“Beat him till he confesses or dies!” cried the exasperated alférez.
They led him back where the other prisoner, with chattering teeth, was invoking the saints.
“Do you know this man?” demanded Father Salvi.
“I never saw him before,” replied Társilo, looking at the poor wretch with faint compassion.
“Fasten him to the bench; gag him!” ordered the alférez, trembling with rage. When this was done, a guard began his sad task.
Father Salvi, pale and haggard, rose trembling, and left the tribunal. In the street he saw a girl, leaning against the wall, rigid, motionless, her eyes far away. The sun shone full down on her. She seemed not to breathe but to count, one after another, the muffled blows inside. It was Társilo’s sister.
The torture continued until the soldier, breathless, let his arm fall, and the alférez ordered his victim released. But Társilo still refused to speak. Then Doña Consolacion whispered in her husband’s ear; he nodded.
“To the well with him!” he said.
The Filipinos know what that means. In Tagalo it is called timbaîn. We do not know who invented this judiciary process, but it must belong to antiquity. Truth coming out of a well is perhaps a sarcastic interpretation.
In the middle of the patio of the tribunal was a picturesque well curb of uncut stones. It had a rustic crank of bamboo; its water was slimy and putrid. All sorts of refuse had been thrown around it and in it.