Right in the middle of them, I heard hurried footsteps on the stairs, the bell rang, I heard the sound of hands clapping, there was knocking at the gate, voices, everyone came running, myself included. It was a slave from Sancha’s house calling me:
“Come over there … massa swimming, massa dying.”
He said no more, or I didn’t hear the rest. I dressed, left a message for Capitu and ran to Flamengo.
On the way, I began to guess the truth. Escobar had gone in for his swim, had gone a little farther out than usual in spite of the rough sea, had been swept away in the waves and killed. The canoes that came to the rescue only just managed to bring in his body.