ias caught and shook the arm of Crisostomo, who gazed at him in
terror. In a voice that was bitter and trembling with hate, he said,
"Look at me well, look at one who has suffered and you live, you live,
you have wealth, a home, reputation--you live, you live!"

Beside himself, he ran to a small collection of arms and snatched up
a dagger. But scarcely had he done so when he let it fall again and
stared like a madman at the motionless Ibarra.

"What was I about to do?" he muttered, fleeing from the house.

CHAPTER LV

The Catastrophe

There in the dining-room Capitan Tiago, Linares, and Aunt Isabel were
at supper, so that even in the sala the rattling of plates and dishes
was plainly heard. Maria Clara had said that she was not hungry and
had seated herself at the piano in company with the merry Sinang,
who was murmuring mysterious words into her ear. Meanwhile Padre
Salvi paced nervously back and forth in the room.

It was not, indeed, that the convalescent was not hungry, no; but she
was expecting the arrival of a certain person and was taking advantage
of this moment when her Argus was not present, Linares' supper-hour.

"You'll see how that specter will stay till eight," murmured Sinang,
indicating the curate. "And at eight _he_ will come. The curate's in
love with Linares."

Maria Clara gazed in consternation at her friend, who went on
heedlessly with her terrible chatter: "Oh, I know why he doesn't
go, in spite of my hints--he doesn't want to burn up oil in the
convento! Don't you know that since you've been sick the two lamps that
he used to keep lighted he has had put out? But look how he stares,
and what a face!"

At that moment a clock in the house struck eight. The curate shuddered
and sat down in a corner.

"Here he comes!" exclaimed Sinang, pinching Maria Clara. "Don't you
hear him?"

The church bell boomed out the hour of eight and all rose to
pray. Padre Salvi offered up a prayer in a weak and trembling voice,
but as each was busy with his own thoughts no one paid any attention
to the priest's agitation.

Scarcely had the prayer ceased when Ibarra appeared. The youth was
in mourning not only in his attire but also in his face, to such an
extent that, on seeing him, Maria Clara arose and took a step toward
him to ask what the matter was. But at that instant the report of
firearms was heard. Ibarra stopped, his eyes rolled, he lost the power
of speech. The curate had concealed himsel