lf-possession he
had maintained in the pilot's presence. His sorrow pictured itself
on his countenance. "I, I have made her suffer," he murmured.

He dressed himself quickly and descended the stairs. A small man,
dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, saluted
him humbly, and detained him on his way.

"What do you want?" asked Ibarra.

"Sir, my name is Lucas, and I'm the brother of the man who was killed
yesterday."

"Ah, you have my sympathy. Well?"

"Sir, I want to know how much you're going to pay my brother's family."

"Pay?" repeated the young man, unable to conceal his disgust. "We'll
talk of that later. Come back this afternoon, I'm in a hurry now."

"Only tell me how much you're willing to pay," insisted Lucas.

"I've told you that we'll talk about that some other time. I haven't
time now," repeated Ibarra impatiently.

"You haven't time now, sir?" asked Lucas bitterly, placing himself
in front of the young man. "You haven't time to consider the dead?"

"Come this afternoon, my good man," replied Ibarra, restraining
himself. "I'm on my way now to visit a sick person."

"Ah, for the sick you forget the dead? Do you think that because we
are poor--"

Ibarra looked at him and interrupted, "Don't try my patience!" then
went on his way.

Lucas stood looking after him with a smile full of hate. "It's easy to
see that you're the grandson of the man who tied my father out in the
sun," he muttered between his teeth. "You still have the same blood."

Then with a change of tone he added, "But, if you pay well--friends!"

CHAPTER XLII

The Espadanas

The fiesta is over. The people of the town have again found, as in
every other year, that their treasury is poorer, that they have worked,
sweated, and stayed awake much without really amusing themselves,
without gaining any new friends, and, in a word, that they have dearly
bought their dissipation and their headaches. But this matters nothing,
for the same will be done next year, the same the coming century,
since it has always been the custom.

In Capitan Tiago's house sadness reigns. All the windows are closed,
the inmates move about noiselessly, and only in the kitchen do they
dare to speak in natural tones. Maria Clara, the soul of the house,
lies sick in bed and her condition is reflected in all the faces,
as the sorrows of the mind may be read in the countenance of an
individual.

"Which seems best to you, Isabel, shall