ey were going
to bring about your unhappiness, because I love you, I adore you,
I love you as one loves his own daughter! Yours is my only affection;
I have seen you grow--not an hour has passed that I have not thought
of you--I dreamed of you--you have been my only joy!"

Here Padre Damaso himself broke out into tears like a child.

"Then, as you love me, don't make me eternally wretched. He no longer
lives, so I want to be a nun!"

The old priest rested his forehead on his hand. "To be a nun, a
nun!" he repeated. "You don't know, child, what the life is, the
mystery that is hidden behind the walls of the nunnery, you don't
know! A thousand times would I prefer to see you unhappy in the
world rather than in the cloister. Here your complaints can be heard,
there you will have only the walls. You are beautiful, very beautiful,
and you were not born for that--to be a bride of Christ! Believe me,
little girl, time will wipe away everything. Later on you will forget,
you will love, you will love your husband--Linares."

"The nunnery or--death!"

"The nunnery, the nunnery, or death!" exclaimed Padre Damaso. "Maria,
I am now an old man, I shall not be able much longer to watch over
you and your welfare. Choose something else, seek another love,
some other man, whoever he may be--anything but the nunnery."

"The nunnery or death!"

"My God, my God!" cried the priest, covering his head with his hands,
"Thou chastisest me, so let it be! But watch over my daughter!"

Then, turning again to the young woman, he said, "You wish to be a nun,
and it shall be so. I don't want you to die."

Maria Clara caught both his hands in hers, clasping and kissing them
as she fell upon her knees, repeating over and over, "My godfather,
I thank you, my godfather!"

With bowed head Fray Damaso went away, sad and sighing. "God, Thou
dost exist, since Thou chastisest! But let Thy vengeance fall on me,
harm not the innocent. Save Thou my daughter!"

CHAPTER LXIII

Christmas Eve

High up on the slope of the mountain near a roaring stream a hut built
on the gnarled logs hides itself among the trees. Over its kogon
thatch clambers the branching gourd-vine, laden with flowers and
fruit. Deer antlers and skulls of wild boar, some with long tusks,
adorn this mountain home, where lives a Tagalog family engaged in
hunting and cutting firewood.

In the shade of a tree the grandsire was making brooms from the fibers
of palm leaves, whi