So can our pen mark on the page
How high our thoughts can reach.”
They turned directly east until they reached the low stone-wall that prevents Manila bay from overflowing the city during the periods of high tides. Dimiguez helped Marie to step upon it; then they strolled eastward past the large stake which marked the place where the Spaniards had shot Dr. Jose Rizal, the brainiest patriot ever produced by the Malay race.
When they came to the spot, Marie stopped and told Dimiguez how she had watched the shooting when it took place, and how bravely Rizal had met his fate.
“If it hadn’t been for this outrage committed by the Spaniards,” remarked Dimiguez, “this insurrection would not have lasted these two years, and we would have been married before now; but our people are determined to seek revenge for his death.”
Then they started on, changed their course to the northward, entered the walled-city by the south gate, walked past the old Spanish arsenal, and then passed out of the walled-city by the north gate. Here they crossed the Pasig river on the old “Bridge of Spain” (the large stone bridge near the mouth of the river, built over 300 years ago) and entered the Escolta, the main business street of Manila. After making their way slowly up the Escolta they meandered along San Miguel street until they finally turned and walked a short distance down a side street to a typical native shack, built of bamboo and thatched with Nipa palms, happily tucked away beneath the overhanging limbs of a large mango tree in a spacious yard,—the home of the Sampalits.
Here Marie had been born just seventeen years before; in fact the next day, April 7, would be her seventeenth birthday. When she was born, her father instituted one of the accustomed Filipino dances which last from three to five days and nights, and at its conclusion she had been christened “Maria,” subsequently changed by force of habit to “Marie.”
Late that evening, while they were seated side-by-side on a bamboo bench beside of her home, tapping the toes of their wooden-soled slippers on the hard ground, and indulging in a wandering lovers’ conversation, Marie said to him (calling him affectionately by his first name), “Rolando, when did you first decide to postpone our wedding day?”
“Well, I’ll tell you how it was,” answered he, meditatingly. “The thought of serving my country had been lingering on my mind all last summer—in fact, ever since the insurrection first broke out in the spring of 1896. You know I intended coming down to see you last Christmas, but I couldn’t get away. That night I walked the floor all night in our home at Malolos, debating in my mind whether we had better get married in March, as we had planned, or if it would not be wiser and more manly for me to go to war, take chances on getting back alive and postpone our wedding day until after the war is over. Toward morning, I decided that it was my duty to become a soldier; so I called my father and mother, got an early breakfast, bade them goodby and started for Malabon, which was Aguinaldo’s headquarters, and enlisted. He was glad to see me. You know, he and I attended school together for one year at Hongkong. Well, Aguinaldo at once commissioned me a spy and assigned me to very important duty.”
“My God!” interrupted Marie, “you are not on that duty now, are you, Rolando?”