"The poor of Monterey; those who love their Cross better than the aristocrats love their caste. They know."
De la Vega caught Ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and corridor. His knife cut a long rift in the canvas, and in a moment they stood upon the rocks. The shrieking crowd was on the other side of the Custom-house.
"Marcos!" he called to his boatman, "Marcos!"
No answer came but the waves tugging at the rocks not two feet below them. He could see nothing. The fog was thick as night.
"He is not here, Ysabel. We must swim. Anything but to be torn to pieces by those wild-cats. Are you afraid?"
"No," she said.
He folded her closely with one arm, and felt with his foot for the edge of the rocks. A wild roar came from behind. A dozen pistols were fired into the air. De la Vega reeled suddenly. "I am shot, Ysabel," he said, his knees bending. "Not in this world, my love!"
She wound her arms about him, and dragging him to the brow of the rocks, hurled herself outward, carrying him with her. The waves tossed them on high, flung them against the rocks and ground them there, playing with them like a lion with its victim, then buried them.