“I have nothing more to do now in San Diego. I am permanently settled in Manila now ... and you?”
“I also leave the town,” replied the former alferez, straightening up. “The Government needs me to take command of a flying column to clear the provinces of filibusteros.”
Friar Salví looked him over from head to foot, and turned his back to him completely.
“Is it yet known for a certainty what is to become of the leader of the revolutionists?” asked a Government employee.
“Are you referring to Crisostomo Ibarra?” asked another. “What is most probable and most just is that he be hanged, as those were in ’72.”
“He will be exiled,” said the old lieutenant, dryly.
“Exiled! Nothing more than exiled! But it will be a perpetual exile!” exclaimed several at the same time.
“If that young fellow,” Lieutenant Guevara went on to say in a loud voice, “had been more cautious; if he had trusted certain people less with whom he had correspondence; and if the officers had not made a subtle interpretation of what was written—if it had not been for all of this, that young man would surely have gone free.”
This statement by the old lieutenant and the tone of his voice produced a great surprise in the room. Those who heard it did not know what to say. Father Salví looked in another direction, perhaps so as not to meet the dark look which the old man directed toward him. Maria Clara dropped her flowers and sat motionless. Father Sibyla, the one who knew how to keep silent, appeared to be the only one who knew how to ask questions.
“Are you referring to the letters, Señor Guevara?”