Lucas made an effort to weep, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief.
“Father,” said he, crying, “I have been to Crisostomo’s house to ask him for indemnity. At first, he received me with kicks, saying that he would not pay anything, since he had run the risk of being killed through the fault of my dear, unfortunate brother. Yesterday, I went to talk with him again, but he had already left for Manila, leaving me for charity’s sake five hundred pesos for my poor brother—five hundred pesos—ah! Father.”
The curate listened to the first part of his story with surprise and attention, but slowly there appeared on his lips a smile—a smile of such contempt and sarcasm at the comedy that was being played, that if Lucas had seen it he would have fled in all haste.
“And what do you want now?” he asked, turning his back to him.
“Alas! Father, for love of God tell me what I ought to do. Father, you have always given good advice.”
“Who has told you that? You do not live here.”
“But the whole province knows you, Father!”
Father Salví went up to him with his eyes full of anger and, motioning to the street, said to the frightened Lucas:
“Go to your house and give thanks to Don Crisostomo that he has not sent you to jail. Get away from here.”
Forgetting his rôle, Lucas muttered: