“It is well they gave the trowel to you instead of me,” said a trembling old man.
“Don Pascal!” cried some of the Spaniards.
“Señores, the Señor Ibarra lives, while I, if I had not been crushed, should have died of fright.”
Ibarra had been to inform himself of Maria Clara.
“Let the fête continue, Señor Ibarra,” said the alcalde, as he came back. “Thank God, the dead is neither priest nor Spaniard! You ought to celebrate your escape! What if the stone had fallen on you!”
“He had presentiments!” cried the notary. “He did not want to go down, that was plain to be seen!”
“It’s only an Indian!”
“Let the fête go on! Give us music! Mourning won’t raise the dead. Captain, let the inquest be held! Arrest the head builder!”
“Shall he be put in the stocks?”
“Yes, in the stocks! Music, music! The head builder in the stocks!”