Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 3 (1925-03).djvu/119

confession. No names need be mentioned, and the story might be told in allegory.

Domingo took his place at the end of the room that he might scan the faces of his hearers. His face was flushed with excitement. He was thinking of his little Maria, whose cheeks would again show crimson. He did not fear his guests. No Gaddaan has ever betrayed the secret of the alaad.

He coughed, cleared his throat, then began:

"One day last harvest time, while returning from an unsuccessful hunt on the great plain toward the setting sun, I started to cross the creek Santos, near where it joins the mighty Magat. I had just entered the water when my horse shied at two fawns playing there. He threw me over his head into the water. The pain of the fall was so great that I could not control my anger. I remounted my horse. I gave chase to the fawns that caused my mishap. I caught the first on my lance. I shook him off. He was dead. The other fawn turned upon me. I let go my lance and it pierced him in the breast. It is the anitos of the little fawns that I would send to rest by my alaad today; they make sick my little Maria."

Domingo had obeyed the law of his ancestors. His secret was with his people.

There was a deathlike silence. Domingo had dropped upon his knees, with head bowed. His lips moved in a silent prayer that had been taught him by a zealous Christian monk when he was yet a child. His guests looked knowingly at each other, then slipped away one by one.

When darkness had fallen a childish voice called faintly, "Tatay, tatay. Ari co."

Domingo obeyed her summons.

Within the little room where the sick child lay, he found her mother praying before a crucifix. He dropped to his knees beside her to wait and watch. At the first streak of dawn the little voice on the mat whispered, "Tatay, Nanay", but before the parents could answer her call, she was dead. Her anito had gone to seek the two little fawns.

The mother threw herself over the clay that had been her child and sobbed silently. Domingo stood up to listen. He had heard unfamiliar sounds, footfalls made by shoe-clad feet, metal striking against metal like cartridges dropping into a magazine, then two harsh noises as if riflebolts had been shot into place carelessly. Heavy footfalls struck the paths.

Someone near the kitchen door tried to smother a cough, After a short silence, another boldly ascended the front steps. Then a loud knock sounded on the door and a gruff voice called, "Tao, po, tao, po". The speaker demanded admittance.

Domingo tiptoed to the window, then whispered hoarsely, "Justicia, justicia". He lowered the window gently as if not to waken his little Maria, and opened the door to face a burly Filipino sergeant and two rifles pointing from the ground.