“Do you see?” said Elias, putting his paddle in the banca. “We will see each other again at the tomb of your grandfather on Nochebeuna (Christmas eve.) Save yourself.”
“And you?”
“God has taken me through greater dangers.”
Elias took off his camisa. A ball grazed his hands and the report sounded out. Without being disturbed, he stretched out his hand to Ibarra, who was still in the bottom of the boat. Then he arose and leaped into the water, pushing away the small craft with his foot.
A number of cries were heard. Soon at some distance the head of the young man appeared above the water as if to get breath, dropping out of sight at the next instant.
“There, there he is!” cried a number of voices, and the balls from their rifles whistled again.
The falúa and the other banca took up the chase. A light track of foam marked his course, every moment leading farther and farther away from Ibarra’s banca, which drifted along as if abandoned. Every time that the swimmer raised his head to breathe the Civil Guards and the men on board the falúa discharged their guns at him.
The pursuit continued. Ibarra’s little banca was already far off. The swimmer was approaching the shore of the lake and was now some fifty yards distant from it. The rowers were already tired, but Elias was not, for his head often appeared above the water and each time in a different direction so as to disconcert his pursuers. No longer was there a light trail to betray the course of the diver. For the last time they saw him near the shore, some ten yards off, and they opened fire.... Then minutes and minutes passed. Nothing appeared again on the tranquil surface of the lake.
Half an hour afterward one of the rowers pretended to have discovered signs of blood in the water near the shore, but his companions shook their heads in a manner which might mean either yes or no.