stopped rolling.  The two men knew they had reached dead water.  What looked like dark, gigantic mushrooms, huge umbrellas, or lustrous domes, caught the reflection of the torch, at times.  Those were orange-trees.  The rescuers were in the orchards.  But in which?  How find the way in the darkness?  Here and there the branches were too thick to break through and the boat would tip as if it were going over.  They would back water, make a detour, or try another route.

They were going very slowly for fear of striking something, zig-zagging meanwhile to avoid snags.  As a result they lost direction altogether, and could no longer say which way the river lay.  Darkness and water everywhere!  The submerged orange-trees, all alike, formed complicated lanes over the inundation, a labyrinth in which they grew momentarily more confused.  They were now rowing about quite aimlessly.

Cupido was perspiring freely, under the hard work.  The boat was moving slower and slower because of the branches catching at the keel.

“This is worse than the river,” he murmured.  “Rafael, you’re facing forward.  Can’t you make out any light ahead?”

“Not a one!”

The torch would throw some huge clump of leaves into relief for a moment.  When that was gone, the light would be swallowed up into damp, thick, empty space.

Thus they wandered about and about the flooded countryside.  The barber’s strength had given out and he passed the oars over to Rafael, who was also nearly exhausted.

How long had they been gone?  Were they to stay there forever?  And their minds dulled by fatigue and the sense of being lost, they imagined the night would never end—­that the torch would go out and leave the boat a black coffin, for their corpses to float in eternally.

Rafael, who was now facing astern suddenly noticed a light on his left.  They were going away from it; perhaps that was the house they had been so painfully searching for.

“It may be,” Cupido agreed.  “Perhaps we went by without seeing it, and now we’re downstream, toward the sea....  But even if it is not the Blue House, what of it?  The main thing is to find someone there.  That’s far better than wandering around here in the dark.  Give me the oars, again Rafael.  If that isn’t dona Pepita’s place, at least we’ll find out where we are.”

He pulled the boat around, and gradually they made their way through the treetops toward the light.  They struck several snags, orchard fences, perhaps, or submerged walls—­but the light kept growing brighter.  Finally it had become a large red square across which dark forms were moving.  Over the waters a golden, shimmering wake of light was streaming.

The torch from the boat brought out the lines of a broad house with a low roof that seemed to be floating on the water.  It was the upper story of a building that had been swamped by the inundation.  The lower story was under water.  The flood, indeed, was getting closer to the upper rooms.  The balconies and windows looked like landings of a pier in an immense lake.