Almost all were agreed, though some talked about "innovations."
When silence was established, only the decision of the gobernadorcillo was wanting.
The poor man passed his hand across his forehead, he fidgeted, he perspired; finally he stammered, lowering his eyes:
"I approve entirely," repeated the functionary, "that is to say, I do not approve; I say yes, but----"
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
"But," continued the unhappy man, coming to the point at last, "the curate wants something else."
"Is the curate to pay for the festival? Has he given even a cuarto?" cried a penetrating voice.
Every one turned. It was Tasio. The lieutenant remained immovable, his eyes on the gobernadorcillo.
"And what does the curate want?" demanded Don Basilio.
"The curate wants six processions, three sermons, three solemn masses, and if any money is left, a comedy with songs between the acts."
"But we don't want it!" cried the young men and some of their elders.
"The curate wishes it," repeated the gobernadorcillo, "and I've promised that his wishes shall be carried out."
"Then why did you call us together?" asked one, impatient.
"Why didn't you say so in the beginning?" demanded another.
"I wished to, señores, but, Captain Basilio, I did not have a chance. We must obey the curate!"
"We must obey!" repeated some of the Conservatives.
Don Filipo approached the gobernadorcillo and said bitterly:
"I sacrificed my pride in a good cause; you sacrifice your manliness in a bad one; you spoil every good thing that might be done!"
"Have you any commission for the capital? I leave immediately."
On the way home the old philosopher said to Don Filipo, who was cursing his fate:
"The fault is ours. You didn't protest when they gave you a slave for mayor, and I, fool that I am, forgot about him!"
It is the 10th of November, the eve of the fête. The pueblo of San Diego is stirred by an incredible activity; in the houses, the streets, the church, the gallera, all is unwonted movement. From windows flags and rugs are hanging; the air, resounding with bombs and music, seems saturated with gayety. Inside on little tables covered with bordered cloths the dalaga arranges in jars of tinted crystal the confitures made from the native fruits. Servants come and go; orders, whispers, comments, conjectures are everywhere. And all this activity and labor are for guests as often unknown as known; the stranger, the friend, the Filipino, the Spaniard, the rich man, the poor man, will be equally fortunate; and no one will ask his gratitude, nor even demand that he speak well of his host till the end of his dinner.