Ibarra glanced at him in surprise and, on seeing the gravity of his countenance, dropped the object that he held in his hands.
“Burn everything that may compromise you and within an hour put yourself in a place of safety.”
“Why?” Ibarra was at length able to ask.
“Put all your valuables in a safe place—”
“Why?”
“Burn every letter written by you or to you—the most innocent thing may be wrongly construed—”
“But why all this?”
“Why! Because I’ve just discovered a plot that is to be attributed to you in order to ruin you.”
“A plot? Who is forming it?”
“I haven’t been able to discover the author of it, but just a moment ago I talked with one of the poor dupes who are paid to carry it out, and I wasn’t able to dissuade him.”
“But he—didn’t he tell you who is paying him?”
“Yes! Under a pledge of secrecy he said that it was you.”
“My God!” exclaimed the terrified Ibarra.
“There’s no doubt of it, sir. Don’t lose any time, for the plot will probably be carried out this very night.”
Ibarra, with his hands on his head and his eyes staring unnaturally, seemed not to hear him.
“The blow cannot be averted,” continued Elias. “I’ve come late, I don’t know who the leaders are. Save yourself, sir, save yourself for your country’s sake!”
“Whither shall I flee? She expects me tonight!” exclaimed Ibarra, thinking of Maria Clara.
“To any town whatsoever, to Manila, to the house of some official, but anywhere so that they may not say that you are directing this movement.”
“Suppose that I myself report the plot?”
“You an informer!” exclaimed Elias, stepping back and staring at him. “You
would appear as a traitor and coward in the eyes of the plotters and faint-hearted in the eyes of others. They would say that you planned the whole thing to curry favor. They would say—”
“But what’s to be done?”
“I’ve already told you. Destroy every document that relates to your affairs, flee, and await the outcome.”
“And Maria Clara?” exclaimed the young man. “No, I’ll die first!”
Elias wrung his hands, saying, “Well then, at least parry the blow. Prepare for the time when they accuse you.”
Ibarra gazed about him in bewilderment. “Then help me. There in that writing-desk are all the letters of my family. Select those of my father, which are perhaps the ones that may compromise me. Read the signatures.”
So the bewildered and stupefied young man opened and shut boxes, collected papers, read letters hurriedly, tearing up some and laying others aside. He took down some books and began to turn their leaves.
Elias did the same, if not so excitedly, yet with equal eagerness. But suddenly he paused, his eyes bulged, he turned the paper in his hand over and over, then asked in a trembling voice:
“Was your family acquainted with Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”
“I should say so!” answered Ibarra, as he opened a chest and took out a bundle of papers. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather Don Pedro Eibarramendia?” again asked Elias with changed and livid features.
“Yes,” replied Ibarra absently, “we shortened the surname; it was too long.”
“Was he a Basque?” demanded Elias, approaching him.
“Yes, a Basque—but what’s the matter?” asked Ibarra in surprise.
Clenching his fists and pressing them to his forehead, Elias glared at Crisostomo, who recoiled when he saw the expression on the other’s face. “Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was?” he asked between his teeth. “Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the villain who falsely accused my grandfather and caused all our misfortunes. I have sought for that name and God has revealed it to me!
Render me now an accounting for our misfortunes!”
Elias 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.
