“At the bottom of the sea.” He had his own courage after all--if only the courage not to believe in Manuel’s promises. And he must have been weary of his life--weary enough not to pay that price. And yet he had gone to the very verge, calling upon Seraphina as if she could hear him. Madness of fear, no doubt--succeeded by an awakening, a heroic reaction. And yet sometimes it seems to me as if the whole scene, with his wild cries for help, had been the outcome of a supreme exercise of cunning. For, indeed, he could not have invented anything better to bring the conviction of our death to the most sceptical of those ruffians. All I heard after his words had been a great shout, followed by a sudden and unbroken silence. It seemed to last a very long time. He had thrown himself over! It is like the blank space of a swoon to me, and yet it must have been real enough, because, huddled up just inside the sill, with my head reposing wearily on the stone, I watched three moving flames of lighted branches carried by men follow each other closely in a swaying descent along the path on the other side of the ravine. They passed on downwards, flickering out of view. Then, after a time, a voice below, to the left of the cave, ascended with a hooting and mournful effect from the depths. “Manuel! Manuel! We have found him!... _Es muerte!_” And from above Manuel’s shout rolled, augmented, between the rocks. “_Bueno!_ Turn his face up--for the birds!” They continued calling to each other for a good while. The men below declared their intention of going on to the sea shore; and Manuel shouted to them not to forget to send him up a good rope early in the morning. Apparently, the schooner had been refloated some time before; many of the _Lugareños_ were to sleep on board. They purposed to set sail early next day. This revived me, and I spent the night between Seraphina’s couch and the mouth of the cave, keeping tight hold of my reason that seemed to lose itself in this hope, in this darkness, in this torment. I touched her cheek, it was hot--while her forehead felt to my fingers as cold as ice. I had no more voice, but I tried to force out some harsh whispers through my throat. They sounded horrible to my own ears, and she endeavoured to soothe me by murmuring my name feebly. I believe she thought me delirious. I tried to pray for my strength to last till I could carry her out of that cave to the side of the brook--then let death come. “Live, live,” I whispered into her ear, and would hear a sigh so faint, so feeble, that it swayed all my soul with pity and fear, “Yes, Juan.”... And I would go away to watch for the dawn from the mouth of the cave, and curse the stars that would not fade.