Part 17 (2/2)
Full of astonishment and terror, no one dared to intervene.
”Keep back!” cried the young man, with a menacing voice, and brandis.h.i.+ng a sharp knife in his hand. In the meantime, he held the friar down with his foot on his neck. The latter was recovering consciousness. ”Let no one approach who does not want to die!”
Ibarra was beside himself. His body trembled, and his threatening eyes almost burst from their sockets. Friar Damaso struggled and raised himself, but the young man, seizing him by the collar, shook him till he fell on his knees and collapsed.
”Senor Ibarra! Senor Ibarra!” cried some.
But n.o.body, not even the alferez, dared to approach the glistening blade, considering the strength of the young man and the state of his mind. All were paralyzed.
”All of you people here have said nothing! Now the matter concerns me! I have avoided him. G.o.d now brings him to me. Let G.o.d judge!”
The young man was breathing hard. With iron hand he held the Franciscan down, and the latter struggled in vain to break loose.
”My heart beats tranquilly. My hand is sure.”
He looked about him and continued: ”Is there among you any one who does not love his father; any one who hates his memory, any one who was born in disgrace and humiliation? See! Do you observe this silence? Priest of a peaceful G.o.d, with your mouth full of sanct.i.ty and religion, and a miserable heart, you could not have known what a father is. You should have thought of your own! Do you see? Among this crowd which you scorn, there is none such as you! You are judged!”
The people around him made a stir, believing that he was going to strike.
”Back!” he again cried in a threatening voice. ”What? Do you fear that I would soil my hand with his impure blood? Have I not told you that my heart beats tranquilly? Back from us, all! Listen, priests, judges, you who think yourselves different from other men, and who claim other rights for yourselves! Listen! My father was an honorable man. Ask these people who venerate his memory. My father was a good citizen. He sacrificed himself for me and for the good of his country! His house was open. His table was ready for the stranger or the exile who came to it in his misery. He was a good Christian; he always did what was right. He never oppressed the helpless, nor brought sorrow to the miserable and wretched. To this man, he opened the door of his house. He had him sit at his table and he called him his friend. What has he done in return? He has calumniated him, persecuted him, has armed ignorance against him, violating the sanct.i.ty of his office, has thrown him out of his tomb, dishonored his memory, and persecuted him even in death's repose. And not content with that, he now persecutes his son. I have fled from him, I have avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the pulpit; you saw him point me out to the popular fanaticism; I said nothing. Now he comes here in search of a quarrel. To your surprise, I suffered in silence; but he again insults the sacred memory of my father, that memory which every son holds dear.... You who are here, you priests, you judges, have you seen your father watching over you night and day and working for you? Have you seen him deprive himself of you for your good? Have you seen your father die in prison, heart broken, sighing for some one to caress him, searching for some being to console him, alone in sickness, while you were in a foreign land? Have you heard his name dishonored afterward? Have you found his tomb vacant when you wished to pray upon it? No? You are silent. Then by that silence you condemn him!”
He raised his arm; but a young maiden, quick as a flash, put herself between them and with her delicate hands stopped the arm of the avenger. It was Maria Clara.
Ibarra looked at her with an expression that seemed to reflect madness. Gradually, he loosened the vise-like fingers of his hand, allowed the body of the Franciscan to fall, and dropped his knife upon the ground. Covering his face, he fled through the crowd.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE FIRST CLOUD.
The house of Captain Tiago was no less disturbed than the imagination of the people. Maria Clara, refusing to listen to the consolation of her aunt and foster sister, did nothing but weep. Her father had forbidden her to speak to Ibarra until the priests should absolve him from the excommunication which they had p.r.o.nounced upon him.
Captain Tiago, though very busy preparing his house for the reception of the Governor General, had been summoned to the convent.
”Don't cry, my girl,” said Aunt Isabel as she dusted off the mirrors. ”They will certainly annul the excommunication; they will write the Pope.... We will make a large donation.... Father Damaso had nothing more than a fainting spell.... He is not dead.”
”Don't cry,” said Andeng to her, in a low voice. ”I will certainly arrange it so that you can speak to him. What are the confessionals made for, if we are not expected to sin? Everything is pardoned when one has told it to the curate.”
Finally, Captain Tiago arrived. They scanned his face for an answer to their many questions, but his expression announced too plainly his dismay. The poor man was sweating, and pa.s.sing his hand over his forehead. He seemed unable to utter a word.
”How is it, Santiago?” asked Aunt Isabel, anxiously.
He answered her with a sigh and dried away a tear.
”For G.o.d's sake, speak! What has happened?”
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