The anxious watchers saw the water become colored and dyed with blood. The young fisherman jumped down with his bolo in his hand and was followed by his father, but they had scarcely disappeared when Crisostomo and the pilot reappeared clinging to the dead body of the reptile, which had the whole length of its white belly slit open and the knife still sticking in its throat. To describe the joy were impossible, as a dozen arms reached out to drag the young men from the water. The old women were beside themselves between laughter and prayers. Andeng forgot that her _sinigang_ had boiled over three times, spilling the soup and putting out the fire. The only one who could say nothing was Maria Clara. Ibarra was uninjured, while the pilot had only a slight scratch on his arm. "I owe my life to you," said the latter to Ibarra, who was wrapping himself up in blankets and cloths. The pilot's voice seemed to have a note of sadness in it. "You are too daring," answered Ibarra. "Don't tempt fate again." "If you had not come up again--" murmured the still pale and trembling Maria Clara. "If I had not come up and you had followed me," replied Ibarra, completing the thought in his own way, "in the bottom of the lake, _I should still have been with my family!_" He had not forgotten that there lay the bones of his father. The old women did not want to visit the other corral but wished to return, saying that the day had begun inauspiciously and that many more accidents might occur. "All because we didn't hear mass," sighed one. "But what accident has befallen us, ladies?" asked Ibarra. "The cayman seems to have been the only unlucky one." "All of which proves," concluded the ex-student of theology, "that in all its sinful life this unfortunate reptile has never attended mass--at least, I've never seen him among the many other caymans that frequent the church." So the boats were turned in the direction of the other corral and Andeng had to get her _sinigang_ ready again. The day was now well advanced, with a fresh breeze blowing. The waves curled up behind the body of the cayman, raising "mountains of foam whereon the smooth, rich sunlight glitters," as the poet says. The music again resounded; Iday played on the harp, while the men handled the accordions and guitars with greater or less skill. The prize-winner was Albino, who actually scratched the instruments, getting out of tune and losing the time every moment or else forgetting it and changing to another tune entirely different. The second corral was visited with some misgivings, as many expected to find there the mate of the dead cayman, but nature is ever a jester, and the nets came up full at each haul. Aunt Isabel superintended the sorting of the fish and ordered that some be left in the trap for decoys. "It's not lucky to empty the corral completely," she concluded.