“You did well not to attend it,” said the professor.  “But you’re a member of the students’ association?”

“I pay my dues.”

“Well then, a piece of advice:  go home at once and destroy any papers you have that may compromise you.”

Basilio shrugged his shoulders—­he had no papers, nothing more than his clinical notes.

“Has Senor Simoun—­”

“Simoun has nothing to do with the affair, thank God!” interrupted the physician.  “He was opportunely wounded by some unknown hand and is now confined to his bed.  No, other hands are concerned in this, but hands no less terrible.”

Basilio drew a breath of relief.  Simoun was the only one who could compromise him, although he thought of Cabesang Tales.

“Are there tulisanes—­”

“No, man, nothing more than students.”

Basilio recovered his serenity.  “What has happened then?” he made bold to ask.

“Seditious pasquinades have been found; didn’t you know about them?”

“Where?”

“In the University.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“Whew!  What more do you want?” asked the professor, almost in a rage.  “The pasquinades are attributed to the students of the association—­but, keep quiet!”

The professor of pathology came along, a man who had more the look of a sacristan than of a physician.  Appointed by the powerful mandate of the Vice-Rector, without other merit than unconditional servility to the corporation, he passed for a spy and an informer in the eyes of the rest of the faculty.

The first professor returned his greeting coldly, and winked to Basilio, as he said to him, “Now I know that Capitan Tiago smells like a corpse—­the crows and vultures have been gathering around him.”  So saying, he went inside.

Somewhat calmed, Basilio now ventured to inquire for more details, but all that he could learn was that pasquinades had been found on the doors of the University, and that the Vice-Rector had ordered them to be taken down and sent to the Civil Government.  It was said that they were filled with threats of assassination, invasion, and other braggadocio.

The students made their comments on the affair.  Their information came from the janitor, who had it from a servant in Santo Tomas, who had it from an usher.  They prognosticated future suspensions and imprisonments, even indicating who were to be the victims—­naturally the members of the association.

Basilio then recalled Simoun’s words:  “The day in which they can get rid of you, you will not complete your course.”

“Could he have known anything?” he asked himself.  “We’ll see who is the most powerful.”

Recovering his serenity, he went on toward the University, to learn what attitude it behooved him to take and at the same time to see about his licentiateship.  He passed along Calle Legazpi, then down through Beaterio, and upon arriving at the corner of this street and Calle Solana saw that something important must indeed have happened.  Instead of the former lively, chattering groups on the sidewalks were to be seen civil-guards making the students move on, and these latter issuing from the University silent, some gloomy, some agitated, to stand off at a distance or make their way home.