noticed in his frank, pleasant face some faint traces of Spanish blood showing through a beautiful brown color, slightly flushed at the cheeks as a result perhaps of his residence in cold countries.
"What!" he exclaimed with joyful surprise, "the curate of my native town! Padre Damaso, my father's intimate friend!"
Every look in the room was directed toward the Franciscan, who made no movement.
"Pardon me, perhaps I'm mistaken," added Ibarra, embarrassed.
"You are not mistaken," the friar was at last able to articulate in a changed voice, "but your father was never an intimate friend of mine."
Ibarra slowly withdrew his extended hand, looking greatly surprised, and turned to encounter the gloomy gaze of the lieutenant fixed on him.
"Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?" he asked.
The youth bowed. Fray Damaso partly rose in his chair and stared fixedly at the lieutenant.
"Welcome back to your country! And may you be happier in it than your father was!" exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. "I knew him well and can say that he was one of the worthiest and most honorable men in the Philippines."
"Sir," replied Ibarra, deeply moved, "the praise you bestow upon my father removes my doubts about the manner of his death, of which I, his son, am yet ignorant."
The eyes of the old soldier filled with tears and turning away hastily he withdrew. The young man thus found himself alone in the center of the room. His host having disappeared, he saw no one who might introduce him to the young ladies, many of whom were watching him with interest. After a few moments of hesitation he started toward them in a simple and natural manner.
"Allow me," he said, "to overstep the rules of strict
