disappeared in the
crowd. Animated discussions were heard, and rapid questions; then,
little by little, the mass began to dissolve and to wear a less hostile
attitude. It was time; the soldiers arrived with bayonets fixed.

As Ibarra was about to enter his house that night a little man in
mourning, having a great scar on his left cheek, placed himself in
front of him and bowed humbly.

"What can I do for you?" asked Crisostomo.

"Senor, my name is Jose; I am the brother of the man killed this
morning."

"Ah," said Ibarra, "I assure you I am not insensible to your loss. What
do you wish of me?"

"Senor, I wish to know how much you are going to pay my brother's
family."

"Pay!" repeated Crisostomo, not without annoyance. "We will talk of
this again; come to me to-morrow."

"But tell me simply what you will give," insisted Jose.

"I tell you we will talk of it another day, not now," said Ibarra,
more impatiently.

"Ah! You think because we are poor----"

Ibarra interrupted him.

"Don't try my patience too far," he said, moving on. Jose looked
after him with a smile full of hatred.

"It is easy to see he is a grandson of the man who exposed my father
to the sun," he murmured between his teeth. "The same blood!" Then
in a changed tone he added: "But if you pay well--friends!"

XXXV.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

The fete was over, and the inhabitants of the pueblo now perceived,
as they did every year, that their purses were empty, that in the
sweat of their faces they had earned scant pleasure, and paid dear
for noise and headaches. But what of that? The next year they would
begin again; the next century it would still be the same, for it had
been so up to this time, and there is nothing which can make people
renounce a custom.

The house of Captain Tiago is sad. All the windows are closed; one
scarcely dares make a sound; and nowhere but in the kitchen do they
speak aloud. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, is sick in bed. The
state of her health could be read on all faces, as our actions betray
the griefs of our hearts.

"What do you think, Isabel, ought I to make a gift to the cross at
Tunasan, or that at Matahong?" asks the unhappy father. "The cross
at Tunasan grows, but that at Matahong perspires. Which do you call
the more miraculous?"

Aunt Isabel reflected, nodded her head, and whispered:

"To grow is more miraculous; we all perspire, but we don't all grow."

"That's so, yes, Isabel;