“Died in prison? Who died in prison?”
“Your father,” said the lieutenant, his voice still gentler.
“My father—in prison? What are you saying? Do you know who my father was?” and he seized the old man’s arm.
“I think I’m not mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra.”
“Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra,” Crisóstomo repeated mechanically.
“You will soon learn that for an honest man to keep out of prison is a difficult matter in the Philippines.”
“You mock me! Why did he die in prison?”
“Come with me; we will talk on the way.”
They walked along in silence, the officer stroking his beard in search of inspiration.
“As you know,” he began, “your father was the richest man of the province, and if he had many friends he had also enemies. We Spaniards who come to the Philippines are seldom what we should be. I say this as truthfully of some of your ancestors as of others. Most of us come to make a fortune without regard to the means. Well, your father was a man to make enemies among these adventurers, and he made enemies among the monks. I never knew exactly the ground of the trouble with Brother Dámaso, but it came to a point where the priest almost denounced him from the pulpit.