and again its
speckled greenish back, while man, Nature's favorite, went on his
way undisturbed by what the Brahmins and vegetarians would call so
many cases of fratricide.

CHAPTER XXIV

In the Wood

Early, very early indeed, somewhat differently from his usual custom,
Padre Salvi had celebrated mass and cleansed a dozen sinful souls in a
few moments. Then it seemed that the reading of some letters which he
had received firmly sealed and waxed caused the worthy curate to lose
his appetite, since he allowed his chocolate to become completely cold.

"The padre is getting sick," commented the cook while preparing another
cup. "For days he hasn't eaten; of the six dishes that I set before
him on the table he doesn't touch even two."

"It's because he sleeps badly," replied the other servant. "He has
nightmares since he changed his bedroom. His eyes are becoming more
sunken all the time and he's getting thinner and yellower day by day."

Truly, Padre Salvi was a pitiable sight. He did not care to touch the
second cup of chocolate nor to taste the sweet cakes of Cebu; instead,
he paced thoughtfully about the spacious sala, crumpling in his bony
hands the letters, which he read from time to time. Finally, he called
for his carriage, got ready, and directed that he be taken to the
wood where stood the fateful tree near which the picnic was being held.

Arriving at the edge of the wood, the padre dismissed his carriage
and made his way alone into its depths. A gloomy pathway opened a
difficult passage through the thickets and led to the brook formed
by certain warm springs, like many that flow from the slopes of
Mr. Makiling. Adorning its banks grow wild flowers, many of which
have as yet no Latin names, but which are doubtless well-known to
the gilded insects and butterflies of all shapes and colors, blue and
gold, white and black, many-hued, glittering with iridescent spots,
with rubies and emeralds on their wings, and to the countless beetles
with their metallic lusters of powdered gold. The hum of the insects,
the cries of the cicada, which cease not night or day, the songs of
the birds, and the dry crashing of the rotten branch that falls and
strikes all around against the trees, are the only sounds to break
the stillness of that mysterious place.

For some time the padre wandered aimlessly among the thick underbrush,
avoiding the thorns that caught at his _guingon_ habit as though to
detain him, and the