Each of the prisoners had there in the crowd his family praying for him, weeping for him, and calling him by the most affectionate names. Ibarra was the only exception. Even Ñor Juan himself and the school-teacher had disappeared.
“What have you done to my husband and my son?” said Doray to Ibarra, crying. “See my poor boy! You have deprived him of a father!”
The grief of the people was changed to wrath against the young man, accused of having provoked the riot. The alferez gave orders to depart.
“You are a coward!” cried the mother-in-law of Andong to Ibarra. “While the others were fighting for you, you were hiding. Coward!”
“Curses upon you!” shouted an old man following him. “Cursed be the gold hoarded up by your family to disturb our peace! Curse him! Curse him!”
“May they hang you, heretic!” cried one of Albino’s relatives. And unable to restrain himself, he picked up a stone and threw it at Ibarra.
The example was quickly imitated, and a shower of dust and stones fell on the unfortunate youth.
Ibarra suffered it all, impassive, without wrath, without a complaint—the unjust vengeance of suffering hearts. This was the leave-taking, the “adios” tendered to him by his town, the center of all his affections. He bowed his head. Perhaps he was thinking of another man, whipped through the streets of Manila, of an old woman falling dead at the sight of the head of her son. Perhaps the history of Elias was passing before his eyes.
The cortége moved slowly on and away.
Of the persons who appeared in a few opened windows, those who showed the most compassion for the unfortunate young man were the indifferent and the curious. All his friends had hidden themselves; yes, even Captain Basilio, who forbade his daughter Sinang to weep.