“What can I do?” demanded the perplexed young fellow; but Don Filipo was already in the distance.
Ibarra, in his turn, looked about for aid, and saw Elias. He ran to him, took him by the arm, and, speaking in Spanish, begged him to do what he could for order. The helmsman disappeared in the crowd. Animated discussions were heard, and rapid questions; then, little by little, the mass began to dissolve and to wear a less hostile attitude. It was time; the soldiers arrived with bayonets fixed.
As Ibarra was about to enter his house that night a little man in mourning, having a great scar on his left cheek, placed himself in front of him and bowed humbly.
“What can I do for you?” asked Crisóstomo.
“Señor, my name is José; I am the brother of the man killed this morning.”
“Ah,” said Ibarra, “I assure you I am not insensible to your loss. What do you wish of me?”
“Señor, I wish to know how much you are going to pay my brother’s family.”
“Pay!” repeated Crisóstomo, not without annoyance. “We will talk of this again; come to me to-morrow.”
“But tell me simply what you will give,” insisted José.
“I tell you we will talk of it another day, not now,” said Ibarra, more impatiently.