When he lifted her slight form from the boat, he did not release her at once, but held her in his arms for a moment. He could hardly believe that his daring act had met with the one result for which he had hoped.
"Your uncle, where is he?"
"Escobeda? In the cabin, ill. There is a slight swell. He is always ill. I had not noticed it, the swell, on board the steamer. But he is not my uncle, Señor."
"I have proof of it in his own written words, dear heart. But uncle or not, he shall never separate us now."
"When can they get the steamer off the sand spit, Señor? I heard you say that the water is rising."
"They will float off by twelve o'clock to-night, Sweetheart. I hope they will forget you. But whether they do or not, they shall not have you ever again, beloved. No, never again! You are mine now."
"He has none of those men with him," said Raquel. "They went back to Troja. But, Señor, he will come back from the capital, and then—Señor—then—"
"We will reckon with that question when it arises, dear one. At present, let us not think of Escobeda and his crew."
Half-way up the sandy slope they met the tall form of the padre descending. Silencio said shortly what he chose. Explanations were not in order, for, whatever had happened, and whatever might happen, this young girl could not remain unmarried in the house of her lover. "You must marry us this evening, padre; and we will go to the little church at Haldez to-morrow," said Don Gil, "if that will salve your conscience."
"My conscience needs no salving, my son. Yours rather. Perhaps, if you have anything to confess, I had better receive your confession before—"