“Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Father!” said Captain Santiago, who at that instant entered the room, leading a youth by the hand. On saluting his guests in this manner, he kissed the hands of the priests, who, by the way, forgot to give him their blessing. The Dominican took off his gold-rimmed spectacles in order to examine the new arrival at better advantage, while Father Dámaso, turning pale at the sight, stared at the youth with eyes wide open.
“I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son of my deceased friend,” said Captain Tiago. “The young man has just arrived from Europe, and I have been to meet him.” At the mere mention of the name, exclamations were heard in all parts of the room. The lieutenant, forgetting himself entirely, did not stop to salute his host, but at once approached the young man and surveyed him from head to foot. The youth exchanged the usual greetings with those who had gathered around him. He showed no striking peculiarity, except in his sombre dress, which was in deep contrast with that of the other persons present. His athletic build, his appearance, and every movement he made showed, however, that a fine mind and a healthy body had both been highly developed. You could see from his frank and vivacious face that he had Spanish blood in his veins. Although his hair, eyes and complexion were dark, his cheeks had a slight color, due, no doubt, to residence in cold countries.
“What!” he exclaimed with glad surprise, “the parish priest of my own town! Father Dámaso, my father’s intimate friend!” Every one in the room looked at the Franciscan, but the latter made no motion.
“You must excuse me, if I have made a mistake,” added Ibarra, somewhat in doubt because of the apathy of the friar.
“You have made no mistake,” the priest finally answered in a strained voice, “but your father was never an intimate friend of mine.”
Ibarra slowly withdrew the hand which he had offered, looking at the friar with great surprise. As he turned about, he came face to face with the lieutenant just approaching.
“My boy, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?”
The young man bowed in acquiescence. Father Dámaso settled back into his arm-chair and fixed his eyes upon the lieutenant.
“Welcome to your country! May you be more happy in it than was your father!” exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. “I had many dealings with your father and I knew him well, and I can say that he was one of the most worthy and honorable men in the Philippines.”
“Sir,” replied Ibarra with emotion, “your praise of my father puts me in doubt as to his fate. Even now I, his own son, am ignorant of it all.”