While he contemplated this marvel of urban stability in an unstable country, a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He looked up and recognized the old lieutenant. His face had put off its expression of sternness, and he smiled kindly at Crisóstomo.
“Young man,” he said, “I was your father’s friend: I wish you to consider me yours.”
“You seem to have known my father well,” said Crisóstomo; “perhaps you can tell me something of his death.”
“You do not know about it?”
“Nothing at all, and Don Santiago would not talk with me till to-morrow.”
“You know, of course, where he died.”
“Not even that.”
Lieutenant Guevara hesitated.
“I am an old soldier,” he said at last, in a voice full of compassion, “and only know how to say bluntly what I have to tell. Your father died in prison.”
Ibarra sprang back, his eyes fixed on the lieutenant’s.