The telegraph had secretly transmitted to Manila the news of the uprising, and thirty-six hours later, the newspapers, their accounts expanded, corrected, and mutilated by the attorney-general, talked about it with much mystery and no little menace. Meanwhile the private accounts, coming out of the convents, had gone from mouth to mouth, to the great alarm of those who heard them. The fact, distorted in countless versions, was accepted as true with more or less readiness, according to its fitness to the passions and ideas of the different hearers.
Though public tranquillity was not disturbed, the peace of the hearthstones became like that of a fish-pond, all on top; underneath was commotion. Crosses, gold lace, office, power, honors of all kinds began to hover over one part of the population, like butterflies in a golden sunshine. For the others a dark cloud rose on the horizon, and against this ashy background stood in relief bars, chains, and the fateful arms of the gibbet. Destiny presented the event to the Manila imagination, like certain Chinese fans: one face painted black, the other gilded, and gorgeous with birds and flowers.
There was great agitation in the convents. The provincials ordered their carriages, and held secret conferences; then presented themselves at the palace, to offer their support to the imperiled government.
“A Te Deum, a Te Deum!” said a monk in one convent. “Through the goodness of God, our worth is made manifest in these perilous times!”
“This petty general, this prophet of evil, will gnaw his moustaches after this little lesson,” said another.
“What would have become of him without the religious orders?”
“The papers almost go to the point of demanding a mitre for Brother Salvi.”
“And he will get it! He’s consumed with desire for it!”
“Do you think so?”
“Why shouldn’t he be? In these days mitres are given for the asking.”