ith effusion.

While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the
sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed,
broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.

"Whoever stirs is a dead man!" cried the sergeant.

In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what
he wanted.

"We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning,"
replied the officer, still threatening.

"A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken."

"No, senor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against
a priest. You admit questionable people to your fetes."

Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great
coldness.

"I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is
welcome at my fetes." And he turned away.

The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to
search on all sides. They had the helmsman's description on paper.

"Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenths of the
natives," said Don Filipo; "see that you make no mistakes!"

Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.

"So this is the Elias who threw the alferez into the swamp," said Leon.

"He's a tulisane then?" asked Victoria, trembling.

"I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes."

"He hasn't the face of a criminal," said Sinang.

"No; but his face is very sad," said Maria. "I did not see him smile
all the morning."

The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun
everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra's
ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full
of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the
trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: "Adieu,
youth! Adieu, dream of a day!"

XXI.

WITH THE PHILOSOPHER.

The next morning, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after visiting his land,
turned his horse toward old Tasio's.

Complete quiet reigned in the old man's garden; scarcely did the
swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of
the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode
of silence.

Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and
entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded
by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and
books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work th