But the reef is gained, is passed;--the wild horses of the deep
seem to know the swimmer who has learned to ride them so well.
And still the brown arms spin in an ever-nearing mist of spray;
and the outer sand-bar is not far off,--and there is shouting
Mateo, leaping in the surf, swinging something about his head, as
a vaquero swings his noose! ... Sough! splash!--it struggles in
the trough beside Feliu, and the sinewy hand descends upon it.
Tiene!--tira, Miguel! And their feet touch land again! ...

She is very cold, the child, and very still, with eyes closed.

--"Esta muerta, Feliu?" asks Mateo.

--"No!" the panting swimmer makes answer, emerging, while the
waves reach whitely up the sand as in pursuit,--"no; vive!
respira todavia!"

Behind him the deep lifts up its million hands, and thunders as
in acclaim.


IV.

--"Madre de Dios!--mi sueno!" screamed Carmen, abandoning her
preparations for the morning meal, as Feliu, nude, like a marine
god, rushed in and held out to her a dripping and gasping
baby-girl,--"Mother of God! my dream!" But there was no time
then to tell of dreams; the child might die. In one instant
Carmen's quick, deft hands had stripped the slender little body;