“There’s a fellow who’s happy!” muttered Placido with a sigh, as he gazed toward the group, which became converted into vaporous silhouettes, with Juanito’s arms plainly visible, rising and falling like the arms of a windmill.

“That’s all he’s good for,” observed Simoun.  “It’s fine to be young!”

To whom did Placido and Simoun each allude?

The jeweler made a sign to the young man, and they left the street to pick their way through a labyrinth of paths and passageways among various houses, at times leaping upon stones to avoid the mudholes or stepping aside from the sidewalks that were badly constructed and still more badly tended.  Placido was surprised to see the rich jeweler move through such places as if he were familiar with them.  They at length reached an open lot where a wretched hut stood off by itself surrounded by banana-plants and areca-palms.  Some bamboo frames and sections of the same material led Placido to suspect that they were approaching the house of a pyrotechnist.

Simoun rapped on the window and a man’s face appeared.

“Ah, sir!” he exclaimed, and immediately came outside.

“Is the powder here?” asked Simoun.

“In sacks.  I’m waiting for the shells.”

“And the bombs?”

“Are all ready.”

“All right, then.  This very night you must go and inform the lieutenant and the corporal.  Then keep on your way, and in Lamayan you will find a man in a banka.  You will say Cabesa and he will answer Tales.  It’s necessary that he be here tomorrow.  There’s no time to be lost.”

Saying this, he gave him some gold coins.

“How’s this, sir?” the man inquired in very good Spanish.  “Is there any news?”

“Yes, it’ll be done within the coming week.”

“The coming week!” exclaimed the unknown, stepping backward.  “The suburbs are not yet ready, they hope that the General will withdraw the decree.  I thought it was postponed until the beginning of Lent.”

Simoun shook his head.  “We won’t need the suburbs,” he said.  “With Cabesang Tales’ people, the ex-carbineers, and a regiment, we’ll have enough.  Later, Maria Clara may be dead.  Start at once!”

The man disappeared.  Placido, who had stood by and heard all of this brief interview, felt his hair rise and stared with startled eyes at Simoun, who smiled.

“You’re surprised,” he said with his icy smile, “that this Indian, so poorly dressed, speaks Spanish well?  He was a schoolmaster who persisted in teaching Spanish to the children and did not stop until he had lost his position and had been deported as a disturber of the public peace, and for having been a friend of the unfortunate Ibarra.  I got him back from his deportation, where he had been working as a pruner of coconut-palms, and have made him a pyrotechnist.”

They returned to the street and set out for Trozo.  Before a wooden house of pleasant and well-kept appearance was a Spaniard on crutches, enjoying the moonlight.  When Simoun accosted him, his attempt to rise was accompanied by a stifled groan.