In Ermita the affair was more serious, even though there was less excitement, and that when there were shots fired. A certain cautious government employee, armed to the teeth, saw at nightfall an object near his house, and taking it for nothing less than a student, fired at it twice with a revolver. The object proved to be a policeman, and they buried him—pax Christi! Mutis! In Dulumbayan various shots also resounded, from which there resulted the death of a poor old deaf man, who had not heard the sentinel’s quién vive, and of a hog that had heard it and had not answered España! The old man was buried with difficulty, since there was no money to pay for the obsequies, but the hog was eaten. In Manila, [59] in a confectionery near the University much frequented by the students, the arrests were thus commented upon. “And have they arrested Tadeo?” [60] asked the proprietess. “Abá!” answered a student who lived in Parian, “he’s already shot!” “Shot! Nakú! He hasn’t paid what he owes me.” “Ay, don’t mention that or you’ll be taken for an accomplice. I’ve already burnt the book [61] you lent me. There might be a search and it would be found. Be careful!” “Did you say that Isagani is a prisoner?” “Crazy fool, too, that Isagani,” replied the indignant student. “They didn’t try to catch him, but he went and surrendered. Let him bust himself—he’ll surely be shot.” The señora shrugged her shoulders. “He doesn’t owe me anything. And what about Paulita?” “She won’t lack a husband. Sure, she’ll cry a little, and then marry a Spaniard.” The night was one of the gloomiest. In the houses the rosary was recited and pious women dedicated paternosters and requiems to each of the souls of their relatives and friends. By eight o’clock hardly a pedestrian could be seen—only from time to time was heard the galloping of a horse against whose sides a saber clanked noisily, then the whistles of the watchmen, and carriages that whirled along at full speed, as though pursued by mobs of filibusters. Yet terror did not reign everywhere. In the house of the silversmith, where Placido Penitente boarded, the events were commented upon and discussed with some freedom. “I don’t believe in the pasquinades,” declared a workman, lank and withered from operating the blowpipe. “To me it looks like Padre Salvi’s doings.” “Ahem, ahem!” coughed the silversmith, a very prudent man, who did not dare to stop the conversation from fear that he would be considered a coward. The good man had to content himself with coughing, winking to his helper, and gazing toward the street, as if to say, “They may be watching us!” “On account of the operetta,” added another workman. “Aha!” exclaimed one who had a foolish face, “I told you so!” “Ahem!” rejoined a clerk, in a tone of compassion, “the affair of the pasquinades is true, Chichoy, and I can give you the explanation.” Then he added mysteriously, “It’s a trick of the Chinaman Quiroga’s!”