At the best of them, I heard footsteps on the stairs, the bell rang, clapping, blows in the cancella, voices, all came, I went myself. I was a slave of Sancha's house who called me:
"To go there ... a little swimming, a little dying."
He did not say anything else, or I did not hear the rest. I dressed, left word for Capitú, and ran to Flamengo.
On the way, I was guessing the truth. Escobar went swimming, as he used to do, ventured a little harder than usual, despite the rough sea, was curled up and died. The canoes who came in poorly were able to bring him the corpse.