The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank.
“We shall lose a few minutes,” he said; “we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I’m from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang.”
The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves that are called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.
“Santa Ana!” said Ibarra, speaking low; “do you know that building?” They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.
“I’ve spent many happy days there,” said Elias. “When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future.”
They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-batô. Those who have sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence puts out their sordid words—those who have done this will know some of the thoughts of these two young men.
At Malapad-na-batô, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was no more disquieting.
The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east with roses, when they arrived at the lake, smooth and placid as a great mirror. At a distance they saw a gray mass, advancing little by little.
“It’s the falúa,” said Elias under his breath. “Lie down, señor, and I will cover you with these bags.”
The outlines of the government boat grew more and more distinct.