"Yes," said a young peasant woman to an old man grinding his buyo, "whatever my husband says, my Andoy shall be a priest. It is true, we are poor; but Father Mateo says Pope Sixtu was once a keeper of carabaos at Batanzas! Look at my Andoy; hasn't he a face like St. Vincent?" and the good mother's mouth watered at the sight of her son with his fork in both hands! "God help us!" said the old man, munching his sapa. "If Andoy gets to be pope, we will go to Rome! I can walk yet! Ho! Ho!" Another peasant came up. "It's decided, neighbor," he said, "my son is to be a doctor." "A doctor! Don't speak of it!" replied Petra. "There's nothing like being a curate! He has only to make two or three turns and say 'deminos pabiscum' and he gets his money." "And isn't it work to confess?" "Work! Think of the trouble we take to find out the affairs of our neighbors! The curate has only to sit down, and they tell him everything!" "And preaching? Don't you call that work?" "Preaching? Where is your head? To scold half a day from the pulpit without any one's daring to reply and be paid for it into the bargain! Look, look at Father Damaso! See how fat he gets with his shouting and pounding!" In truth, Father Damaso was that moment passing the children's booth in the gait peculiar to men of his size. As he entered the other booth, he was half smiling, but so maliciously that at sight of it Ibarra, who was talking, lost the thread of his speech. The guests were astonished to see the father, but every one except Ibarra received him with signs of pleasure. They were at the dessert, and the champagne was sparkling in the cups. Father Damaso's smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara sitting next Crisostomo, but, taking a chair beside the alcalde, he said in the midst of a significant silence: "You were talking of something, senores; continue!" "We had come to the toasts," said the alcalde. "Senor Ibarra was mentioning those who had aided him in his philanthropic enterprise, and he was speaking of the architect when your reverence----" "Ah, well! I know nothing about architecture," interrupted Father Damaso, "but I scorn architects and the simpletons who make use of them." "Nevertheless," said the alcalde, as Ibarra was silent, "when certain buildings are in question, like a school, for example, an expert is needed----" "An expert!" cried the father, with sarcasm. "One needs be more stupid than the Indians, who build their own houses, not to know how to raise four walls and put a roof on them. Nothing else is needed for a school!" Every one looked at Ibarra, but, though he grew a little pale, he pursued his conversation with Maria Clara. "But does your reverence consider----"