Part 7 (1/2)

”Who is the head priest?” asked Ibarra.

”Who? The one who does the whipping.”

Ibarra put his hand to his head.

”But you can at least tell us where the grave is? You ought to remember.”

The grave-digger smiled. ”The body is no longer there,” he replied tranquilly.

”What do you say?”

”Yes, no longer,” the man added in a joking tone. ”Only a week ago I buried a woman in its place.”

”Are you crazy?” the servant asked. ”Why, it is not yet a year since we buried him.”

”Then that is the one, for it was many months ago that I took up the body. The head priest of the parish ordered me to do it, in order to bury it in the Chinese cemetery. But as it was heavy and it was raining that night----”

The man could not finish. He stepped back, half frightened at the expression on Crisostomo's face. Ibarra made a rush at him, and, grabbing him by the arm, shook him.

”And what did you do?” the young man asked, in an indescribable tone.

”Honored sir, do not get angry,” he replied, pale and trembling. ”I did not bury the body among the Chinese. In my opinion a person might better be a suicide than be buried among the Chinese. I threw the body into the lake.”

Ibarra laid both his hands on the man's shoulders and looked at him for a long time in a terrifying manner. ”You are only an unfortunate fellow,” he said, at last, and left the place on a run across bones, graves, and crosses, like a madman.

The grave-digger felt of his arm and murmured: ”What would they do with the dead! The head priest whips me with his cane for having left the body in the cemetery when I was sick. Now this fellow comes along and nearly breaks my arm for having taken it up. That is just like the Spaniards! I'll lose my place yet.”

Ibarra went on in great haste, keeping his eyes fixed in the distance. The old servant followed him, crying. Already the sun was hidden; a large, dark cloud hung over the western horizon; and a dry wind bent the tops of the trees and made the fields of sugar cane groan. With hat in hand, he went on. Not one tear dropped from his eye, not one sigh came from his breast. He hurried on as if he were fleeing from somebody, or something--perhaps the shade of his father, perhaps the tempest which was approaching. He hurried through the town and headed toward the outlying country, toward that old house which he had not entered for so many years. The house was surrounded by a wall, near which many cacti grew, and as he approached they seemed to signal to him. The windows seemed to open, the ilang-ilang joyfully waved its branches, and the doves fluttered about the little tower on the peak of their garden house.

But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his return to his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest who was advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of San Diego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom we have mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat, and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind to the outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. In his right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he and Ibarra had met.

As they approached each other, the young man stopped and looked at him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhat distracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rush toward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping his shoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed:

”What have you done with my father?”

Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentiments which were depicted on the young man's face, could not reply.

”What have you done with my father?” he asked again, his voice almost choking him.

The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra's hand, at last made a great effort and said: ”You are mistaken. I have done nothing with your father.”

”What? No?” continued the young man, the weight of his hand on the priest's shoulder almost making him kneel.

”No, I a.s.sure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father Damaso----”

”Ah!” exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and giving him a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quickly and went toward the house.