"She has no more fever but is still very weak."

"Did you lose last night?"

"A little. I hear that you won. I'm going to see if I can't get even here."

"Do you want to fight the _lasak?_" asks Capitan Basilio, looking at the cock and taking it from the servant. "That depends--if there's a bet."

"How much will you put up?"

"I won't gamble for less than two."

"Have you seen my _bulik?_" inquires Capitan Basilio, calling to a man who is carrying a small game-cock.

Capitan Tiago examines it and after feeling its weight and studying its scales returns it with the question, "How much will you put up?"

"Whatever you will."

"Two, and five hundred?"

"Three?"

"Three!"

"For the next fight after this!"

The chorus of curious bystanders and the gamblers spread the news that two celebrated cocks will fight, each of which has a history and a well-earned reputation. All wish to see and examine the two celebrities, opinions are offered, prophecies are made.

Meanwhile, the murmur of the voices grows, the confusion increases, the _Rueda_ is broken into, the seats are filled. The skilled attendants carry the two cocks into the arena, a white and a red, already armed but with the gaffs still sheathed. Cries are heard, "On the white!" "On the white!" while some other voice answers, "On the red!" The odds are on the white, he is the favorite; the red is the "outsider," the _dejado_.

Members of the Civil Guard move about in the crowd. They are not dressed in the uniform of that meritorious corps, but neither are they in civilian costume. Trousers of _guingon_ with a red stripe, a camisa stained blue from the faded blouse, and a service-cap, make up their costume, in keeping with their deportment; they make bets and keep watch, they raise disturbances and talk of keeping the peace.

While the spectators are yelling, waving their hands, flourishing and clinking pieces of silver; while they search in their pockets for the last coin, or, in the lack of such, try to pledge their word, promising to sell the carabao or the next crop, two boys, brothers apparently, follow the bettors with wistful eyes, loiter about, murmur timid words to which no one listens, become more and more gloomy and gaze at one another ill-humoredly and dejectedly. Lucas watches them covertly, smiles malignantly, jingles his silver, passes close to them, and gazing into the _Rueda_, cries out:

"Fifty, fifty to twenty on the white!"

The two brothers exchange glances.

"I told you," muttered the elder, "that you shouldn't have put up all the money. If you had listened to me we should now have something to bet on the red."

The younger timidly approached Lucas and touched him on the arm.

"Oh, it's you!" exclaimed the latter, turning around with feigned surprise. "Does your brother accept my proposition or do you want to bet?"

"How can we bet when we've lost everything?"

"Then you accept?"

"He doesn't want to! If you would lend us something, now that you say you know us--"

Lucas scratched his head, pulled at his camisa, and replied, "Yes, I know you. You are Tarsilo and Bruno, both young and strong. I know that your brave father died as a result of the hundred lashes a day those soldiers gave him. I know that you don't think of revenging him."

"Don't meddle in our affairs!" broke in Tarsilo, the elder. "That might lead to trouble. If it were not that we have a sister, we should have been hanged long ago."

"Hanged? They only hang a coward, one who has no money or influence. And at all events the mountains are near."

"A hundred to twenty on the white!" cried a passer-by.

"Lend us four pesos, three, two," begged the younger.

"We'll soon pay them back double. The fight is going to commence."

Lucas again scratched his head. "Tush! This money isn't mine. Don Crisostomo has given it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see that you're not like your father--he was really brave--let him who is not so not seek amusement!" So saying, he drew away from them a little.

"Let's take him up, what's the difference?" said Bruno. "It's the same to be shot as to be hanged. We poor folks are good for nothing else."

"You're right--but think of our sister!"

Meanwhile, the ring has been cleared and the combat is about to begin. The voices die away as the two starters, with the expert who fastens the gaffs, are left alone in the center. At a signal from the referee, the expert unsheathes the gaffs and the fine blades glitter threateningly.

Sadly and silently the two brothers draw nearer to the ring until their foreheads are pressed against the railing. A man approaches them and calls into their ears, "_Pare_, [128] a hundred to ten on the white!"

Tarsilo stares at him in a foolish way and responds to Bruno's nudge with a grunt.

The starters hold the cocks with skilful delicacy, taking care not to wound themselves. A solemn silence reigns; the spectators seem to be changed into hideous wax figures. They present one cock to the other, holding his head down so that the other may peck at it and thus irritate him. Then the other is given a like opportunity, for in every duel there must be fair play, whether it is a question of Parisian cocks or Filipino cocks. Afterwards, they hold them up in sight of each other, close together, so that each of the enraged little creatures may see who it is that has pulled out a feather, and with whom he must fight. Their neck-feathers bristle up as they gaze at each other fixedly with flashes of anger darting from their little round eyes. Now the moment has come; the attendants place them on the ground a short distance apart and leave them a clear field.

Slowly they advance, their footfalls are, audible on the hard ground. No one in the crowd speaks, no one breathes. Raising and lowering their heads as if to gauge one another with a look, the two cocks utter sounds of defiance and contempt. Each sees the bright blade throwing out its cold, bluish reflections. The danger animates them and they rush directly toward each other, but a pace apart they check themselves with fixed gaze and bristling plumage. At that moment their little heads are filled with a rush of blood, their anger flashes forth, and they hurl themselves together with instinctive valor. They strike beak to beak, breast to breast, gaff to gaff, wing to wing, but the blows are skilfully parried, only a few feathers fall. Again they size each other up: suddenly the white rises on his wings, brandishing the deadly knife, but the red has bent his legs and lowered his head, so the white smites only the empty air.. Then on touching the ground the white, fearing a blow from behind, turns quickly to face his adversary. The red attacks him furiously, but he defends himself calmly--not undeservedly is he the favorite of the spectators, all of whom tremulously and anxiously follow the fortunes of the fight, only here and there an involuntary cry being heard.

The ground becomes strewn with red and white feathers dyed in blood, but the contest is not for the first blood; the Filipino, carrying out the laws dictated by his government, wishes it to be to the death or until one or the other turns tail and runs. Blood covers the ground, the blows are more numerous, but victory still hangs in the balance. At last, with a supreme effort, the white throws himself forward for a final stroke, fastens his gaff in the wing of the red and catches it between the bones. But the white himself has been wounded in the breast and both are weak and feeble from loss of blood. Breathless, their strength spent, caught one against the other, they remain motionless until the white, with blood pouring from his beak, falls, kicking his death-throes. The red remains at his side with his wing caught, then slowly doubles up his legs and gently closes his eyes.

Then the referee, in accordance with the rule prescribed by the government, declares the red the winner. A savage yell greets the decision, a yell that is heard over the whole town, even and prolonged. He who hears this from afar then knows that the winner is the one against which the odds were placed, or the joy would not be so lasting. The same happens with the nations: when a small one gains a victory over a large one, it is sung and recounted from age to age.

"You see now!" said Bruno dejectedly to his brother, "if you had listened to me we should now have a hundred pesos. You're the cause of our being penniless."

Tarsilo did not answer, but gazed about him as if looking for some one.

"There he is, talking to Pedro," added Bruno. "He's giving him money, lots of money!"

True it was that Lucas was counting silver coins into the hand of Sisa's husband. The two then exchanged some words in secret and separated, apparently satisfied.

"Pedro must have agreed. That's what it is to be decided," sighed Bruno.

Tarsilo remained gloomy and thoughtful, wiping away with the cuff of his camisa the perspiration that ran down his forehead.

"Brother," said Bruno, "I'm going to accept, if you don't decide. The _law_ [129] continues, the _lasak_ must win and we ought not to lose any chance. I want to bet on the next fight. What's the difference? We'll revenge our father."

"Wait!" said Tarsilo, as he gazed at him fixedly, eye to eye, while both turned pale. "I'll go with you, you're right. We'll revenge our father." Still, he hesitated, and again wiped away the perspiration.

"What's stopping you?" asked Bruno impatiently.