“I rather think that I’m not mistaken. He was Don Rafael Ibarra.”
“Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra,” echoed the youth weakly.
“Well, I thought you knew about it,” muttered the soldier in a tone of compassion as he saw what was passing in Ibarra’s mind. “I supposed that you—but be brave! Here one cannot be honest and keep out of jail.”
“I must believe that you are not joking with me,” replied Ibarra in a weak voice, after a few moments’ silence. “Can you tell me why he was in prison?”
The old man seemed to be perplexed. “It’s strange to me that your family affairs were not made known to you.”
“His last letter, a year ago, said that I should not be uneasy if he did not write, as he was very busy. He charged me to continue my studies and—sent me his blessing.”
“Then he wrote that letter to you just before he died. It will soon be a year since we buried him.”
“But why was my father a prisoner?”
“For a very honorable reason. But come with me to the barracks and I’ll tell you as we go along. Take my arm.”
They moved along for some time in silence. The elder seemed to be in deep thought and to be seeking inspiration from his goatee, which he stroked continually.