He began to take stock of his predicament. Far away he could see a dirty streak on the horizon, and he knew it for the land he would have to reach.
He was in sore condition for the hazardous journey. His wrists were raw and bleeding; his leg pained him. He scarcely could see because of the glare of the sun on the water. Thirst tortured him; hunger added to the torture.
Señor Zorro sat up on the spar and smiled a sorry smile. He made sure that his blade still remained at his side.
“Sword of Zorro, we are in a sorry state!” he declared. “This is an emergency such as never have we faced before. But we must win through!”
A moment he hesitated, and then, as though to give courage to himself he raised his voice again, this time in his song:
“Atención! A caballero’s near—”
But his voice broke, and he told himself that he was a fool to attempt to sing out there in the wild waste of waters, clinging to a spar. Far better to concern himself about getting to the land.
Señor Zorro rested a short time longer, watching the disappearing ships. And turning, he looked at the distant land.
“Sword of Zorro, we travel toward the east!” he announced. “If ever I touch dry land again, there I remain for some time to come. This seafaring is a sorry business!”