men, he has his
faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don't ask
for miracles; don't ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his
fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What
does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he
does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To
make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of
those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that
is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb,
to warm a little with its rays the cold of death, to keep us from
being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question."

"It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice,
and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols."

"Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it."

"'Lower my head or lose it!'" repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. "The dilemma
is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of
Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his
conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain;
I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in
all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies."

"But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your
enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which----"

Ibarra did not let him finish.

"Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my
father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget,
and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!"

The old philosopher lowered his eyes.

"Senor Ibarra," he said slowly, "if you are going to keep the
remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget,
abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your
compatriots. This work demands another man."

Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his
project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must
make good his offering to her.

"If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard
road?" he asked in a low voice.

Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. A fresh breeze was
blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.

"Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and
blossoms?" said the philosopher, pointing out a su