ines in a letter addressed to a woman before he
left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the
Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was
no evidence against him."

"And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?"

"The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness
himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except
one named Jose, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward
committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers
found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra's
seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was
supposed that the accusing letter served as a model."

"You tell us," said a Franciscan, "that Ibarra addressed this letter
to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?"

The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi,
and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others
continued to discuss the matter.

"Even women seem to have hated him," said one.

"He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without
his hostess!" said another, laughing.

Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. She had heard the
whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet.

"You are a prudent young woman," he said in a low voice; "by giving
over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future." And he moved
on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt
Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress.

"What is the matter?" cried the old lady, terrified at the face of
her niece. "You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?"

"My heart--it's the crowd--so much light--I must rest. Tell my father
I've gone to rest," and steadying herself by her aunt's arm, she went
to her room.

"You are cold! Do you want some tea?" asked Aunt Isabel at the door.

Maria shook her head. "Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest,"
she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of
her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing:

"Mother, mother, my mother!"

The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading
to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter
and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many
times they knocked at her door--her father, her aunt, Dona Vict