seemed
in it. The Mongol's eyes were on the abyss at his feet.

Ibarra, after glancing rapidly at the block over his head, at Elias,
and at the Mongol, said to Senor Juan, in a voice that trembled:

"Give me the tray and bring me the other trowel."

He stood alone. Elias no longer looked at him, his eyes were riveted
on the hands of the Mongol, who, bending over, was anxiously following
the movements of Ibarra. Then the sound of Ibarra's trowel was heard,
accompanied by the low murmur of the clerks' voices as they felicitated
the alcalde on his speech.

Suddenly a frightful noise rent the air. A pulley attached to the
base of the crane sprang out, dragging after it the capstan, which
struck the crane like a lever. The beams tottered, the cables broke,
and the whole fabric collapsed with a deafening roar and in a whirlwind
of dust.

A thousand voices filled the place with cries of horror. People fled
in all directions. Only Maria Clara and Brother Salvi remained where
they were, pale, mute, incapable of motion.

As the cloud of dust thinned, Ibarra was seen upright among the beams,
joists and cables, between the capstan and the great stone that had
fallen. He still held the trowel in his hand. With eyes frightful to
look at, he regarded a corpse half buried under the beams at his feet.

"Are you unhurt? Are you alive? For God's sake, speak!" cried some
one at last.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried others.

"Come, take out the body of this man," said Ibarra, as if waking from
a dream. At the sound of his voice Maria Clara would have fallen but
for the arms of her friends.

Then everything was confusion. All talked at once, gestured, went
hither and thither, and knew not what to do.

"Who is killed?" demanded the alferez.

"Arrest the head builder!" were the first words the alcalde could
pronounce.

They brought up the body and examined it. It was that of the
Mongol. The heart no longer beat.

The priests shook Ibarra's hand, and warmly congratulated him.

"When I think that I was there a moment before!" said one of the
clerks.

"It is well they gave the trowel to you instead of me," said a
trembling old man.

"Don Pascal!" cried some of the Spaniards.

"Senores, the Senor Ibarra lives, while I, if I had not been crushed,
should have died of fright."

Ibarra had been to inform himself of Maria Clara.

"Let the fete continue, Senor Ibarra," said the alcalde, as he came
back. "Thank God, the dead is