"There, there he is," cried several voices, and balls whistled.
The falúa and the bark from Pasig set out in pursuit of the swimmer. A slight wake showed his direction, more and more removed from Ibarra's little bark, which drifted as if abandoned. Every time Elias raised his head to breathe, the guards and the men of the falúa fired on him.
The chase went on. The little bark with Ibarra was left far behind. Elias was not more than a hundred yards from the shore. The rowers were getting tired, but so was Elias, for he repeatedly raised his head above the water, but always in a new direction, to disconcert his pursuers. The deceiving wake no longer told the place of the swimmer. For the last time they saw him, sixty feet from the shore. The soldiers fired--minutes and minutes passed. Nothing again disturbed the tranquil surface of the lake.
A half hour later, one of the rowers claimed to have seen traces of blood near the shore, but his comrades shook their heads in doubt.
In vain the precious wedding presents heaped up; not the brilliants in their velvet cases, not embroideries of piña nor pieces of silk, drew the eyes of Maria Clara. She saw nothing but the journal in which was told the death of Ibarra, drowned in the lake.
Suddenly she felt two hands over her eyes, clasping her head, while a merry voice said to her:
"Little goose! Did I scare you, eh? You weren't expecting me, eh? Why, I've come from the province to be at your marriage----" And with a satisfied smile, Father Dámaso gave her his hand to kiss. She took it, trembling, and carried it respectfully to her lips.
"What is it, Maria?" demanded the Franciscan, troubled, and losing his gay smile. "Your hand is cold, you are pale--are you ill, little girl?" And he drew her tenderly to him, took both her hands and questioned her with his eyes.
"Won't you confide in your godfather?" he asked in a tone of reproach. "Come, sit down here and tell me your griefs, as you used to do when you were little, and wanted some tapers to make wax dolls. You know I've always loved you--never scolded you----" and his voice became very tender. Maria began to cry.
"Why do you cry, my child? Have you quarrelled with Linares?"
Father Dámaso looked startled. "And you won't tell me your secrets? Have I not always tried to satisfy your slightest wish?"