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!_...