"Do not come near us!" he cried again in the same threatening voice. "What? You fear I shall stain my hand in impure blood? Did I not tell you that my heart beats true? Away from us, and listen, priests, believing yourselves different from other men, giving yourselves other rights! My father was an honorable man. Ask the country which venerates his memory. My father was a good citizen, who sacrificed himself for me and for his country's good. His house was open, his table set for the stranger or the exile who should turn to him! He was a Christian; always doing good, never pressing the weak, nor forcing tears from the wretched. As to this man, he opened his door to him, made him sit down at his table, and called him friend. And how did the man respond? He falsely accused him; he pursued him; he armed ignorance against him! Confiding in the sanctity of his office, he outraged his tomb, dishonored his memory; his hate troubled even the rest of the dead. And not yet satisfied, he now pursues the son. I fled from him, avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the chair, point me out to the people's fanaticism; but I said nothing. Now, he comes here to seek a quarrel; I suffer in silence, until he again insults a memory sacred to all sons. "You who are here, priests, magistrates, have you seen your old father give himself for you, part from you for your good, die of grief in a prison, looking for your embrace, looking for consolation from any one who would bring it, sick, alone; while you in a foreign land? Then have you heard his name dishonored, found his tomb empty when you went there to pray? No? You are silent; then you condemn him!" He raised his arm. But a girl, rapid as light, threw herself between him and the priest, and with her fragile hands held the avenging arm. It was Maria Clara. Ibarra looked at her with eyes like a madman's. Then, little by little, his tense fingers relaxed; he let fall the knife, and, covering his face with his hands, he fled. XXIX. OPINIONS. The noise of the affair spread rapidly. At first no one believed it, but when there was no longer room for doubt, each made his comments, according to the degree of his moral elevation. "Father Damaso is dead," said some. "When he was carried away, his face was congested with blood, and he no longer breathed." "May he rest in peace, but he has only paid his debt!" said a young stranger. "Why do you say that?" "One of us students who came from Manila for the fete left the church when the sermon in Tagalo began, saying it was Greek to him. Father Damaso sent for him afterward, and they came to blows." "Are we returning to the times of Nero?" asked another student. "You mistake," replied the first. "Nero was an artist, and Father Damaso is a jolly poor preacher!" The men of more years talked otherwise. "To say which was wrong and which right is not easy," said the gobernadorcillo, "and yet, if Senor Ibarra had been more moderate----"