wife. “But he did not order a mass for the soul of his father, who undoubtedly needs it more than others.”

“But wife, you don’t have any pity....”

“Sympathy for the excommunicated? It is a sin to have pity for the enemies of God, say the curates. Don’t you remember? He ran over the sacred burial ground as if he were in a cattle pen.”

“But a cattle pen and a cemetery are much alike,” responded the old man, “except that but one class of animals enter the cemetery.”

“What!” cried Sister PutÉ. “Are you still going to defend him whom God so clearly punishes? You will see that they will arrest you, too. You may support a falling house, if you want to!”

The husband became silent in view of this argument.

“Yes,” continued the old woman, “after striking Father DÁmaso, there was nothing left for him to do but to kill Father SalvÍ.”

“But you can’t deny that he was a good boy when he was a child.”

“Yes, he was a good child,” replied the old woman, “but he went to Spain. All those who go to Spain return heretics, so the curates say.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the husband, seeing his revenge. “And the curate, and all the curates, and the Archbishops, and the Pope, and the Virgin—are they not Spaniards? Bah! Are they heretics, too? Bah!”

Happily for Sister PutÉ, the arrival of a servant, who rushed in confused and pale, cut off the discussion.

“A man hanged in a neighboring orchard!” she exclaimed breathless.

“A man hanged!” exclaimed all, full of amazement.

The women crossed themselves. No one could stir.

“Yes, SeÑor,” continued the servant, trembling. “I was going to gather some peas in.... I looked into the orchard next door ... to see if there ... I saw a man swinging.... I thought it was Teo ... I went nearer to gather peas, and I saw that it was not he but it was another, and was dead ... I ran, ran and....”

“Let us go and see it,” said the old man, rising. “Take us there.”

“Don’t go!” cried Sister PutÉ, seizing him by the shirt.

“You’ll get into trouble! He has hanged himself? Then all the worse for him!”

“Let me see it, wife! Go to the tribunal, Juan, and report it. Perhaps he is not dead yet.”

And he went ino[typo, should be into?] the orchard, followed by the servant, who kept hid behind him. The women and Sister PutÉ herself came along behind, full of terror and curiosity.

“There it is, SeÑor,” said the servant stopping him and pointing with her finger.

The group stopped at a respectful distance, allowing the old man to advance alone.

The body of a man, hanging from the limb of a santol tree, was swinging slowly in the breeze. The old man contemplated it for some time. He looked at the rigid feet, the arms, the stained clothing and the drooping head.

“We ought not to touch the corpse until some official has arrived,” said he, in a loud voice. “He is already stiff. He has been dead for some time.”

The women approached hesitatingly.

“It is the neighbor who lived in that little house; the one who arrived only two weeks ago. Look at the scar on his face.”

“Ave Maria!” exclaimed some of the women.

“Shall we pray for his soul?” asked a young girl as soon as she had finished looking at the dead body from all directions.

“You fool! You heretic!” Sister PutÉ scolded her. “Don’t you know what Father DÁmaso said? To pray for a damned person is to tempt God. He who commits suicide is irrevocably condemned. For this reason, he cannot be buried in a sacred place. I had begun to think that this man was going to have a bad ending. I never could guess what he lived on.”

“I saw him twice speaking with the sacristan mayor,” observed a girl.

“It couldn’t have been to confess himself or to order a mass!”

The neighbors gathered together and a large circle surrounded the corpse which was still swinging. In half an hour some officers and two cuaderilleros arrived. They took the body down and put it in a wheelbarrow.

“Some people are in a hurry to die,” said one of the officers, laughing, while he took out the pen from behind his ear.

He asked some trifling questions; took the declaration of the servant, whom he tried to implicate, now looking at her with evil in his eyes, now threatening her and now attributing to her words which she did not say—so much so that the servant, believing that she was going to be taken to jail, began to weep and finished by declaring that she was looking for peas, but that ... and she called Teo to witness.

In the meantime, a peasant with a wide hat and a large plaster on his neck, was examining the body, and the rope by which it was hanging.

The face was no more livid than the rest of the body. Above the rope could be seen two scars and two small bruises. Where the rope had rubbed, there was no blood and the skin was white. The curious peasant examined closely the camisa and the pantaloons. He noted that they were full of dust and recently torn in some places. But what most attracted his attention were the “stick-tights”1 on his clothing, even up to his neck.

“What do you see?” asked the officer.

“I was trying to identify him, seÑor,” stammered the peasant, lowering his hat further from his uncovered head.

“But haven’t you heard that it was one Lucas? Were you sleeping?”

All began to laugh. The peasant, embarrassed, muttered a few words, and went away with head down, walking slowly.

“Here! Where are you going?” cried the old man. “You can’t get out that way. That’s the way to the dead man’s house.”

“That fellow is still asleep,” said the officer with a jeer. “We’ll have to throw some water on him!”

Those standing around laughed again.

The peasant left the place where he had played so poor a part and directed his steps toward the church. In the sacristy, he asked for the sacristan mayor.

“He is still sleeping!” they replied gruffly. “Don’t you know that they sacked the convent last night?”

“I will wait till he awakes.”

The sacristans looked at him with that rudeness characteristic of people who are in the habit of being ill-treated.

In a dark corner, the one-eyed sacristan mayor was sleeping in a large chair. His spectacles were across his forehead among his long locks of hair. His squalid, bony breast was bare, and rose and fell with regularity.

The peasant sat down near by, disposed to wait patiently, but a coin fell on the floor and he began looking for it with the aid of a candle, under the sacristan mayor’s big chair. The peasant also noted “stick-tights” on the sleeping man’s pantaloons and on the arms of his camisa. The sacristan awoke at last, rubbed his good eye, and, in a very bad humor, reproached the man.

“I would like to order a mass said, seÑor,” replied he in a tone of excuse.

“They have already finished all the masses,” said the one-eyed man, softening his accent a little. “If you want it for to-morrow.... Is it for souls in Purgatory?”

“No, seÑor;” replied the peasant, giving him a peso.

And looking fixedly in his one eye, he added:

“It is for a person who is going to die soon.” And he left the sacristy. “I could have seized him last night,” he added, sighingly as he removed the plaster from his neck. And he straightened up and regained the stature and appearance of Elias.