“Take me!” I shrieked, seeing that they were leaving me behind. “I am coming too!—Take me too!”
I shouted with all my strength but they either did not hear or did not heed me. Dark as it was, I could make out the boat and even knew when they were getting into it, though I could hardly say that I saw them. I was on the point of flinging myself overboard to take my chance of reaching the boat when, at that very moment, it had vanished—there was nothing to be seen but the black waste of waters. Every hope of escape had vanished with it. I looked round in despair—nothing was visible but the waves preying on what was left of the ship; not a star in the sky, not a spark on shore—the sloop had sailed away.
Beneath my feet, which I stamped with rage and anguish, the hull of the Rayo was going to pieces, nothing remained indeed but the bows, and the deck was covered with wreck; I was actually standing on a sort of raft which threatened every moment to float away at the mercy of the waves.
I flew back to Marcial. “They have left me, they have left us!” I cried. The old man sat up with great difficulty, leaning on one hand and his dim eyes scanned the scene and the darkness around us.
“Nothing. …” he said. “Nothing to be seen; no boats, no land, no lights, no beach.—They are not coming back!”
As he spoke a tremendous crash was heard beneath our feet in the depths of the hold under the bows, long since full of water; the deck gave a great lurch and we were obliged to clutch at a capstan to save ourselves from falling into the sea. We could not stand up; the last remains of the Rayo were on the point of being engulfed. Still, hope never forsakes us; and I, at any rate, consoled myself with the belief that things might remain as they were now till daybreak and with observing that the foremast had not yet gone overboard. I looked up at the tall mast, round which some tatters of sails and ends of ropes still flapped in the wind, and which stood like a dishevelled giant pointing heavenward and imploring mercy with the persistency of despair; and I fully determined that if the rest of the hull sank under water I would climb it for a chance of life.
Marcial laid himself down on the deck.
“There is no hope, Gabrielillo,” he said. “They have no idea of coming back, nor could they if they tried in such a sea. Well, since it is God’s will, we must both die where we are. For me, it matters not; I am an old man, and of no use for any earthly thing.—But you, you are a mere child and you. …” But here his voice broke with emotion. “You,” he went on, “have no sins to answer for, you are but a child. But I. … Still, when a man dies like this—what shall I say—like a dog or a cat—there is no need, I have heard, for the priest to give him absolution—all that is needed is that he should make his peace himself with God. Have you not heard that said?”
I do not know what answer I made; I believe I said nothing, but only cried miserably.
“Keep your heart up, Gabrielillo,” he went on. “A man must be a man, and it is at a time like this that you get to know the stuff you are made of. You have no sins to answer for, but I have. They say that when a man is dying and there is no priest for him to confess to, he ought to tell whatever he has on his conscience to anyone who will listen to him. Well, I will confess to you Gabrielillo; I will tell you all my sins, and I expect God will hear me through you and then he will forgive me.”
Dumb with terror and awe at the solemnity of his address, I threw my arms round the old man who went on speaking.
“Well, I say, I have always been a Christian, a Catholic, Apostolic Roman; and that I always was and still am devoted to the Holy Virgin del Cármen, to whom I pray for help at this very minute; and I say too that though for twenty years I have never been to confession nor received the sacrament, it has not been my fault, but that of this cursed service, and because one always puts it off from one Sunday to the next. But it is a trouble to me now that I failed to do it, and I declare and swear that I pray God and the Virgin and all the Saints to punish me if it was my fault; for this year, if I have never been to confession or communion, it was all because of those cursed English that forced me to go to sea again just when I really meant to make it up with the Church. I never stole so much as a pin’s head, and I never told a lie, except for the fun of it now and then. I repent of the thrashings I gave my wife thirty years ago—though I think she rightly deserved them, for her temper was more venomous than a scorpion’s sting. I never failed to obey the captain’s order in the least thing; I hate no one on earth but the Greatcoats, and I should have liked to see them made mincemeat of. However, they say we are all the children of the same God, so I forgive them, and I
