"Go," said Captain Tiago, "but come back soon. Father Damaso, you know, is to dine with us. You, too, Crisostomo, must join us."

"With the greatest pleasure," stammered Ibarra, avoiding Maria Clara's eyes, "if I did not feel that I must be at home to receive whoever may come."

"Bring your friends here; there is always room at my table," said Captain Tiago, somewhat coldly. "I wish Father Damaso and you to come to an understanding."

"There is yet time," said Ibarra, forcing a smile.

As they descended to the street, Aunt Isabel following, people moved aside to let them pa.s.s. Maria Clara was a vision of loveliness: her pallor had disappeared, and if her eyes remained pensive, her mouth seemed to know only smiles. With the amiability characteristic of happy young womanhood she saluted the people she had known as a child, and they smiled back their admiration. In these few days of freedom she had regained the frank friendliness, the gracious speech, which seemed to have slumbered inside the narrow walls of her convent. She felt a new, intense life within her, and everything without seemed good and beautiful. She showed her love for Ibarra with that maiden sweetness which comes from pure thoughts and knows no reason for false blushes.

At regular intervals in the streets were kindled great cl.u.s.tered lights with bamboo supports, like candelabra. People were beginning to illuminate their houses, and through the open windows one could see the guests moving about in the radiance among the flowers to the music of harp, piano, or orchestra. Outside, in gala costume, native or European, Chinese, Spaniards, and Filipinos were moving in all directions, escaping with difficulty the crush of carriages and calashes.

When the party reached Captain Basilio's house, Sinang saw them, and ran down the steps.

"Come up till I'm ready to go out with you," she said. "I'm weary of all these strangers who talk of nothing but c.o.c.ks and cards."

The house was full of people. Many came up to greet Crisostomo, and all admired Maria Clara. "Beautiful as the Virgin!" the old dames whispered, chewing their buyo.

Here they must take chocolate. As they were leaving, Captain Basilio said in Ibarra's ear:

"Won't you join us this evening? Father Damaso is going to make up a little purse."

Ibarra smiled and answered by a movement of the head, which might have meant anything.

Chatting and laughing, the merry party went on past the brilliantly illuminated houses. At length they came to one fast closed and dark. It was the home of the alferez. Maria was astonished.

"It's that old sorceress. The Muse of the Munic.i.p.al Guard, as Tasio calls her," said Sinang. "Her house is in mourning because the people are gay."

At a corner of the plaza, where a blind man was singing, an uncommon sight offered itself. A man stood there, miserably dressed, his head covered by a great salakot of palm leaves, which completely hid his face, though from its shadow two lights gleamed and went out fitfully. He was tall, and, from his figure, young. He pushed forward a basket, and after speaking some unintelligible words drew back and stood completely isolated. Women pa.s.sing put fruit and rice into his basket, and at this he came forward a little, speaking what seemed to be his thanks.

Maria Clara felt the presence of some great suffering. "Who is it?" she asked Iday.

"It's a leper. He lives outside the pueblo, near the Chinese cemetery; every one fears to go near him. If you could see his cabin! The wind, the rain, and the sun must visit him as they like."

"Poor man!" murmured Maria Clara, and hardly knowing what she did, she went up and put into the basket the reliquary her father had just given her.

"Maria!" exclaimed her friends.

"I had nothing else," she said, forcing back the tears.

"What will he do with the reliquary? He can't sell it! n.o.body will touch it now! If only it could be eaten!" said Sinang.

But the leper went to the basket, took the glittering thing in his hands, fell on his knees, kissed it, and bent his head to the ground, uncovering humbly. Maria Clara turned her face to hide the tears.

As the leper knelt, a woman crept up and knelt beside him. By her long, loose hair and emaciated face the people recognized Sisa. The leper, feeling her touch, sprang up with a cry; but, to the horror of the crowd, she clung to his arm.

"Pray! Pray!" said she. "It is the Feast of the Dead! These lights are the souls of men. Pray for my sons!"

"Separate them! Separate them!" cried the crowd; but no one dared do it.

"Do you see the light in the tower? That is my son Basilio, ringing the bells. Do you see that other in the manse? That is my son Crispin; but I cannot go to them, because the curate is ill, and his money is lost. I carried the curate fruit from my garden. My garden was full of flowers, and I had two sons. I had a garden, I tended my flowers, and I had two sons."

And leaving the leper she moved away, singing:

"I had a garden and flowers. I had two sons, a garden and flowers."

"What have you done for that poor woman?" Maria asked Ibarra.

"Nothing yet," he replied, somewhat confused. "But don't be troubled; the curate has promised to aid me."

As they spoke, a soldier came dragging Sisa back, rather than leading her. She was resisting.

"Where are you taking her? What has she done?" asked Ibarra.

"What has she done? Didn't you hear the noise she made?" said the guardian of public tranquillity.

The leper took up his basket and vanished. Maria Clara asked to go home. She had lost all her gayety. Her sadness increased when, arrived at her door, her fiance refused to go in.

"It must be so to-night," he said as he bade her good-by.

Maria, mounting the steps, thought how tiresome were fete days, when one must receive so many strangers.

The next evening a little perfumed note came to Ibarra by the hand of Andeng, Maria's foster sister.

"Crisostomo, for a whole day I have not seen you. They tell me you are ill. I have lighted two candles and prayed for you. I'm so tired of being asked to play and dance. I did not know there were so many tiresome people in the world. If Father Damaso had not tried to amuse me with stories, I should have left them all and gone away to sleep. Write me how you are, and if I shall send papa to see you. I send you Andeng now to make your tea; she will do it better than your servants. If you don't come to-morrow, I shall not go to the ceremony.

Maria Clara."

XXIV.

IN THE CHURCH.

The orchestras sounded the reveille at the first rays of the sun, waking with joyous airs the tired inhabitants of the pueblo.

It was the last day of the fete--indeed, the fete itself. Every one expected much more than on the eve, when the Brothers of the Sacred Rosary had had their sermon and procession; for the Brothers of the Third Order were more numerous, and counted on humiliating their rivals. The Chinese candle merchants had reaped a rich harvest.

Everybody put on his gala dress; all the jewels came out of their coffers; the fops and sporting men wore rows of diamond b.u.t.tons on their shirt fronts, heavy gold chains, and white jipij.a.pa hats, as the Indians call Panamas. No one but old Tasio was in everyday costume.

"You seem even sadder than usual," the lieutenant said to him. "Because we have so many reasons to weep, may we not laugh once in a while?"

"Yes, laugh, but not play the fool! It's the same insane orgy every year, the same waste of money when there's so much need and so much suffering! But I see! It's the orgy, the baccha.n.a.l, that is to still the lamentations of the poor!"

"You know I share your opinion," said Don Filipo, half serious, half laughing, "and that I defended it; but what can I do against the gobernadorcillo and the curate?"