At the name of Ibarra there were smothered exclamations. The lieutenant, forgetting to salute the master of the house, surveyed the young man from head to foot. Brother Dámaso seemed petrified. The arrival was evidently unexpected. Señor Ibarra exchanged the usual phrases with members of the group. Nothing marked him from other guests save his black attire. His fine height, his manner, his movements, denoted sane and vigorous youth. His face, frank and engaging, of a rich brown, and lightly furrowed—trace of Spanish blood—was rosy from a sojourn in the north.
“Ah!” he cried, surprised and delighted, “my father’s old friend, Brother Dámaso!”
All eyes turned toward the Franciscan, who did not stir.
“Pardon,” said Ibarra, puzzled. “I am mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken,” said the priest at last, in an odd voice; “but your father was not my friend.”
Ibarra, astonished, drew slowly back the hand he had offered, and turned to find himself facing the lieutenant, whose eyes had never left him.
“Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?”
“Then welcome to your country! I knew your father well, one of the most honorable men of the Philippines.”
“Señor,” replied Ibarra, “what you say dispels my doubts as to his fate, of which as yet I know nothing.”