“Marvelous, a marvelous legend!” exclaimed Ben-Zayb.  “It’s good for an article—­the description of the monster, the terror of the Chinaman, the waters of the river, the bamboo brakes.  Also, it’ll do for a study of comparative religions; because, look you, an infidel Chinaman in great distress invoked exactly the saint that he must know only by hearsay and in whom he did not believe.  Here there’s no room for the proverb that ‘a known evil is preferable to an unknown good.’  If I should find myself in China and get caught in such a difficulty, I would invoke the obscurest saint in the calendar before Confucius or Buddha.  Whether this is due to the manifest superiority of Catholicism or to the inconsequential and illogical inconsistency in the brains of the yellow race, a profound study of anthropology alone will be able to elucidate.”

Ben-Zayb had adopted the tone of a lecturer and was describing circles in the air with his forefinger, priding himself on his imagination, which from the most insignificant facts could deduce so many applications and inferences.  But noticing that Simoun was preoccupied and thinking that he was pondering over what he, Ben-Zayb, had just said, he inquired what the jeweler was meditating about.

“About two very important questions,” answered Simoun; “two questions that you might add to your article.  First, what may have become of the devil on seeing himself suddenly confined within a stone?  Did he escape?  Did he stay there?  Was he crushed?  Second, if the petrified animals that I have seen in various European museums may not have been the victims of some antediluvian saint?”

The tone in which the jeweler spoke was so serious, while he rested his forehead on the tip of his forefinger in an attitude of deep meditation, that Padre Camorra responded very gravely, “Who knows, who knows?”

“Since we’re busy with legends and are now entering the lake,” remarked Padre Sibyla, “the captain must know many—­”

At that moment the steamer crossed the bar and the panorama spread out before their eyes was so truly magnificent that all were impressed.  In front extended the beautiful lake bordered by green shores and blue mountains, like a huge mirror, framed in emeralds and sapphires, reflecting the sky in its glass.  On the right were spread out the low shores, forming bays with graceful curves, and dim there in the distance the crags of Sungay, while in the background rose Makiling, imposing and majestic, crowned with fleecy clouds.  On the left lay Talim Island with its curious sweep of hills.  A fresh breeze rippled over the wide plain of water.

“By the way, captain,” said Ben-Zayb, turning around, “do you know in what part of the lake a certain Guevara, Navarra, or Ibarra, was killed?”

The group looked toward the captain, with the exception of Simoun, who had turned away his head as though to look for something on the shore.

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed Dona Victorina.  “Where, captain?  Did he leave any tracks in the water?”