To put an end to this chapter of comments and that the reader may learn in passing what the simple country folk thought of the incident, we will now go to the plaza, where under the large awning some rustics are conversing, one of them--he who dreamed about doctors of medicine--being an acquaintance of ours. "What I regret most," said he, "is that the schoolhouse won't be finished." "What's that?" asked the bystanders with interest. "My son won't be a doctor but a carter, nothing more! Now there won't be any school!" "Who says there won't be any school?" asked a rough and robust countryman with wide cheeks and a narrow head. "I do! The white padres have called Don Crisostomo _plibastiero_. [98] Now there won't be any school." All stood looking questioningly at each other; that was a new term to them. "And is that a bad name?" the rough countryman made bold to ask. "The worst thing that one Christian can say to another!" "Worse than _tarantado_ and _sarayate?"_ [99] "If it were only that! I've been called those names several times and they didn't even give me a bellyache." "Well, it can't be worse than '_indio,_' as the alferez says." The man who was to have a carter for a son became gloomier, while the other scratched his head in thought. "Then it must be like the _betelapora_ [100] that the alferez's old woman says. Worse than that is to spit on the Host." "Well, it's worse than to spit on the Host on Good Friday," was the grave reply. "You remember the word _ispichoso_ [101] which when applied to a man is enough to have the civil-guards take him into exile or put him in jail well, _plibustiero_ is much worse. According to what the telegrapher and the directorcillo said, _plibustiero_, said by a Christian, a curate, or a Spaniard to another Christian like us is a _santusdeus with requimiternam_, [102] for if they ever call you a _plibustiero_ then you'd better get yourself shriven and pay your debts, since nothing remains for you but to be hanged. You know whether the telegrapher and the directorcillo ought to be informed; one talks with wires and the other knows Spanish and works only with a pen." All were appalled. "May they force me to wear shoes and in all my life to drink nothing but that vile stuff they call beer, if I ever let myself be called _pelbistero!_" swore the countryman, clenching his fists. "What, rich as Don Crisostomo is, knowing Spanish as he does, and able to eat fast with a knife and spoon, I'd laugh at five curates!" "The next civil-guard I catch stealing my chickens I'm going to call _palabistiero_, then I'll go to confession at once," murmured one of the rustics in a low voice as he withdrew from the group. CHAPTER XXXVI The First Cloud