The great clapper hurled itself against the mighty sides of the bell
with a violence which split the nerves and made the ear-drums creak. The
blood surged to Roldan's head, carrying chaos with it. He had a confused
sense of a flood of light in the plaza below, but could hear no other
sound except the deafening uproar in his ears. Suddenly something gave
way beneath his feet. He had an awful feeling of disintegration, of
solid parting from solid in empty space. He kicked out wildly. His feet
touched nothing. Then his head suddenly cleared, although the deep tones
of the bell still seemed echoing there, and he became aware that his
descent had stopped, and that his hands, torn and aching, were still
clutching the rope. He knew what had happened. He had stepped too far
and gone through one of the arches.
There was no time for fright. He began to pull himself up by the rope,
hand over hand. At the same time he was acutely conscious of many
things. The Indians were yelling like demoniacs and battering at the
gate. In the garden on the other side, the old priest was shouting Ave
Marias in a high quavering voice. A breeze had sprung up and Roldan felt
the chill in it.
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