CHAPTER III
HERETIC AND REVOLUTIONIST.
Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila,
is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gently
to lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hat
and drew a deep, long breath.
Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going,
rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristic
alike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward the
Plaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiar
objects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses with
white and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash or
repainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old church
tower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there,
too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and iron
rods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it when
a boy.
"Things go slowly here!" he muttered and continued up the street past
the vestry.
As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying
"sorbettes." The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light for
the stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeats
and fruit.
"It is marvellous," he exclaimed. "There is the same Chinaman who was
at that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom I
remember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe but
a night's sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired this
broken place in the pavement!"
Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement before
he left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditating
upon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country,
some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up,
and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left the
Captain's house. A smile had displaced the officer's usual harsh
expression and characteristic frown.
"Be careful, young man!" said he. "Remember what happened to your
father!"
"I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father very
highly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?" asked Ibarra, gazing
intently into the lieutenant's eyes.
"Do you not know?" said the officer.
"I asked Don Santiago, but he said that he would tell me nothing
