“Since the señor wills it, I command you,” I answered. “We must save the man and take our chance.”
“He commands whom we must obey,” shouted the boatswain again; “put back, my brothers.”
Sullenly, but submissively, the Indians backed water till we lay almost beneath the counter of the vessel, that wallowed in the trough of the swell before she went down. On the deck, clinging to the stays of the mast, stood Don José—his straight oiled hair beat about his face, his gorgeous dress was soaked and disordered.
“Save me!” he yelled hoarsely, “save me!”
“Throw yourself into the sea, señor, and we will pick you up.”
“I dare not,” was the answer, “come aboard and fetch me.”
“Does the señor still wish us to stay?” asked the boatswain, calmly.
“Listen, you cur,” shouted the señor, “the ship is sinking and will take us with it. At the word ‘three,’ give way, men. Now will you come, or not? One, two——”
“I come,” said the Mexican, and, driven to it by despair, he cast himself into the sea.
With difficulty the señor, assisted by an Indian with a boathook, succeeded in getting hold of him as he was washed past on the swell. I confess that I would have no hand in the affair, since—may I be forgiven the sin—my charity was not true enough to make me wish to save this villain. There, however, the matter rested for the present, as they could not stop to pull him into the boat, for just then the deck of the Santa Maria burst with a rending sound, and she began to go down bodily.