misanthropy that was worrying his uncle. He forgot all these things
and thought only of the sick man's plight and his own obligations as
a host, until his senses reeled. Where must he hide him to avoid his
falling into the clutches of the authorities? But the person chiefly
concerned was not worrying, he was smiling.

While he was pondering over these things, the old man was approached by
a servant who said that the sick man wished to speak with him, so he
went into the next room, a clean and well-ventilated apartment with a
floor of wide boards smoothed and polished, and simply furnished with
big, heavy armchairs of ancient design, without varnish or paint. At
one end there was a large kamagon bed with its four posts to support
the canopy, and beside it a table covered with bottles, lint, and
bandages. A praying-desk at the feet of a Christ and a scanty library
led to the suspicion that it was the priest's own bedroom, given up to
his guest according to the Filipino custom of offering to the stranger
the best table, the best room, and the best bed in the house. Upon
seeing the windows opened wide to admit freely the healthful sea-breeze
and the echoes of its eternal lament, no one in the Philippines would
have said that a sick person was to be found there, since it is the
custom to close all the windows and stop up all the cracks just as
soon as any one catches a cold or gets an insignificant headache.

Padre Florentine looked toward the bed and was astonished to
see that the sick man's face had lost its tranquil and ironical
expression. Hidden grief seemed to knit his brows, anxiety was depicted
in his looks, his lips were curled in a smile of pain.

"Are you suffering, Senor Simoun?" asked the priest solicitously,
going to his side.

"Some! But in a little while I shall cease to suffer," he replied
with a shake of his head.

Padre Florentine clasped his hands in fright, suspecting that he
understood the terrible truth. "My God, what have you done? What have
you taken?" He reached toward the bottles.

"It's useless now! There's no remedy at all!" answered Simoun with a
pained smile. "What did you expect me to do? Before the clock strikes
eight--alive or dead--dead, yes, but alive, no!"

"My God, what have you done?"

"Be calm!" urged the sick man with a wave of his hand. "What's done
is done. I must not fall into anybody's hands--my secret would
be torn from me. Don't get excited, don't lose your head, it's