"Senores," said he in a tone of authority, "you should not confuse things, nor seek offence where there is none intended. We must distinguish in the words of Father Damaso those of the man from those of the priest. The latter per se can never offend, because they are infallible. In the words of the man, a sub-distinction must be made, into those said ab irato, those said ex ore, but not in corde, and those said in corde. It is these last only that can offend, and even then everything depends. If they were not premeditated in mente, but simply arose per accidens in the heat of the conversation----" At this interesting point there joined the group an old Spaniard, gentle and inoffensive of aspect. He was lame, and leaned on the arm of an old native woman, smothered in curls and frizzes, preposterously powdered, and in European dress. With relief every one turned to salute them. It was Doctor de Espadana and his wife, the Doctora Dona Victorina. The atmosphere cleared. "Which, Senor Laruja, is the master of the house?" asked the young provincial. "I haven't been presented." "They say he has gone out." "No presentations are necessary here," said Brother Damaso; "Santiago is a good fellow." Er hat das Pulfer nicht erfunden. "He didn't invent gunpowder," added Laruja. "What, you too, Senor de Laruja?" said Dona Victorina over her fan. "How could the poor man have invented gunpowder when, if what they say is true, the Chinese made it centuries ago?" "The Chinese? 'Twas a Franciscan who invented it," said Brother Damaso. "A Franciscan, no doubt; he must have been a missionary to China," said the Senora, not disposed to abandon her idea. "Who is this with Santiago?" asked the lieutenant. Every one looked toward the door, where two men had just entered. They came up to the group around the table. II. CRISOSTOMO IBARRA. One was the original of the portrait in oil, and he led by the hand a young man in deep black. "Good evening, senores; good evening, fathers," said Captain Tiago, kissing the hands of the priests, "I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra." At the name of Ibarra there were smothered exclamations. The lieutenant, forgetting to salute the master of the house, surveyed the young man from head to foot. Brother Damaso seemed petrified. The arrival was evidently unexpected. Senor Ibarra exchanged the usual phrases with members of the group. Nothing marked him from other guests save his black attire. His fine height, his manner, his movements, denoted sane and vigorous youth. His face, frank and engaging, of a rich brown, and lightly furrowed--trace of Spanish blood--was rosy from a sojourn in the north. "Ah!" he cried, surprised and delighted, "my father's old friend, Brother Damaso!" All eyes turned toward the Franciscan, who did not stir. "Pardon," said Ibarra, puzzled. "I am mistaken." "You are not mistaken," said the priest at last, in an odd voice; "but your father was not my friend."