As the cloud of dust thinned, Ibarra was seen upright among the beams, joists and cables, between the capstan and the great stone that had fallen. He still held the trowel in his hand. With eyes frightful to look at, he regarded a corpse half buried under the beams at his feet.
“Are you unhurt? Are you alive? For God’s sake, speak!” cried some one at last.
“A miracle! A miracle!” cried others.
“Come, take out the body of this man,” said Ibarra, as if waking from a dream. At the sound of his voice Maria Clara would have fallen but for the arms of her friends.
Then everything was confusion. All talked at once, gestured, went hither and thither, and knew not what to do.
“Who is killed?” demanded the alférez.
“Arrest the head builder!” were the first words the alcalde could pronounce.
They brought up the body and examined it. It was that of the Mongol. The heart no longer beat.
The priests shook Ibarra’s hand, and warmly congratulated him.
“When I think that I was there a moment before!” said one of the clerks.