merrily.... In the present state of affairs, it would
be almost a kindness to prohibit young Filipinos from leaving their
country, if not even from learning to read."

IV.

HERETIC AND FILIBUSTER.

Ibarra stood outside the house of Captain Tiago. The night wind,
which at this season brings a bit of freshness to Manila, seemed to
blow away the cloud that had darkened his face. Carriages passed
him like streaks of light, hired calashes rolled slowly by, and
foot-passengers of all nationalities jostled one another. With the
rambling gait of the preoccupied or the idle, he took his way toward
the Plaza de Binondo. Nothing was changed. It was the same street,
with the same blue and white houses, the same white walls with their
slate-colored fresco, poor imitations of granite. The church tower
showed the same clock with transparent face. The Chinese shop had
the same soiled curtains, the same iron triangles. One day, long ago,
imitating the street urchins of Manila, he had twisted one of these
triangles: nobody had ever straightened it. "How little progress!" he
murmured; and he followed the Calle de la Sacristia, pursued by the
cry of sherbet venders.

"Marvellous!" he thought; "one would say my voyage was a dream. Santo
Dios! the street is as bad as when I went away."

While he contemplated this marvel of urban stability in an unstable
country, a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He looked up and
recognized the old lieutenant. His face had put off its expression
of sternness, and he smiled kindly at Crisostomo.

"Young man," he said, "I was your father's friend: I wish you to
consider me yours."

"You seem to have known my father well," said Crisostomo; "perhaps
you can tell me something of his death."

"You do not know about it?"

"Nothing at all, and Don Santiago would not talk with me till
to-morrow."

"You know, of course, where he died."

"Not even that."

Lieutenant Guevara hesitated.

"I am an old soldier," he said at last, in a voice full of compassion,
"and only know how to say bluntly what I have to tell. Your father
died in prison."

Ibarra sprang back, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant's.

"Died in prison? Who died in prison?"

"Your father," said the lieutenant, his voice still gentler.

"My father--in prison? What are you saying? Do you know who my father
was?" and he seized the old man's arm.

"I think I'm not mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra."

"Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," Crisos