“But Father Dámaso——”
“You know the Indian; as soon as he has learned anything, he takes a title. All these beardless youths who go to Europe——”
“But, your reverence, listen——” began the alcalde, alarmed by the harshness of these words.
“Finish as they merit,” continued the priest. “The hand of God is in it; he is blind who does not see that. Already even the fathers of these reptiles receive their chastisement; they die in prison! Ah——”
He did not finish. Ibarra, livid, had been watching him. At these words he rose, gave one bound, and struck out with his strong hand. The monk, stunned by the blow, fell backward.
Surprised and terrified, not one of the spectators moved.
“Let no one come near!” said the young man in a terrible voice, drawing his slender blade, and holding the neck of the priest with his foot. “Let no one come, unless he wishes to die.”
Ibarra was beside himself, his whole body trembled, his threatening eyes were big with rage. Father Dámaso, regaining his senses, made an effort to rise, but Crisóstomo, grasping his neck, shook him till he had brought him to his knees.
“Señor de Ibarra! Señor de Ibarra!” stammered one and another. But nobody, not even the alférez, risked a movement. They saw the knife glitter; they calculated Crisóstomo’s strength, unleashed by anger; they were paralyzed.
“All you here, you have said nothing. Now it rests with me. I avoided him; God brings him to me. Let God judge!”