“Speaking of fêtes,” said Crisóstomo to the curate, “we hope you will join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to start for the fishing-ground before sunrise,” he went on to the curate, “and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo.”
The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final arrangements.
As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.
“Who are you?” asked Crisóstomo.
“You would not know my name, señor; I have been trying to see you for three days.”
“And what do you want?”
“Señor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will help me find them. I want your aid.”
“Come with me,” said Ibarra.
The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness of the unlighted streets.