former red and smiling, the latter sad and pensive like
little ladies beside gigantic children. The beating of drums, the roar
of tin horns, the wheezy music of the accordions and the hand-organs,
all mingled in a carnival concert, amid the coming and going of the
crowd, pushing, stumbling over one another, with their faces turned
toward the booths, so that the collisions were frequent and often
amusing. The carriages were forced to move slowly, with the _tabi_ of
the cocheros repeated every moment. Met and mingled government clerks,
soldiers, friars, students, Chinese, girls with their mammas or aunts,
all greeting, signaling, calling to one another merrily.

Padre Camorra was in the seventh heaven at the sight of so many pretty
girls. He stopped, looked back, nudged Ben-Zayb, chuckled and swore,
saying, "And that one, and that one, my ink-slinger? And that one
over there, what say you?" In his contentment he even fell to using
the familiar _tu_ toward his friend and adversary. Padre Salvi stared
at him from time to time, but he took little note of Padre Salvi. On
the contrary, he pretended to stumble so that he might brush against
the girls, he winked and made eyes at them.

"_Punales!_" he kept saying to himself. "When shall I be the curate
of Quiapo?"

Suddenly Ben-Zayb let go an oath, jumped aside, and slapped his hand
on his arm; Padre Camorra in his excess of enthusiasm had pinched
him. They were approaching a dazzling senorita who was attracting the
attention of the whole plaza, and Padre Camorra, unable to restrain
his delight, had taken Ben-Zayb's arm as a substitute for the girl's.

It was Paulita Gomez, the prettiest of the pretty, in company with
Isagani, followed by Dona Victorina. The young woman was resplendent
in her beauty: all stopped and craned their necks, while they ceased
their conversation and followed her with their eyes--even Dona
Victorina was respectfully saluted.

Paulita was arrayed in a rich camisa and panuelo of embroidered pina,
different from those she had worn that morning to the church. The
gauzy texture of the pina set off her shapely head, and the Indians
who saw her compared her to the moon surrounded by fleecy clouds. A
silk rose-colored skirt, caught up in rich and graceful folds by her
little hand, gave majesty to her erect figure, the movement of which,
harmonizing with her curving neck, displayed all the triumphs of vanity
and satisfied coquetry. Isagani appeared to be r