"Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenths of the natives," said Don Filipo; "see that you make no mistakes!"
Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.
"So this is the Elias who threw the alférez into the swamp," said Léon.
"He's a tulisane then?" asked Victoria, trembling.
"I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes."
"He hasn't the face of a criminal," said Sinang.
"No; but his face is very sad," said Maria. "I did not see him smile all the morning."
The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra's ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: "Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!"
The next morning, Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio's.
Complete quiet reigned in the old man's garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.
Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.
"What! you were there?" he cried, looking at Crisóstomo with a certain astonishment.
"Don't disturb yourself; I see you are busy----"
"I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?"
"Of great service," said Ibarra, approaching; "but--you are deciphering hieroglyphics!" he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man's work.
"Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?" demanded the young man, doubting his senses.
Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.
"And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?"
"I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: 'Our ancestors did not all sleep.' But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things."