The news that the prisoners were going to depart spread quickly through the town. At first, the news was heard with terror; afterward, came tears and lamentations.  
The members of the families of the prisoners were running about madly. They would go from the convent to the cuartel from the cuartel to the tribunal, and not finding consolation anywhere, they filled the air with cries and moans. The curate had shut himself up because he was ill. The alferez had increased his guards, who received the supplicants with the butts of their guns. The gobernadorcillo, a useless being, anyway, seemed more stupid and useless than ever.
 
The sun was burning hot, but none of the unhappy women who were gathered in front of the cuartel thought of that. Doray, the gay and happy wife of Don Filipo, wandered about, with her tender little child in her arms. Both were crying.
 
“Get out of the sun,” they said to her. “Your son will catch a fever.”
 
“What is the use of his living if he has no father to educate him?” replied the dispirited woman.
 
“Your husband is innocent. Perhaps he will return.”
 
“Yes, when we are in our graves.”
 
Capitana Tinay wept and cried for her son, Antonio. The courageous Capitana Maria gazed toward the small grate, behind which were her twins, her only sons.
 
There, too, was the mother-in-law of the cocoanut tree pruner. She was not crying; she was walking to and fro, gesticulating, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and haranguing the public.
 
“Have you ever seen anything equal to it?” said she. “They arrest my Andong, wound him, put him in the [245]stocks, and take him to the capital, all because he happened to be in the cuartel yard.”
 
But few people had any sympathy for the Mussulman mother-in-law.
 
“Don Crisostomo is to blame for all of this,” sighed a woman.
 
The school teacher also was wandering about in the crowd. ?or Juan was no longer rubbing his hands, nor was he carrying his yard stick and plumb line. He had heard the bad news and, faithful to his custom of seeing the future as a thing that had already happened, he was dressed in mourning, mourning for the death of Ibarra.
 
At two o’clock in the afternoon, an uncovered cart, drawn by two oxen, stopped in front of the tribunal.
 
The cart was surrounded by the crowd. They wanted to destroy it.
 
“Don’t do that!” said Capitana Maria. “Do you want them to walk?”
 
This remark stopped the relatives of the prisoners. Twenty soldiers came out and surrounded the cart. Then came the prisoners.
 
The first was Don Filipo; he was tied. He greeted his wife with a smile. Doray broke into a bitter lamentation and two soldiers had to work hard to keep her from embracing her husband. Antonio, the son of Captain Tinay, next appeared, crying like a child—a fact which made the family cry all the more. The imbecile, Andong, broke out in a wail when he saw his mother-in-law, the cause of his misfortune. Albino, the former seminary student, came out with his hands tied, as did also the twin sons of Capitana Maria. These three youths were serious and grave. The last who came was Ibarra. The young man was pale. He looked about for the face of Maria Clara.
 
“That is the one who is to blame!” cried many voices. “He is to bl............