An Eagle Flight Part 3

"Why do you say that?" asked the old lieutenant.

"Because for several months I have had no news, so that I do not even know how and when my father died."

The lieutenant could not repress a groan.

"And where were you that they couldn't telegraph you?" asked Dona Victorina. "When we were married, we sent despatches to the peninsula."

"Senora, I was in the far north," said Ibarra.

"You have travelled much," said the blond provincial; "which of the European countries pleased you most?"

"After Spain, my second country, the nations that are free."

"And what struck you as most interesting, most surprising, in the general life of nations--the genius of each, so to put it?" asked Laruja.

Ibarra reflected.

"Before visiting a country I carefully studied its history, and, except the different motives for national pride, there seems to me nothing surprisingly characteristic in any nation. Given its history, everything appears natural; each people's wealth and misery seem in direct proportion to its freedom and its prejudices, and in consequence, in proportion to the self-sacrifice or selfishness of its progenitors."

"Did you discover nothing more startling than that?" demanded the Franciscan, with a mocking laugh. "It was hardly worth while squandering money for so slight returns. Not a schoolboy but knows as much."

The guests eyed one another, fearful of what might follow. Ibarra, astonished, remained silent a moment, then said quietly:

"Senores, do not wonder at these words of Brother Damaso. He was my curate when I was a little boy, and with his reverence the years don't count. I thank him for thus recalling the time when he was often an honored guest at my father's table."

Brother Sibyla furtively observed the Franciscan, who was trembling slightly. At the first possible opportunity Ibarra rose.

"You will pardon me if I excuse myself," he said. "I arrived only a few hours ago, and have matters of importance to attend to. The dinner is over. I drink little wine, and scarcely taste liquors." And raising a gla.s.s as yet untouched, "Senores," he said, "Spain and the Philippines forever!"

"You're not going!" said Santiago in amazement. "Maria Clara and her friends will be with us in a moment. What shall I say to her?"

"That I was obliged to go," said Ibarra, "and that I'm coming early in the morning." And he went out.

The Franciscan unburdened himself.

"You saw his arrogance," he said to the blond provincial. "These young fellows won't take reproof from a priest. That comes of sending them to Europe. The Government ought to prohibit it."

That night the young provincial added to his "Colonial Studies,"

this paragraph: "In the Philippines, the least important person at a feast is he who gives it. You begin by showing your host to the door, and all goes merrily.... In the present state of affairs, it would be almost a kindness to prohibit young Filipinos from leaving their country, if not even from learning to read."

IV.

HERETIC AND FILIBUSTER.

Ibarra stood outside the house of Captain Tiago. The night wind, which at this season brings a bit of freshness to Manila, seemed to blow away the cloud that had darkened his face. Carriages pa.s.sed him like streaks of light, hired calashes rolled slowly by, and foot-pa.s.sengers of all nationalities jostled one another. With the rambling gait of the preoccupied or the idle, he took his way toward the Plaza de Binondo. Nothing was changed. It was the same street, with the same blue and white houses, the same white walls with their slate-colored fresco, poor imitations of granite. The church tower showed the same clock with transparent face. The Chinese shop had the same soiled curtains, the same iron triangles. One day, long ago, imitating the street urchins of Manila, he had twisted one of these triangles: n.o.body had ever straightened it. "How little progress!" he murmured; and he followed the Calle de la Sacristia, pursued by the cry of sherbet venders.

"Marvellous!" he thought; "one would say my voyage was a dream. Santo Dios! the street is as bad as when I went away."

While he contemplated this marvel of urban stability in an unstable country, a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He looked up and recognized the old lieutenant. His face had put off its expression of sternness, and he smiled kindly at Crisostomo.

"Young man," he said, "I was your father's friend: I wish you to consider me yours."

"You seem to have known my father well," said Crisostomo; "perhaps you can tell me something of his death."

"You do not know about it?"

"Nothing at all, and Don Santiago would not talk with me till to-morrow."

"You know, of course, where he died."

"Not even that."

Lieutenant Guevara hesitated.

"I am an old soldier," he said at last, in a voice full of compa.s.sion, "and only know how to say bluntly what I have to tell. Your father died in prison."

Ibarra sprang back, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant's.

"Died in prison? Who died in prison?"

"Your father," said the lieutenant, his voice still gentler.

"My father--in prison? What are you saying? Do you know who my father was?" and he seized the old man's arm.

"I think I'm not mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra."

"Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," Crisostomo repeated mechanically.

"You will soon learn that for an honest man to keep out of prison is a difficult matter in the Philippines."

"You mock me! Why did he die in prison?"

"Come with me; we will talk on the way."

They walked along in silence, the officer stroking his beard in search of inspiration.

"As you know," he began, "your father was the richest man of the province, and if he had many friends he had also enemies. We Spaniards who come to the Philippines are seldom what we should be. I say this as truthfully of some of your ancestors as of others. Most of us come to make a fortune without regard to the means. Well, your father was a man to make enemies among these adventurers, and he made enemies among the monks. I never knew exactly the ground of the trouble with Brother Damaso, but it came to a point where the priest almost denounced him from the pulpit.

"You remember the old ex-artilleryman who collected taxes? He became the laughing-stock of the pueblo, and grew brutal and churlish accordingly. One day he chased some boys who were annoying him, and struck one down. Unfortunately your father interfered. There was a struggle and the man fell. He died within a few hours.

"Naturally your father was arrested, and then his enemies unmasked. He was called heretic, filibustero, his papers were seized, everything was made to accuse him. Any one else in his place would have been set at liberty, the physicians finding that the man died of apoplexy; but your father's fortune, his honesty, and his scorn of everything illegal undid him. When his advocate, by the most brilliant pleading, had exposed these calumnies, new accusations arose. He had taken lands unjustly, owed men for imaginary wrongs, had relations with the tulisanes, by which his plantations and herds were unmolested. The affair became so complicated that no one could unravel it. Your father gave way under the strain, and died suddenly--alone--in prison."

They had reached the quarters.