"There are many who hate me, who ascribe their misfortunes to me, but--" He felt his forehead begin to burn, so he arose to approach the window and inhale the fresh night breeze.

Below him the Pasig dragged along its silvered stream, on whose bright surface the foam glittered, winding slowly about, receding and advancing, following the course of the little eddies.

The city loomed up on the opposite bank, and its black walls looked fateful, mysterious, losing their sordidness in the moonlight that idealizes and embellishes everything.

But again Simoun shivered; he seemed to see before him the severe countenance of his father, dying in prison, but dying for having done good; then the face of another man, severer still, who had given his life for him because he believed that he was going to bring about the regeneration of his country.
"No, I can't turn back," he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"The work is at hand and its success will justify me! If I had conducted myself as you did, I should have succumbed.