Part 18

"Crispin?" said he, wrinkling his brows; "isn't he at home?"

"Basilio is, but Crispin stayed here."

"Oh, yes, he stayed, but he ran off afterward with all sorts of things he'd stolen. The curate sent me to report it at the quarters. The guards must be on their way to your house by this time."

Sisa could not believe it; she opened her mouth, but her lips moved in vain.

"Go find your children," said the cook. "Everybody sees you're a faithful woman; the children are like their father!"

Sisa stifled a sob, and, at the end of her strength, sat down.

"Don't cry here," said the cook still more roughly, "the curate is ill; don't bother him! Go cry in the street!"

The poor woman got up, almost by force, and went down the steps with the sisters, who were still gossiping of the curate's illness. Once on the street she looked about uncertain; then, as if from a sudden resolution, moved rapidly away.

XVII.

STORY OF A SCHOOLMASTER.

The lake, girt with hills, lies tranquil, as if it had not been shaken by yesterday's tempest. At the first gleam of light which wakes the phosphorescent spirits of the water, almost on the bounds of the horizon, gray silhouettes slowly take shape. These are the barks of fishermen drawing in their nets; cascos and paraos shaking out their sails.

From a height, two men in black are silently surveying the lake. One is Ibarra, the other a young man of humble dress and melancholy face.

"This is the place," said the stranger, "where the gravedigger brought us, Lieutenant Guevara and me."

Ibarra uncovered, and stood a long time as if in prayer.

When the first horror at the story of his father's desecrated grave had passed, he had bravely accepted what could not be undone. Private wrongs must go unavenged, if one would not add to the wrongs of the country: Ibarra had been trained to live for these islands, daughters of Spain. In his country, too, a charge against a monk was a charge against the Church, and Crisóstomo was a loyal Catholic; if he knew how in his mind to separate the Church from her unworthy sons, most of his fellow-countrymen did not. And, again, his intimate life was all here. The last of his race, his home was his family; he loved ideally, and he loved the goddaughter of the malevolent priest. He was rich, and therefore powerful still--and he was young. Ibarra had taken up his life again as he had found it.

His prayer finished, he warmly grasped the young man's hand.

"Do not thank me," said the other; "I owe everything to your father. I came here unknown; your father protected me, encouraged my work, furnished the poor children with books. How far away that good time seems!"

"And now?"

"Ah! now we get along as best we can."

Ibarra was silent.

"How many pupils have you?"

"More than two hundred on the list--in the classes, fifty-five."

"And how is that?"

The schoolmaster smiled sadly.

"It is a long story."

"Don't think I ask from curiosity," said Ibarra. "I have thought much about it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father's ideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myself with his spirit. That is why I ask this question."

"The country will bless your memory, señor, if you carry out the splendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles I meet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The children read, write, learn by heart passages, sometimes whole books, in Castilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is such a school to the children of our peasants!"

"You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?"