An Eagle Flight
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
The Chase on the Lake.
“Listen, señor, to the plan I have made,” said Elias, as he pulled toward San Gabriel. “I will hide you, for the present, at the house of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold, that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave the country——”
“To live among strangers?” interrupted Ibarra.
“To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty.”
Crisóstomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.
They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a whistle long and shrill was heard.
“Elias,” said Ibarra at length, “your misfortunes are due to my family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country; well, come with me. We will live as brothers.”
Elias shook his head.
“It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day——”
“Unless I, too, should become a tulisan,” mused Ibarra.
“Señor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this same moon. You could not have said such a thing then.”
“No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society; perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence.”
They came in sight of the governor-general’s palace, and thought they saw unusual movement among the guards.
“Your escape must have been discovered,” said Elias. “Lie down, señor, so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine may stop us.”
As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him where he came from.
“From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates,” said he, imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.
A sergeant came out.
“Sulung,” said he to Elias, “I warn you not to take any one into your boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him to me, I will give you a fine reward.”
“Good, señor; what is his description?”
“He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!”
The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank.
“We shall lose a few minutes,” he said; “we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I’m from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang.”
The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves that are called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.
“Santa Ana!” said Ibarra, speaking low; “do you know that building?” They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.
“I’ve spent many happy days there,” said Elias. “When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future.”
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