The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile's body. Its white belly was lacerated, Ibarra's knife was in the gorge. Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm. "I owe you my life," said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in mantles and rugs. "You are too intrepid," said Ibarra. "Another time do not tempt God." "If you had not come back!" murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling. The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad; to their minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other misfortunes; it were better to go home. "But what misfortune have we had?" said Ibarra. "The crocodile alone has the right to complain." At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course toward the second baklad. XX. IN THE WOODS. There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile's mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides. The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voices were added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook. "We shall see if I find a nest!" said a sweet and resonant voice. "I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere." "I don't believe in heron's nests," said another voice; "but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible."