But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his return to his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest who was advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of San Diego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom we have mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat, and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind to the outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. In his right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he and Ibarra had met. As they approached each other, the young man stopped and looked at him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhat distracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rush toward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping his shoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed: "What have you done with my father?" Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentiments which were depicted on the young man's face, could not reply. "What have you done with my father?" he asked again, his voice almost choking him. The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra's hand, at last made a great effort and said: "You are mistaken. I have done nothing with your father." "What? No?" continued the young man, the weight of his hand on the priest's shoulder almost making him kneel. "No, I assure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father Dámaso----" "Ah!" exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and giving him a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quickly and went toward the house. CHAPTER IX ADVENTURES OF A SCHOOL TEACHER. Laguna de Bay, surrounded by mountains, sleeps tranquilly in the stillness of the elements, as if it had not joined the chorus of the tempest on the night before. As first rays of dawn appear in the eastern sky and awaken the phosphorescent myriads in the water, long, grey shadows appear in the dim distance, almost on the border of the horizon. They are shadows of fishermen's boats at work drawing in the nets. Two men, dressed in deep mourning, from a lofty height contemplate the scene in silence. One is Ibarra, and the other is a young, meek-looking man with a melancholy countenance. "Here is the place!" said the latter. "Here is where your father's body was thrown into the water! The grave-digger brought Lieutenant Guevara and me here and pointed out the spot." Ibarra, with emotion, warmly grasped the young man's hand.