PASQUINADES Very early the next morning Basilio arose to go to the hospital. He had his plans made: to visit his patients, to go afterwards to the University to see about his licentiateship, and then have an interview with Makaraig about the expense this would entail, for he had used up the greater part of his savings in ransoming Juli and in securing a house where she and her grandfather might live, and he had not dared to apply to Capitan Tiago, fearing that such a move would be construed as an advance on the legacy so often promised him. Preoccupied with these thoughts, he paid no attention to the groups of students who were at such an early hour returning from the Walled City, as though the classrooms had been closed, nor did he even note the abstracted air of some of them, their whispered conversations, or the mysterious signals exchanged among them. So it was that when he reached San Juan de Dios and his friends asked him about the conspiracy, he gave a start, remembering what Simoun had planned, but which had miscarried, owing to the unexplained accident to the jeweler. Terrified, he asked in a trembling voice, at the same time endeavoring to feign ignorance, “Ah, yes, what conspiracy?” “It’s been discovered,” replied one, “and it seems that many are implicated in it.” With an effort Basilio controlled himself. “Many implicated?” he echoed, trying to learn something from the looks of the others. “Who?” “Students, a lot of students.” Basilio did not think it prudent to ask more, fearing that he would give himself away, so on the pretext of visiting his patients he left the group. One of the clinical professors met him and placing his hand mysteriously on the youth’s shoulder—the professor was a friend of his—asked him in a low voice, “Were you at that supper last night?” In his excited frame of mind Basilio thought the professor had said night before last, which was the time of his interview with Simoun. He tried to explain. “I assure you,” he stammered, “that as Capitan Tiago was worse—and besides I had to finish that book—” “You did well not to attend it,” said the professor. “But you’re a member of the students’ association?” “I pay my dues.” “Well then, a piece of advice: go home at once and destroy any papers you have that may compromise you.” Basilio shrugged his shoulders—he had no papers, nothing more than his clinical notes. “Has Señor Simoun—” “Simoun has nothing to do with the affair, thank God!” interrupted the physician. “He was opportunely wounded by some unknown hand and is now confined to his bed. No, other hands are concerned in this, but hands no less terrible.” Basilio drew a breath of relief. Simoun was the only one who could compromise him, although he thought of Cabesang Tales. “Are there tulisanes—” “No, man, nothing more than students.” Basilio recovered his serenity. “What has happened then?” he made bold to ask. “Seditious pasquinades have been found; didn’t you know about them?” “Where?”