“So, you send me four guards in plain clothes, eh? Be discreet, and tonight at eight o’clock it’ll rain stars and crosses.”
While all this was taking place, a man ran along the road leading to Ibarra’s house and rushed up the stairway.
“Is your master here?” the voice of Elias called to a servant.
“He’s in his study at work.”
Ibarra, to divert the impatience that he felt while waiting for the time when he could make his explanations to Maria Clara, had set himself to work in his laboratory.
“Ah, that you, Elias?” he exclaimed. “I was thinking about you. Yesterday I forgot to ask you the name of that Spaniard in whose house your grandfather lived.”
“Let’s not talk about me, sir—”
“Look,” continued Ibarra, not noticing the youth’s agitation, while he placed a piece of bamboo over a flame, “I’ve made a great discovery. This bamboo is incombustible.”
“It’s not a question of bamboo now, sir, it’s a question of your collecting your papers and fleeing at this very moment.”
Ibarra glanced at him in surprise and, on seeing the gravity of his countenance, dropped the object that he held in his hands.