“To another pueblo, to Manila, anywhere! Destroy your papers! Fly, and await events!”
“And Maria Clara? No! Better die!”
Elias wrung his hands.
“Prepare for the accusation, at all events. Destroy your papers!”
“Aid me then,” said Crisóstomo, in almost helpless bewilderment. “They are in these cabinets. My father’s letters might compromise me. You will know them by the addresses.” And he tore open one drawer after another. Elias worked to better purpose, choosing here, rejecting there. Suddenly he stopped, his pupils dilated; he turned a paper over and over in his hand, then in a trembling voice he asked:
“Your family knew Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”
“He was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather?” repeated Elias, livid.
“Yes,” said Ibarra mechanically, and totally unobservant of Elias. “The name was too long; we cut it.”
“Was he a Basque?” asked Elias slowly.