An Eagle Flight
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
Opinions.
The noise of the affair spread rapidly. At first no one believed it, but when there was no longer room for doubt, each made his comments, according to the degree of his moral elevation.
“Father Dámaso is dead,” said some. “When he was carried away, his face was congested with blood, and he no longer breathed.”
“May he rest in peace, but he has only paid his debt!” said a young stranger.
“Why do you say that?”
“One of us students who came from Manila for the fête left the church when the sermon in Tagalo began, saying it was Greek to him. Father Dámaso sent for him afterward, and they came to blows.”
“Are we returning to the times of Nero?” asked another student.
“You mistake,” replied the first. “Nero was an artist, and Father Dámaso is a jolly poor preacher!”
The men of more years talked otherwise.
“To say which was wrong and which right is not easy,” said the gobernadorcillo, “and yet, if Señor Ibarra had been more moderate——”
“You probably mean, if Father Dámaso had shown half the moderation of Señor Ibarra,” interrupted Don Filipo. “The pity is that the rôles were interchanged: the youth conducted himself like an old man, and the old man like a youth.”
“And you say nobody but the daughter of Captain Tiago came between them? Not a monk, nor the alcalde?” asked Captain Martin. “I wouldn’t like to be in the young man’s shoes. None of those who were afraid of him will ever forgive him. Hah, that’s the worst of it!”
“You think so?” demanded Captain Basilio, with interest.
“I hope,” said Don Filipo, exchanging glances with Captain Basilio, “that the pueblo isn’t going to desert him. His friends at least——”
“But, señores,” interrupted the gobernadorcillo, “what can we do? What can the pueblo? Whatever happens, the monks are always in the right——”
“They are always in the right, because we always say they’re in the right. Let us say we are in the right for once, and then we shall have something to talk about!”
The gobernadorcillo shook his head.
“Ah, the young blood!” he said. “You don’t seem to know what country you live in; you don’t know your compatriots. The monks are rich; they are united; we are poor and divided. Try to defend him and you will see how you are left to compromise yourself alone!”
“Yes,” cried Don Filipo bitterly, “and it will be so as long as fear and prudence are supposed to be synonymous. Each thinks of himself, nobody of any one else; that is why we are weak!”
“Very well! Think of others and see how soon the others will let you hang!”
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