s the surface," angled the
professor. "Well, then, clear up this difficulty. If the surface is the
mirror, it must be of no consequence to the 'essence' of the mirror
what may be found behind this surface, since what is behind it does
not affect the 'essence' that is before it, _id est_, the surface,
_quae super faciem est, quia vocatur superficies, facies ea quae
supra videtur_. Do you admit that or do you not admit it?"

The poor youth's hair stood up straighter than ever, as though acted
upon by some magnetic force.

"Do you admit it or do you not admit it?"

"Anything! Whatever you wish, Padre," was his thought, but he did
not dare to express it from fear of ridicule. That was a dilemma
indeed, and he had never been in a worse one. He had a vague idea
that the most innocent thing could not be admitted to the friars
but that they, or rather their estates and curacies, would get out
of it all the results and advantages imaginable. So his good angel
prompted him to deny everything with all the energy of his soul and
refractoriness of his hair, and he was about to shout a proud _nego_,
for the reason that he who denies everything does not compromise
himself in anything, as a certain lawyer had once told him; but the
evil habit of disregarding the dictates of one's own conscience,
of having little faith in legal folk, and of seeking aid from others
where one is sufficient unto himself, was his undoing. His companions,
especially Juanito Pelaez, were making signs to him to admit it,
so he let himself be carried away by his evil destiny and exclaimed,
"_Concedo_, Padre," in a voice as faltering as though he were saying,
"_In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum._"

"_Concedo antecedentum_," echoed the professor, smiling
maliciously. "_Ergo_, I can scratch the mercury off a looking-glass,
put in its place a piece of _bibinka_, and we shall still have a
mirror, eh? Now what shall we have?"

The youth gazed at his prompters, but seeing them surprised and
speechless, contracted his features into an expression of bitterest
reproach. "_Deus meus, Deus meus, quare dereliquiste me,_" said his
troubled eyes, while his lips muttered "_Linintikan!_" Vainly he
coughed, fumbled at his shirt-bosom, stood first on one foot and then
on the other, but found no answer.

"Come now, what have we?" urged the professor, enjoying the effect
of his reasoning.

"_Bibinka!_" whispered Juanito Pelaez. "_Bibinka!_"

"Shut up, you fool!" cried