The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to search on all sides. They had the helmsman’s description on paper.
“Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenths of the natives,” said Don Filipo; “see that you make no mistakes!”
Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.
“So this is the Elias who threw the alférez into the swamp,” said Léon.
“He’s a tulisane then?” asked Victoria, trembling.
“I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes.”
“He hasn’t the face of a criminal,” said Sinang.
“No; but his face is very sad,” said Maria. “I did not see him smile all the morning.”
The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra’s ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: “Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!”