THERE in the dining-room Capitan Tiago, Linares, and Aunt Isabel were at supper, so that even in the sala the rattling of plates and dishes was plainly heard. Maria Clara had said that she was not hungry and had seated herself at the piano in company with the merry Sinang, who was murmuring mysterious words into her ear. Meanwhile Padre Salvi paced nervously back and forth in the room.
It was not, indeed, that the convalescent was not hungry, no; but she was expecting the arrival of a certain person and was taking advantage of this moment when her Argus was not present, Linares' supper-hour.
"You'll see how that specter will stay till eight," murmured Sinang, indicating the curate. "And at eight he will come. The curate's in love with Linares."
Maria Clara gazed in consternation at her friend, who went on heedlessly with her terrible chatter: "Oh, I know why he doesn't go, in spite of my hints―he doesn't want to burn up oil in the convento! Don't you know that since you've been sick the two lamps that he used to keep lighted he has had put out? But look how he stares, and what a face!"
At that moment a clock in the house struck eight. The curate shuddered and sat down in a corner.
"Here he comes!" exclaimed Sinang, pinching Maria Clara. "Don't you hear him?"
The church bell boomed out the hour of eight and all rose to pray. Padre Salvi offered up a prayer in a weak
