“If the young man had been more prudent,” went on Lieutenant Guevara, speaking so that all might hear, “if he had confided less in certain persons to whom he wrote, if our attorney-generals did not interpret too subtly what they read, it is certain he would have been released.”
This declaration of the old lieutenant’s, and the tone of his voice, produced a great surprise among his auditors. No one knew what to say. Father Salvi looked away, perhaps to avoid the dark look the lieutenant gave him. Maria Clara dropped some flowers she had in her hand, and became a statue. Father Sibyla, who knew when to be silent, seemed the only one who knew how to question.
“You speak of letters, Señor Guevara.”
“I speak of what I am told by Don Crisóstomo’s advocate, who is greatly interested in his case, and defended him with zeal. Outside of a few ambiguous lines in a letter addressed to a woman before he left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was no evidence against him.”
“And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?”
“The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except one named José, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra’s seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was supposed that the accusing letter served as a model.”
“You tell us,” said a Franciscan, “that Ibarra addressed this letter to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?”
The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter.
“Even women seem to have hated him,” said one.
“He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!” said another, laughing.