His carriage rolled on. It passed a cart drawn by two horses whose hempen harness told of the back country. Sometimes there sounded the slow and heavy tread of a pensive carabao, drawing a great tumbrel; its conductor, on his buffalo skin, accompanying, with a monotonous and melancholy chant, the strident creaking of the wheels. Sometimes there was the dull sound of a native sledge's worn runners. In the fields grazed the herds, and among them white herons gravely promenaded, or sat tranquil on the backs of sleepy oxen beatifically chewing their cuds of prairie grass. Let us leave the young man, wholly occupied now with his thoughts. The sun which makes the tree-tops burn, and sends the peasants running, when they feel the hot ground through their thick shoes; the sun which halts the countrywoman under a clump of great reeds, and makes her think of things vague and strange--that sun has no enchantment for him. While the carriage, staggering like a drunken man over the uneven ground, passes a bamboo bridge, mounts a rough hillside or descends its steep slope, let us return to Manila. IX. AFFAIRS OF THE COUNTRY. Ibarra had not been mistaken. It was indeed Father Damaso he had seen, on his way to the house which he himself had just left. Maria Clara and Aunt Isabel were entering their carriage when the monk arrived. "Where are you going?" he asked, and in his preoccupation he gently tapped the young girl's cheek. "To the convent to get my things," said she. "Ah! ah! well, well! we shall see who is the stronger, we shall see!" he murmured, as he left the two women somewhat surprised and went up the steps. "He's probably committing his sermon," said Aunt Isabel. "Come, we are late!" We cannot say whether Father Damaso was committing a sermon, but he must have been absorbed in important things, for he did not offer his hand to Captain Tiago. "Santiago," he said, "we must have a serious talk. Come into your office." Captain Tiago felt uneasy. He answered nothing, but followed the gigantic priest, who closed the door behind them. While they talk, let us see what has become of Father Sibyla. The learned Dominican, his mass once said, had set out for the convent of his order, which stands at the entrance to the city, near the gate bearing alternately, according to the family reigning at Madrid, the name of Magellan or Isabella II. Brother Sibyla entered, crossed several halls, and knocked at a door. "Come in," said a faint voice. "God give health to your reverence," said the young Dominican, entering. Seated in a great armchair was an old priest, meagre, jaundiced, like Rivera's saints. His eyes, deep-sunken in their orbits, were arched with heavy brows, intensifying the flashes of their dying light. Brother Sibyla was moved. He inclined his head, and seemed to wait.