CHAPTER VIII
IBARRA AND THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
Just as the old man was leaving the cemetery, a carriage stopped at theentrance. It looked as though it had made a long journey; the horseswere sweating and the vehicle was covered with dust. Ibarra stepped outand was followed by an old servant. He made a gesture to the driver andthen turned down the path into the cemetery. He was silent and grave.
"My sickness and my work have not permitted me to return, since theday of the funeral," said the old servant timidly. "Captain Tiago saidthat he would see to it that a niche was arranged for, but I plantedsome flowers on the grave and erected a cross made by my own hands."
Ibarra did not reply.
"Right there behind that large cross, senor," continued the servant,making a gesture toward one of the corners just as they passed throughthe gate.
Ibarra was so preoccupied with sad thoughts that he did not notice theastonishment which some of the people in the cemetery manifested whenthey saw him enter. Those who were kneeling broke off their prayersand followed the young man, their eyes full of curiosity.
Ibarra walked along very carefully, and avoided stepping on the graves,which could be easily distinguished by the sunken ground. In othertimes he had walked over them; but to-day he respected them. His fatherlay in one of them. On coming to the other side of the large cross,he stopped and looked in all directions. His companion was confusedand out of countenance. He searched for marks on the ground but couldnot find the cross anywhere.
"Is it here?" he murmured between his teeth. "No, it is over there,but the earth has been removed."
Ibarra looked at him with an expression of anguish.
"Yes," he continued. "I remember that there was a stone by the side ofthe grave. The grave was a little short, a farm hand had to dig it,as the grave-digger was sick at the time, but we will ask him whathe has done with the cross."
They turned toward the grave-digger, who looked at them withcuriosity. He saluted them, taking off his hat.
"Can you tell us which of the graves over there is the one which hada cross?" asked the servant.
The grave-digger looked toward the place and seemed to reflect. "Alarge cross?"
"Yes, a large cross," answered the old man with joy, lookingsignificantly at Ibarra, whose face was somewhat animated.
"An ornamented cross, and fastened with reeds?" repeated thegrave-digger, questioning the servant.
"That's it, that's it, yes, yes! Like this, like this," and theservant traced an outline of a Byzantine cross.
"And were there some flowers sown on the grave?"
"Adelphas, sampagas and pansies! That's it," added the servant,delighted, and offering the grave-digger a cigar. "Tell us where thegrave is and where the cross."
The grave-digger scratched his ear and replied, yawning: "Well,the cross--I have already burned it up."
"Burned it? and why have you burned it?"
"Because the head priest so ordered."
"Who is the head priest?" asked Ibarra.
"Who? The one who does the whipping."
Ibarra put his hand to his head.
"But you can at least tell us where the grave is? You ought toremember."
The grave-digger smiled. "The body is no longer there," he repliedtranquilly.
"What do you say?"
"Yes, no longer," the man added in a joking tone. "Only a week agoI buried a woman in its place."
"Are you crazy?" the servant asked. "Why, it is not yet a year sincewe buried him."
"Then that is the one, for it was many months ago that I took up thebody. The head priest of the parish ordered me to do it, in orderto bury it in the Chinese cemetery. But as it was heavy and it wasraining that night----"
The man could not finish. He stepped back, half frightened at theexpression on Crisostomo's face. Ibarra made a rush at him, and,grabbing him by the arm, shook him.
"And what did you do?" the young man asked, in an indescribable tone.
"Honored sir, do not get angry," he replied, pale and trembling. "Idid not bury the body among the Chinese. In my opinion a person mightbetter be a suicide than be buried among the Chinese. I threw thebody into the lake."
Ibarra laid both his hands on the man's shoulders and looked at himfor a long time in a terrifying manner. "You are only an unfortunatefellow," he said, at last, and left the place on a run across bones,graves, and crosses, like a madman.
The grave-digger felt of his arm and murmured: "What would they dowith the dead! The head priest whips me with his cane for having leftthe body in the cemetery when I was sick. Now this fellow comes alongand nearly breaks my arm for having taken it up. That is just likethe Spaniards! I'll lose my place yet."
Ibarra went on in great haste, keeping his eyes fixed in thedistance. The old servant followed him, crying. Already the sun washidden; a large, dark cloud hung over the western horizon; and a drywind bent the tops of the trees and made the fields of sugar canegroan. With hat in hand, he went on. Not one tear dropped from hiseye, not one sigh came from his breast. He hurried on as if he werefleeing from somebody, or something--perhaps the shade of his father,perhaps the tempest which was approaching. He hurried through the townand headed toward the outlying country, toward that old house whichhe had not entered for so many years. The house was surrounded by awall, near which many cacti grew, and as he approached they seemed tosignal to him. The windows seemed to open, the ilang-ilang joyfullywaved its branches, and the doves fluttered about the little toweron the peak of their garden house.
But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his returnto his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest whowas advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of SanDiego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom wehave mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat,and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind tothe outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. Inhis right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he andIbarra had met.
As they approached each other, the young man stopped and lookedat him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhatdistracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rushtoward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping hisshoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed:
"What have you done with my father?"
Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentimentswhich were depicted on the young man's face, could not reply.
"What have you done with my father?" he asked again, his voice almostchoking him.
The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra's hand, at lastmade a great effort and said: "You are mistaken. I have done nothingwith your father."
"What? No?" continued the young man, the weight of his hand on thepriest's shoulder almost making him kneel.
"No, I assure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father Damaso----"
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and givinghim a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quicklyand went toward the house.