Part 33

"It's a leper. He lives outside the pueblo, near the Chinese cemetery; every one fears to go near him. If you could see his cabin! The wind, the rain, and the sun must visit him as they like."

"Poor man!" murmured Maria Clara, and hardly knowing what she did, she went up and put into the basket the reliquary her father had just given her.

"Maria!" exclaimed her friends.

"I had nothing else," she said, forcing back the tears.

"What will he do with the reliquary? He can't sell it! Nobody will touch it now! If only it could be eaten!" said Sinang.

But the leper went to the basket, took the glittering thing in his hands, fell on his knees, kissed it, and bent his head to the ground, uncovering humbly. Maria Clara turned her face to hide the tears.

As the leper knelt, a woman crept up and knelt beside him. By her long, loose hair and emaciated face the people recognized Sisa. The leper, feeling her touch, sprang up with a cry; but, to the horror of the crowd, she clung to his arm.

"Pray! Pray!" said she. "It is the Feast of the Dead! These lights are the souls of men. Pray for my sons!"

"Separate them! Separate them!" cried the crowd; but no one dared do it.

"Do you see the light in the tower? That is my son Basilio, ringing the bells. Do you see that other in the manse? That is my son Crispin; but I cannot go to them, because the curate is ill, and his money is lost. I carried the curate fruit from my garden. My garden was full of flowers, and I had two sons. I had a garden, I tended my flowers, and I had two sons."

And leaving the leper she moved away, singing:

"I had a garden and flowers. I had two sons, a garden and flowers."

"What have you done for that poor woman?" Maria asked Ibarra.

"Nothing yet," he replied, somewhat confused. "But don't be troubled; the curate has promised to aid me."

As they spoke, a soldier came dragging Sisa back, rather than leading her. She was resisting.

"Where are you taking her? What has she done?" asked Ibarra.

"What has she done? Didn't you hear the noise she made?" said the guardian of public tranquillity.

The leper took up his basket and vanished. Maria Clara asked to go home. She had lost all her gayety. Her sadness increased when, arrived at her door, her fiancé refused to go in.

"It must be so to-night," he said as he bade her good-by.

Maria, mounting the steps, thought how tiresome were fête days, when one must receive so many strangers.

The next evening a little perfumed note came to Ibarra by the hand of Andeng, Maria's foster sister.

"Crisóstomo, for a whole day I have not seen you. They tell me you are ill. I have lighted two candles and prayed for you. I'm so tired of being asked to play and dance. I did not know there were so many tiresome people in the world. If Father Dámaso had not tried to amuse me with stories, I should have left them all and gone away to sleep. Write me how you are, and if I shall send papa to see you. I send you Andeng now to make your tea; she will do it better than your servants. If you don't come to-morrow, I shall not go to the ceremony.

Maria Clara."

XXIV.

IN THE CHURCH.

The orchestras sounded the reveille at the first rays of the sun, waking with joyous airs the tired inhabitants of the pueblo.

It was the last day of the fête--indeed, the fête itself. Every one expected much more than on the eve, when the Brothers of the Sacred Rosary had had their sermon and procession; for the Brothers of the Third Order were more numerous, and counted on humiliating their rivals. The Chinese candle merchants had reaped a rich harvest.

Everybody put on his gala dress; all the jewels came out of their coffers; the fops and sporting men wore rows of diamond buttons on their shirt fronts, heavy gold chains, and white jipijapa hats, as the Indians call Panamas. No one but old Tasio was in everyday costume.