he tied a line held in the hands of
the men on shore. He jumped down to the low-lying rocks, and then
farther out still, into the water. And he held himself there, against
the boiling wash, by sheer strength and adroitness.

The little body came shoreward. It was thrown up against a sharp crag
and then, to the dismay of the throng, torn loose by another wave.

At last the sailor got hold of it, as a breaker was about to dash it
headlong against the wall.

Poor Pascualet! He was laid out on the muddy top of the Breakwater, his
face covered with blood, his arms and legs cold and blue, the flesh cut
and torn by the sharp edges of the rocks, his tiny form projecting from
the big life-belt like a turtle from its shell. _Sina_ Tona tried to
warm in her hands the little head whose eyes were closed forever.
Dolores was kneeling at his side, digging her nails into her face,
pulling frantically at her luxuriant beautiful hair, her eyes, of the
glints of gold, rolling vacantly, wildly, in all directions, while
piercing screams went out into space.

"_Fill meu!_ _Fill meu!_"

To one side, in the crowd of weeping women, Rosario stood, the deserted,
the childless wife, tearful in the presence of that anguished
motherhood; and from the bottom of her soul she forgave her rival.

And on a rock, there, above them all, indomitable in the face of sorrow,
proud and erect as Vengeance herself, towered the massive bony frame of
_tia_ Picores, her skirts lashing like pennons in the hurricane.

Her back was turned contemptuously toward the sea and the clenched fist
she raised was menacing some one way off on shore there, where the
_Miguelete_ raised its sturdy mass above the housetops of Valencia.

That was the real killer of poor folks, there the real author of the
catastrophe! And the sea-witch shook her rough deformed knuckles at the
city, while streams of obscenities flowed from her cavernous mouth.

"And after this they'll come to the Fishmarket, the harlots, and beat
you down, and beat you down! And still they'll say fish comes high, the
scullions! And cheap 't would be at fifty, yes, at seventy-five a
pound!..."

THE END

* * * * *

WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE

MARE NOSTRUM (OUR SEA)

BLOOD AND SAND

LA BODEGA (THE FRUIT OF THE VINE)

THE SHADOW OF THE CATHEDRAL

WOMAN TRIUMPHANT

THE ENEMIES OF WOMEN

MEXICO IN REVOLUTION

_In Preparation_