Kate lost her consciousness, under her yellow shawl, in the silence of men.
She woke to the sudden stopping of the engine, and sat up. They were near shore; the white towers of San Pablo among near trees. The boatman, wide-eyed, was bending over the engine, abandoning the tiller. The waves pushed the boat slowly round.
“What is it?” said Cipriano.
“More gasoline, Excellency!” said the boatman.
The soldiers woke and sat up.
The breeze had died.
“The water is coming,” said Cipriano.
“The rain?” said Kate.
“Yes—” and he pointed with his fine black finger, which was pale on the inside, to where black clouds were rushing up behind the mountains, and in another place farther off, great heavy banks were rising with strange suddenness. The air seemed to be knitting together overhead. Lightning flashed in various places, muffled thunder spoke far away.
Still the boat drifted. There was a smell of gasoline. The man pottered with the engine. The motor started again, only to stop again in a moment.