to trouble himself inquiring about the fate of a poor woman.

There Sisa spent two hours in a state of semi-idiocy, huddled in a corner with her head hidden in her arms and her hair falling down in disorder. At noon the alferez was informed, and the first thing that he did was to discredit the curate's accusation.

"Bah! Tricks of that rascally friar," he commented, as he ordered that the woman be released and that no one should pay any attention to the matter. "If he wants to get back what he's lost, let him ask St. Anthony or complain to the nuncio. Out with her!"

Consequently, Sisa was ejected from the barracks almost violently, as she did not try to move herself. Finding herself in the street, she instinctively started to hurry toward her house, with her head bared, her hair disheveled, and her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The sun burned in its zenith with never a cloud to shade its flashing disk; the wind shook the leaves of the trees lightly along the dry road, while no bird dared stir from the shade of their branches.

At last Sisa reached her hut and entered it in silence, She walked all about it and ran in and out for a time. Then she hurried to old Tasio's house and knocked at the door, but he was not at home. The unhappy woman then returned to her hut and began to call loudly for Basilio and Crispin, stopping every few minutes to listen attentively. Her voice came back in an echo, for the soft murmur of the water in the neighboring river and the rustling of the bamboo leaves were the only sounds that broke the stillness. She called again and again as she climbed the low cliffs, or went down into a gully, or descended to the river. Her eyes rolled about with a sinister expression, now flashing up with brilliant gleams, now becoming obscured like the sky on a stormy night; it might be said that the light of reason was flickering and about to be extinguished.

Again returning to her hut, she sat down on the mat where she had lain the night before. Raising her eyes, she saw a twisted remnant from Basilio's camisa at the end of the bamboo post in the dinding, or wall, that overlooked the precipice. She seized and examined it in the sunlight. There were blood stains on it, but Sisa hardly saw them, for she went outside and continued to raise and lower it before her eyes to examine it in the burning sunlight. The light was failing and everything beginning to grow dark around her. She gazed wide-eyed and unblinkingly straight at the sun.

Still wandering about here and there, crying and wailing, she would have frightened any listener, for her voice now uttered rare notes such as are not often produced in the human throat. In a night of roaring tempest, when the whirling winds beat with invisible wings against the crowding shadows that ride upon it, if you should find yourself in a solitary and ruined building, you would hear moans and sighs which you might suppose to be the soughing of the wind as it beats on the high towers and moldering walls to fill you with terror and make you shudder in spite of yourself; as mournful as those unknown sounds of the dark night when the tempest roars were the accents of that mother. In this condition night came upon her. Perhaps Heaven had granted some hours of sleep while the invisible wing of an angel, brushing over her pallid countenance, might wipe out the sorrows from her memory; perhaps such suffering was too great for weak human endurance, and Providence had intervened with its sweet remedy, forgetfulness. However that may be, the next day Sisa wandered about smiling, singing, and talking with all the creatures of wood and field.

CHAPTER XXII

Lights and Shadows

Three days have passed since the events narrated, three days which the town of San Diego has devoted to making preparations for the fiesta, commenting and murmuring at the same time. While all were enjoying the prospect of the pleasures to come, some spoke ill of the gobernadorcillo, others of the teniente-mayor, others of the young men, and there were not lacking those who blamed everybody for everything.

There was a great deal of comment on the arrival of Maria Clara, accompanied by her Aunt Isabel. All rejoiced over it because they loved her and admired her beauty, while at the same time they wondered at the change that had come over Padre Salvi. "He often becomes inattentive during the holy services, nor does he talk much with us, and he is thinner and more taciturn than usual," commented his penitents. The cook noticed him getting thinner and thinner by minutes and complained of the little honor that was done to his dishes. But that which caused the most comment among the people was the fact that in the convento were to be seen more than two lights burning during the evening while Padre Salvi was on a visit to a private dwelling--the home of Maria Clara! The pious women crossed themselves but continued their comments.

Ibarra had telegraphed from the capital of the province welcoming Aunt Isabel and her niece, but had failed to explain the reason for his absence. Many thought him a prisoner on account of his treatment of Padre Salvi on the afternoon of All Saints, but the comments reached a climax when, on the evening of the third day, they saw him alight before the home of his fiancée and extend a polite greeting to the priest, who was just entering the same house.

Sisa and her sons were forgotten by all.

If we should now go into the home of Maria Clara, a beautiful nest set among trees of orange and ilang-ilang, we should surprise the two young people at a window overlooking the lake, shadowed by flowers and climbing vines which exhaled a delicate perfume. Their lips murmured words softer than the rustling of the leaves and sweeter than the aromatic odors that floated through the garden. It was the hour when the sirens of the lake take advantage of the fast falling twilight to show their merry heads above the waves to gaze upon the setting sun and sing it to rest. It is said that their eyes and hair are blue, and that they are crowned with white and red water plants; that at times the foam reveals their shapely forms, whiter than the foam itself, and that when night descends completely they begin their divine sports, playing mysterious airs like those of Æolian harps. But let us turn to our young people and listen to the end of their conversation. Ibarra was speaking to Maria Clara.

"Tomorrow before daybreak your wish shall be fulfilled. I'll arrange everything tonight so that nothing will be lacking."

"Then I'll write to my girl friends to come. But arrange it so that the curate won't be there."

"Why?"

"Because he seems to be watching me. His deep, gloomy eyes trouble me, and when he fixes them on me I'm afraid. When he talks to me, his voice --oh, he speaks of such odd, such strange, such incomprehensible things! He asked me once if I have ever dreamed of letters from my mother. I really believe that he is half-crazy. My friend Sinang and my foster-sister, Andeng, say that he is somewhat touched, because he neither eats nor bathes and lives in darkness. See to it that he does not come!"

"We can't do otherwise than invite him," answered Ibarra thoughtfully. "The customs of the country require it. He is in your house and, besides, he has conducted himself nobly toward me. When the alcalde consulted him about the business of which I've told you, he had only praises for me and didn't try to put the least obstacle in the way. But I see that you're serious about it, so cease worrying, for he won't go in the same boat with us."

Light footsteps were heard. It was the curate, who approached with a forced smile on his lips. "The wind is chilly," he said, "and when one catches cold one generally doesn't get rid of it until the hot weather. Aren't you afraid of catching cold?" His voice trembled and his eyes were turned toward the distant horizon, away from the young people.

"No, we rather find the night pleasant and the breeze delicious," answered Ibarra. "During these months we have our autumn and our spring. Some leaves fall, but the flowers are always in bloom."

Fray Salvi sighed.

"I think the union of these two seasons beautiful, with no cold winter intervening," continued Ibarra. "In February the buds on the trees will burst open and in March we'll have the ripe fruit. When the hot month's come we shall go elsewhere."

Fray Salvi smiled and began to talk of commonplace things, of the weather, of the town, and of the fiesta. Maria Clara slipped away on some pretext.

"Since we are talking of fiestas, allow me to invite you to the one that we are going to celebrate tomorrow. It is to be a picnic in the woods, which we and our friends are going to hold together."

"Where will it be held?"

"The young women wish to hold it by the brook in the neighboring wood, near to the old balete, so we shall rise early to avoid the sun."

The priest thought a moment and then answered: "The invitation is very tempting and I accept it to prove to you that I hold no rancor against you. But I shall have to go late, after I've attended to my duties. Happy are you who are free, entirely free."

A few moments later Ibarra left in order to look after the arrangements for the picnic on the next day. The night was dark and in the street some one approached and saluted him respectfully.

"Who are you?" asked Ibarra.

"Sir, you don't know my name," answered the unknown, "but I've been waiting for you two days."

"For what purpose?"

"Because nowhere has any pity been shown me and they say that I'm an outlaw, sir. But I've lost my two sons, my wife is insane, and every one says that I deserve what has happened to me."

Ibarra looked at the man critically as he asked, "What do you want now?"

"To beg for your pity upon my wife and sons."

"I can't stop now," replied Ibarra. "If you wish to come, you can tell me as we go along what has happened to you."

The man thanked him, and the two quickly disappeared in the shadows