“What will be the result?” anxiously demanded Lantejas.
“Why, a very simple thing: the bullet has crushed in the bow of the craft, and she will go down head foremost, I suppose.”
“Por Dios! we are lost then!” cried Don Cornelio in a voice of terror.
“Not so sure of that yet,” calmly returned Costal, at the same time rising and stepping forward in the canoe. “Keep your place!” whispered he to Lantejas, “and don’t lose sight of me.”
Notwithstanding the assuring air with which the Indian spoke, the third rower, under the excitement of a terrible alarm, at this moment rushed up and caught him around the knees—as if clinging to him for help.
“Ho!” cried Costal, endeavouring to disengage himself, “hands off there, friend! Off, I say—here it is every one for himself!” And as he said this he pushed the man backward.
The latter, staggering partly under the impulsion he had received, and partly under the influence of his fright, tumbled back into the water. At the same instant a third shark disappeared from the side of the canoe, while a cry of despair appeared to rise up from the bottom of the sea!
“It was his own fault,” said the impassable Zapoteque, “his example should be a warning to others!”
At this frightful innuendo the ex-student of theology, more dead than alive, commenced invoking God and the saints with a fervour such as he had never felt in all his life.
“Carrambo! Captain,” cried the imperturbable pagan, “put more confidence in your own courage than your saints. Can you swim?”