ucas. I am the brother of the man who was killed
yesterday during the ceremony when the stone was being laid."

"Ah! You have my sympathy--and, well?"

"Senor, I wish to know how much you are going to pay my brother's
family."

"How much I am going to pay?" repeated the young man without being
able to conceal a bored expression. "We will talk that over. Come
back this afternoon, for I am busy to-day."

"Only tell me how much you are going to pay," insisted Lucas.

"I have told you that we would talk about that some other time. I'm
too busy to-day," said Ibarra, impatiently.

"You haven't time now, senor?" asked Lucas with bitterness and putting
himself in front of the young man. "You do not have time to occupy
yourself about the dead?"

"Come this afternoon, my good fellow!" repeated Ibarra, restraining
himself. "To-day I have to go and see a sick person."

"Ah! and you forget the dead for a sick person? Do you think that
because we are poor----"

Ibarra looked at him and cut off what he was saying.

"Don't try my patience!" said he, and went on his way. Lucas stood
looking at him, with a smile on his face, full of hatred.

"You do not know that you are a grandson of the man who exposed my
father to the sun!" he muttered between his teeth. "You have the very
same blood in your veins!"

And, changing his tone he added:

"But if you pay well, we are friends."

CHAPTER XXIV

EPISODE IN ESPADANA'S LIFE.

The festival was over. The citizens found, just as every year, that
their treasury was poorer, that they had worked, perspired, and stayed
up nights without enjoying themselves, without acquiring new friends,
and in a word, had paid dearly for the noise and their headaches. But
it did not matter. The next year they would do the same thing, and
the same for the coming century, just as had always been the custom
to the present time.

Enough sadness reigned in Captain Tiago's house. All the windows were
closed; the people scarcely made a noise, and no one dared to speak
except in the kitchen. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, lay sick
in her bed.

"What do you think, Isabel? Shall I make a donation to the cross of
Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?" asked the solicitous father
in a low voice. "The cross of Tunasan grows, but that of Matahong
sweats. Which do you think is the most miraculous?"

Isabel thought for a moment, moved her head and murmured: "To grow--to
grow is more miraculou