Heretic and Revolutionist.
Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila, is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gently to lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hat and drew a deep, long breath.
Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going, rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristic alike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward the Plaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiar objects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses with white and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash or repainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old church tower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there, too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and iron rods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it when a boy.
“Things go slowly here!” he muttered and continued up the street past the vestry.
As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying “sorbettes.” The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light for the stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeats and fruit.
“It is marvellous,” he exclaimed. “There is the same Chinaman who was at that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom I remember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe but a night’s sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired this broken place in the pavement!”
Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement before he left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditating upon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country, some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up, and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left the Captain’s house. A smile had displaced the officer’s usual harsh expression and characteristic frown.
“Be careful, young man!” said he. “Remember what happened to your father!”
“I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father very highly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?” asked Ibarra, gazing intently into the lieutenant’s eyes.
“Do you not know?” said the officer.