I took a chair near the marble rim of the basin with its border of English flowers, its splashing thread of water. The goldfishes that had been lying motionless, with their heads pointing different ways, glided into a bunch to the fall of my shadow, waiting for crumbs of bread. Father Antonio, his head down, and the open breviary under his nose, brushed my foot with the skirt of his cassock. “Have you any plan?” When he came back, walking very slowly, I said, “None.” At this next turn I pronounced rapidly, “I should like to see Carlos.” He frowned over the edge of the book. I understood that he refused to let me in. And, after all, why should I disturb that dying man? The news about him was that he felt stronger that day. But he was preparing for eternity. Father Antonio’s business was to save souls. I felt horribly crushed and alone. The priest asked, hardly moving his lips: “What do you trust to?” I had the time to meditate my reply. “Tell Carlos I think of escape by sea.” He made a little sign of assent, turned off towards the staircase, and went back to the sick room. “The folly of it,” I thought. How could I think of it? Escape where? I dared not even show myself outside the Casa. My safety within depended on old Cesar more than on anybody else. He had the key of the gate, and the gate was practically the only thing between me and a miserable death at the hands of the first ruffian I met outside. And with the thought I seemed to stifle in that _patio_ open to the sky. That gate seemed to cut off the breath of life from me. I was there, as if in a trap. Should I--I asked myself--try to enlighten Don Balthasar? Why not? He would understand me. I would tell him that in his own town, as he always called Rio Medio, there lurked assassination for his guest. That would move him if anything could. He was then walking with O’Brien after dinner, as he had walked with me on the day of my arrival. Only Seraphina had not appeared, and we three men had sat out the silent meal alone.