They passed by the country house of the Jesuits.
“There I passed many happy and joyful years!” sighed Elias. “In my time we used to come here every month ... then I was like the others. I had fortune, family; I was dreaming and planning a future for myself. In those days I used to visit my sister in the neighboring convent. She made me a present of a piece of her own handiwork. A girl friend used to accompany her, a beautiful girl. All has passed like a dream.”
They remained silent till they arrived at Malapad-na-bató. Those who have glided over the bosom of the Pasig on one of those magical nights when the moon pours forth its melancholy poetry from the pure blue of the sky, when the darkness hides the misery of men and silence drowns the harsh accents of their voices, when Nature alone speaks—those who have seen such nights on the Pasig will understand the feelings which filled the hearts of both young men.
In Malapad-na-bató the carbineer was half asleep, and, seeing that the banca was empty and offered no booty for him to seize, according to the traditional custom of his corps and the use made of that position, he readily let them pass on.
Nor did the Civil Guard at Pasig suspect anything, and they were not molested.
It was just beginning to dawn when they reached the lake, calm and smooth as a gigantic mirror. The moon was growing dim and the Orient was rosy with the tints of morning. At a distance, a mass of grey could be discerned advancing toward the banca.
“The falúa (or Government steamboat) is coming,” murmured Elias. “Lie down and I will cover you with these sacks.”
The outline of the vessel became more clear and perceptible.
“She is putting in between the beach and us,” observed Elias uneasily.
And then he changed the course of the banca a little, rowing toward Binangonan. To his great surprise he noticed that the falúa was also changing its course, while a voice cried out to him.