He thought it was already night.  Perhaps in the upper strata of the atmosphere were still shining the last rays of the sun, but at the water’s level, there was no more than a twilight gray, like the dim glimmer of a cellar.

The almost even surface seen a few minutes before from the height of the bridge was now moved by broad swells that plunged him in momentary darkness.  Each one of these appeared a hillock interposed before his eyes, leaving free only a few yards of space.  When he was raised upon their crests he could take in with rapid vision the solitary sea that lacked the gallant mass of the ship, astir with dark objects.  These objects were slipping inertly by or moving along, waving pairs of black antennae.  Perhaps they were imploring help, but the wet desert was absorbing the most furious cries, converting them into distant bleating.

Of the Mare Nostrum there was no longer visible either the mouth of the smokestack nor the point of a mast; the abyss had swallowed it all....  Ferragut began to doubt if his ship had ever really existed.

He swam toward a plank that came floating near, resting his arms upon it.  He used to be able to remain entire hours in the sea, when naked and within sight of the coast, with the assurance of returning to terra firma whenever he might wish....  But now he had to keep himself up, completely dressed; his shoes were tugging at him with a constantly increasing force as though made of iron ... and water on all sides!  Not a boat on the horizon that could come to his aid!...  The wireless operator, surprised by the swiftness of the catastrophe, had not been able to send out the S.O.S.

He also had to defend himself from the debris of the shipwreck.  After having grasped the raft as his last means of salvation, he had to avoid the floating casks, rolling toward him on the swelling billows, which might send him to the bottom with one of their blows.

Suddenly there loomed up between two waves a species of blind monster that was agitating the waters furiously with the strokes of its swimming.  Upon coming close to it, he saw that it was a man; as it drifted away, he recognized Uncle Caragol.

He was swimming like a drunken man with a super-human force which made half of his body come out of the water at each stroke.  He was looking before him as though he could see, as if he had a fixed destination, without hesitating a moment, yet going further out to sea when he imagined that he was heading toward the coast.

“Padre San Vicente!” he moaned. “Cristo del Grao!...”

In vain the captain shouted.  The cook could not hear him, and continued swimming on with all the force of his faith, repeating his pious invocations between his noisy snortings.

A cask climbed the crest of a wave, rolling down on the opposite side.  The head of the blind swimmer came in its way....  A thudding crash.  Padre San Vicente!_...  And Caragol disappeared with bleeding head and a mouth full of salt.