me! Just look how they cite schedules to me now, and none other than
those of the Archbishop Basilio Sancho, [10] as if from his time up
to now prices had not risen. Ha, ha, ha! Why should a baptism cost
less than a chicken? But I play the deaf man, collect what I can,
and never complain. We're not avaricious, are we, Padre Salvi?"

At that moment Simoun's head appeared above the hatchway.

"Well, where've you been keeping yourself?" Don Custodio called to
him, having forgotten all about their dispute. "You're missing the
prettiest part of the trip!"

"Pshaw!" retorted Simoun, as he ascended, "I've seen so many rivers
and landscapes that I'm only interested in those that call up legends."

"As for legends, the Pasig has a few," observed the captain, who did
not relish any depreciation of the river where he navigated and earned
his livelihood. "Here you have that of _Malapad-na-bato,_ a rock sacred
before the coming of the Spaniards as the abode of spirits. Afterwards,
when the superstition had been dissipated and the rock profaned, it was
converted into a nest of tulisanes, since from its crest they easily
captured the luckless bankas, which had to contend against both the
currents and men. Later, in our time, in spite of human interference,
there are still told stories about wrecked bankas, and if on rounding
it I didn't steer with my six senses, I'd be smashed against its
sides. Then you have another legend, that of Doña Jeronima's cave,
which Padre Florentino can relate to you."

"Everybody knows that," remarked Padre Sibyla disdainfully.