"What is it, Gremo?" she asked. "I see nothing."
"Then you do not see that small thing over which the vultures hover?"
"I see the vultures, certainly," said Agueda. "Some bit of fish, perhaps."
"No bit of fish or fowl, but foul flesh, if you will, hombre. It is the hand of a Señor, muchacho."
"The hand of a Señor? And what is the hand of a Señor doing, lying along there on the shore?"
"It lies there because it cannot get loose. Caramba, muchacho! Do I not know?"
"Cannot get loose from what?" asked Agueda, still puzzled.
"From the Señor himself, muchachito. He lies below there, and his good horse with him. Do you not see a hoof just over beyond where the big bird lights?"
Agueda turned pale. She had never been near such death before. Nada had passed peacefully away with the sacred wafer upon her lips, and in her ears the good padre's words of forgiveness for all her sins, of which Agueda was sure she had committed none. Hers was a sweet, calm, sad death. One thought of it with relief and hope, but this was tragedy. There, along the beach, beneath the smiling sand, whose grains glistened in a million, million sparkles, lay the bodies of horse and rider, overtaken by this placid sea.
"I suppose he was a stranger," said Agueda. "There was no one to warn him." Suddenly she felt faint. A strong whiff of air reached her from the direction of the birds. She turned the chestnut rapidly, and struck the spur to his side.