Laguna de Bay, surrounded by mountains, sleeps tranquilly in the stillness of the elements, as if it had not joined the chorus of the tempest on the night before. As first rays of dawn appear in the eastern sky and awaken the phosphorescent myriads in the water, long, grey shadows appear in the dim distance, almost on the border of the horizon. They are shadows of fishermen’s boats at work drawing in the nets.
Two men, dressed in deep mourning, from a lofty height contemplate the scene in silence. One is Ibarra, and the other is a young, meek-looking man with a melancholy countenance.
“Here is the place!” said the latter. “Here is where your father’s body was thrown into the water! The grave-digger brought Lieutenant Guevara and me here and pointed out the spot.”
Ibarra, with emotion, warmly grasped the young man’s hand.
“You need not thank me!” replied the latter. “I owed your father for many favors he did me. The only thing I could ever do for him was to accompany his body to the grave. I had come to the town without knowing anybody, without any recommendations, without a reputation, without money, just as I am now. Your father protected me, procured a house for me, helped secure whatever was needed to advance education; he used to come to the school and distribute pennies among the poor and diligent pupils; he provided them with books and papers. But that, like all good things, did not last long.”
Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to pray for a short time. Then he turned to his companion and said: “Did you tell me that my father used to help the poor children? How is it now?”
“Oh, now they do the best they can.”
“And don’t they come to school regularly?”
“No, for their shirts are ragged and they are ashamed.”
Ibarra kept silent for a few moments.