His look was thoughtful, and his actions, slow and becoming, and his bearing, noble. He was a man who loved solitude, for he often told his friends that man was not at home unless he was in solitude with himself.
His mood was calm, silent and poetic. Oftentimes he went rambling or musing in the meadows alone, sometimes singing, or else declaiming some common passages of Shakespeare, Lincoln's "Gettysburg Ad-dress," Rizal's "My Last Thought," or Mabini's "Decalogue," singing "Dulce son las Horas," or "Old Folks at Home," or humming in low tunes "Philippines, My Philippines," "Rigoletto," or some other native and foreign airs.
He had some local bits and foreign touches of literature and music in his heart. These he confessed made him happy, and inspired him to be a man, one who lived to work and to serve, that others, not he alone, might be happy, and thus make the world better than he found it. The next day both friends hand in hand set out to the home town of Camilo's family. On the way, just like ordinary schoolboys for they were yet as they were fresh from school, they were curious merry-makers, all the way through, until they reached their destination in about two or three hours' rigging.
The highway was rugged and ran zigzag, as some of the provincial roads were not always up to standard as they should especially when some of the biggest floods and storms had just wrought their heavy ruin
