Ibarra was left. He had ordered the stone to be lowered when the curate remembered him.
“You do not put on your trowelful, Señor Ibarra?” said the curate, with a familiar and jocular air.
“I should be Juan Palomo, who made the soup and then ate it,” replied Crisóstomo in the same light tone.
“You go down, of course,” said the alcalde, taking him by the arm in friendly fashion. “If not, I shall order that the stone be kept suspended, and we shall stay here till the Day of Judgment!”
Such a menace forced Ibarra to obey. He exchanged the silver trowel for a larger one of iron, as some people noticed, and started out calmly. Elias gave him an indefinable look; his whole being seemed in it. The Mongol’s eyes were on the abyss at his feet.
Ibarra, after glancing rapidly at the block over his head, at Elias, and at the Mongol, said to Señor Juan, in a voice that trembled:
“Give me the tray and bring me the other trowel.”
He stood alone. Elias no longer looked at him, his eyes were riveted on the hands of the Mongol, who, bending over, was anxiously following the movements of Ibarra. Then the sound of Ibarra’s trowel was heard, accompanied by the low murmur of the clerks’ voices as they felicitated the alcalde on his speech.
Suddenly a frightful noise rent the air. A pulley attached to the base of the crane sprang out, dragging after it the capstan, which struck the crane like a lever. The beams tottered, the cables broke, and the whole fabric collapsed with a deafening roar and in a whirlwind of dust.
A thousand voices filled the place with cries of horror. People fled in all directions. Only Maria Clara and Brother Salvi remained where they were, pale, mute, incapable of motion.