summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/2021-h/2021-h.htm
blob: 3d5bf7836c0ee190e8274758578f77d5fbeadfe3 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500
14501
14502
14503
14504
14505
14506
14507
14508
14509
14510
14511
14512
14513
14514
14515
14516
14517
14518
14519
14520
14521
14522
14523
14524
14525
14526
14527
14528
14529
14530
14531
14532
14533
14534
14535
14536
14537
14538
14539
14540
14541
14542
14543
14544
14545
14546
14547
14548
14549
14550
14551
14552
14553
14554
14555
14556
14557
14558
14559
14560
14561
14562
14563
14564
14565
14566
14567
14568
14569
14570
14571
14572
14573
14574
14575
14576
14577
14578
14579
14580
14581
14582
14583
14584
14585
14586
14587
14588
14589
14590
14591
14592
14593
14594
14595
14596
14597
14598
14599
14600
14601
14602
14603
14604
14605
14606
14607
14608
14609
14610
14611
14612
14613
14614
14615
14616
14617
14618
14619
14620
14621
14622
14623
14624
14625
14626
14627
14628
14629
14630
14631
14632
14633
14634
14635
14636
14637
14638
14639
14640
14641
14642
14643
14644
14645
14646
14647
14648
14649
14650
14651
14652
14653
14654
14655
14656
14657
14658
14659
14660
14661
14662
14663
14664
14665
14666
14667
14668
14669
14670
14671
14672
14673
14674
14675
14676
14677
14678
14679
14680
14681
14682
14683
14684
14685
14686
14687
14688
14689
14690
14691
14692
14693
14694
14695
14696
14697
14698
14699
14700
14701
14702
14703
14704
14705
14706
14707
14708
14709
14710
14711
14712
14713
14714
14715
14716
14717
14718
14719
14720
14721
14722
14723
14724
14725
14726
14727
14728
14729
14730
14731
14732
14733
14734
14735
14736
14737
14738
14739
14740
14741
14742
14743
14744
14745
14746
14747
14748
14749
14750
14751
14752
14753
14754
14755
14756
14757
14758
14759
14760
14761
14762
14763
14764
14765
14766
14767
14768
14769
14770
14771
14772
14773
14774
14775
14776
14777
14778
14779
14780
14781
14782
14783
14784
14785
14786
14787
14788
14789
14790
14791
14792
14793
14794
14795
14796
14797
14798
14799
14800
14801
14802
14803
14804
14805
14806
14807
14808
14809
14810
14811
14812
14813
14814
14815
14816
14817
14818
14819
14820
14821
14822
14823
14824
14825
14826
14827
14828
14829
14830
14831
14832
14833
14834
14835
14836
14837
14838
14839
14840
14841
14842
14843
14844
14845
14846
14847
14848
14849
14850
14851
14852
14853
14854
14855
14856
14857
14858
14859
14860
14861
14862
14863
14864
14865
14866
14867
14868
14869
14870
14871
14872
14873
14874
14875
14876
14877
14878
14879
14880
14881
14882
14883
14884
14885
14886
14887
14888
14889
14890
14891
14892
14893
14894
14895
14896
14897
14898
14899
14900
14901
14902
14903
14904
14905
14906
14907
14908
14909
14910
14911
14912
14913
14914
14915
14916
14917
14918
14919
14920
14921
14922
14923
14924
14925
14926
14927
14928
14929
14930
14931
14932
14933
14934
14935
14936
14937
14938
14939
14940
14941
14942
14943
14944
14945
14946
14947
14948
14949
14950
14951
14952
14953
14954
14955
14956
14957
14958
14959
14960
14961
14962
14963
14964
14965
14966
14967
14968
14969
14970
14971
14972
14973
14974
14975
14976
14977
14978
14979
14980
14981
14982
14983
14984
14985
14986
14987
14988
14989
14990
14991
14992
14993
14994
14995
14996
14997
14998
14999
15000
15001
15002
15003
15004
15005
15006
15007
15008
15009
15010
15011
15012
15013
15014
15015
15016
15017
15018
15019
15020
15021
15022
15023
15024
15025
15026
15027
15028
15029
15030
15031
15032
15033
15034
15035
15036
15037
15038
15039
15040
15041
15042
15043
15044
15045
15046
15047
15048
15049
15050
15051
15052
15053
15054
15055
15056
15057
15058
15059
15060
15061
15062
15063
15064
15065
15066
15067
15068
15069
15070
15071
15072
15073
15074
15075
15076
15077
15078
15079
15080
15081
15082
15083
15084
15085
15086
15087
15088
15089
15090
15091
15092
15093
15094
15095
15096
15097
15098
15099
15100
15101
15102
15103
15104
15105
15106
15107
15108
15109
15110
15111
15112
15113
15114
15115
15116
15117
15118
15119
15120
15121
15122
15123
15124
15125
15126
15127
15128
15129
15130
15131
15132
15133
15134
15135
15136
15137
15138
15139
15140
15141
15142
15143
15144
15145
15146
15147
15148
15149
15150
15151
15152
15153
15154
15155
15156
15157
15158
15159
15160
15161
15162
15163
15164
15165
15166
15167
15168
15169
15170
15171
15172
15173
15174
15175
15176
15177
15178
15179
15180
15181
15182
15183
15184
15185
15186
15187
15188
15189
15190
15191
15192
15193
15194
15195
15196
15197
15198
15199
15200
15201
15202
15203
15204
15205
15206
15207
15208
15209
15210
15211
15212
15213
15214
15215
15216
15217
15218
15219
15220
15221
15222
15223
15224
15225
15226
15227
15228
15229
15230
15231
15232
15233
15234
15235
15236
15237
15238
15239
15240
15241
15242
15243
15244
15245
15246
15247
15248
15249
15250
15251
15252
15253
15254
15255
15256
15257
15258
15259
15260
15261
15262
15263
15264
15265
15266
15267
15268
15269
15270
15271
15272
15273
15274
15275
15276
15277
15278
15279
15280
15281
15282
15283
15284
15285
15286
15287
15288
15289
15290
15291
15292
15293
15294
15295
15296
15297
15298
15299
15300
15301
15302
15303
15304
15305
15306
15307
15308
15309
15310
15311
15312
15313
15314
15315
15316
15317
15318
15319
15320
15321
15322
15323
15324
15325
15326
15327
15328
15329
15330
15331
15332
15333
15334
15335
15336
15337
15338
15339
15340
15341
15342
15343
15344
15345
15346
15347
15348
15349
15350
15351
15352
15353
15354
15355
15356
15357
15358
15359
15360
15361
15362
15363
15364
15365
15366
15367
15368
15369
15370
15371
15372
15373
15374
15375
15376
15377
15378
15379
15380
15381
15382
15383
15384
15385
15386
15387
15388
15389
15390
15391
15392
15393
15394
15395
15396
15397
15398
15399
15400
15401
15402
15403
15404
15405
15406
15407
15408
15409
15410
15411
15412
15413
15414
15415
15416
15417
15418
15419
15420
15421
15422
15423
15424
15425
15426
15427
15428
15429
15430
15431
15432
15433
15434
15435
15436
15437
15438
15439
15440
15441
15442
15443
15444
15445
15446
15447
15448
15449
15450
15451
15452
15453
15454
15455
15456
15457
15458
15459
15460
15461
15462
15463
15464
15465
15466
15467
15468
15469
15470
15471
15472
15473
15474
15475
15476
15477
15478
15479
15480
15481
15482
15483
15484
15485
15486
15487
15488
15489
15490
15491
15492
15493
15494
15495
15496
15497
15498
15499
15500
15501
15502
15503
15504
15505
15506
15507
15508
15509
15510
15511
15512
15513
15514
15515
15516
15517
15518
15519
15520
15521
15522
15523
15524
15525
15526
15527
15528
15529
15530
15531
15532
15533
15534
15535
15536
15537
15538
15539
15540
15541
15542
15543
15544
15545
15546
15547
15548
15549
15550
15551
15552
15553
15554
15555
15556
15557
15558
15559
15560
15561
15562
15563
15564
15565
15566
15567
15568
15569
15570
15571
15572
15573
15574
15575
15576
15577
15578
15579
15580
15581
15582
15583
15584
15585
15586
15587
15588
15589
15590
15591
15592
15593
15594
15595
15596
15597
15598
15599
15600
15601
15602
15603
15604
15605
15606
15607
15608
15609
15610
15611
15612
15613
15614
15615
15616
15617
15618
15619
15620
15621
15622
15623
15624
15625
15626
15627
15628
15629
15630
15631
15632
15633
15634
15635
15636
15637
15638
15639
15640
15641
15642
15643
15644
15645
15646
15647
15648
15649
15650
15651
15652
15653
15654
15655
15656
15657
15658
15659
15660
15661
15662
15663
15664
15665
15666
15667
15668
15669
15670
15671
15672
15673
15674
15675
15676
15677
15678
15679
15680
15681
15682
15683
15684
15685
15686
15687
15688
15689
15690
15691
15692
15693
15694
15695
15696
15697
15698
15699
15700
15701
15702
15703
15704
15705
15706
15707
15708
15709
15710
15711
15712
15713
15714
15715
15716
15717
15718
15719
15720
15721
15722
15723
15724
15725
15726
15727
15728
15729
15730
15731
15732
15733
15734
15735
15736
15737
15738
15739
15740
15741
15742
15743
15744
15745
15746
15747
15748
15749
15750
15751
15752
15753
15754
15755
15756
15757
15758
15759
15760
15761
15762
15763
15764
15765
15766
15767
15768
15769
15770
15771
15772
15773
15774
15775
15776
15777
15778
15779
15780
15781
15782
15783
15784
15785
15786
15787
15788
15789
15790
15791
15792
15793
15794
15795
15796
15797
15798
15799
15800
15801
15802
15803
15804
15805
15806
15807
15808
15809
15810
15811
15812
15813
15814
15815
15816
15817
15818
15819
15820
15821
15822
15823
15824
15825
15826
15827
15828
15829
15830
15831
15832
15833
15834
15835
15836
15837
15838
15839
15840
15841
15842
15843
15844
15845
15846
15847
15848
15849
15850
15851
15852
15853
15854
15855
15856
15857
15858
15859
15860
15861
15862
15863
15864
15865
15866
15867
15868
15869
15870
15871
15872
15873
15874
15875
15876
15877
15878
15879
15880
15881
15882
15883
15884
15885
15886
15887
15888
15889
15890
15891
15892
15893
15894
15895
15896
15897
15898
15899
15900
15901
15902
15903
15904
15905
15906
15907
15908
15909
15910
15911
15912
15913
15914
15915
15916
15917
15918
15919
15920
15921
15922
15923
15924
15925
15926
15927
15928
15929
15930
15931
15932
15933
15934
15935
15936
15937
15938
15939
15940
15941
15942
15943
15944
15945
15946
15947
15948
15949
15950
15951
15952
15953
15954
15955
15956
15957
15958
15959
15960
15961
15962
15963
15964
15965
15966
15967
15968
15969
15970
15971
15972
15973
15974
15975
15976
15977
15978
15979
15980
15981
15982
15983
15984
15985
15986
15987
15988
15989
15990
15991
15992
15993
15994
15995
15996
15997
15998
15999
16000
16001
16002
16003
16004
16005
16006
16007
16008
16009
16010
16011
16012
16013
16014
16015
16016
16017
16018
16019
16020
16021
16022
16023
16024
16025
16026
16027
16028
16029
16030
16031
16032
16033
16034
16035
16036
16037
16038
16039
16040
16041
16042
16043
16044
16045
16046
16047
16048
16049
16050
16051
16052
16053
16054
16055
16056
16057
16058
16059
16060
16061
16062
16063
16064
16065
16066
16067
16068
16069
16070
16071
16072
16073
16074
16075
16076
16077
16078
16079
16080
16081
16082
16083
16084
16085
16086
16087
16088
16089
16090
16091
16092
16093
16094
16095
16096
16097
16098
16099
16100
16101
16102
16103
16104
16105
16106
16107
16108
16109
16110
16111
16112
16113
16114
16115
16116
16117
16118
16119
16120
16121
16122
16123
16124
16125
16126
16127
16128
16129
16130
16131
16132
16133
16134
16135
16136
16137
16138
16139
16140
16141
16142
16143
16144
16145
16146
16147
16148
16149
16150
16151
16152
16153
16154
16155
16156
16157
16158
16159
16160
16161
16162
16163
16164
16165
16166
16167
16168
16169
16170
16171
16172
16173
16174
16175
16176
16177
16178
16179
16180
16181
16182
16183
16184
16185
16186
16187
16188
16189
16190
16191
16192
16193
16194
16195
16196
16197
16198
16199
16200
16201
16202
16203
16204
16205
16206
16207
16208
16209
16210
16211
16212
16213
16214
16215
16216
16217
16218
16219
16220
16221
16222
16223
16224
16225
16226
16227
16228
16229
16230
16231
16232
16233
16234
16235
16236
16237
16238
16239
16240
16241
16242
16243
16244
16245
16246
16247
16248
16249
16250
16251
16252
16253
16254
16255
16256
16257
16258
16259
16260
16261
16262
16263
16264
16265
16266
16267
16268
16269
16270
16271
16272
16273
16274
16275
16276
16277
16278
16279
16280
16281
16282
16283
16284
16285
16286
16287
16288
16289
16290
16291
16292
16293
16294
16295
16296
16297
16298
16299
16300
16301
16302
16303
16304
16305
16306
16307
16308
16309
16310
16311
16312
16313
16314
16315
16316
16317
16318
16319
16320
16321
16322
16323
16324
16325
16326
16327
16328
16329
16330
16331
16332
16333
16334
16335
16336
16337
16338
16339
16340
16341
16342
16343
16344
16345
16346
16347
16348
16349
16350
16351
16352
16353
16354
16355
16356
16357
16358
16359
16360
16361
16362
16363
16364
16365
16366
16367
16368
16369
16370
16371
16372
16373
16374
16375
16376
16377
16378
16379
16380
16381
16382
16383
16384
16385
16386
16387
16388
16389
16390
16391
16392
16393
16394
16395
16396
16397
16398
16399
16400
16401
16402
16403
16404
16405
16406
16407
16408
16409
16410
16411
16412
16413
16414
16415
16416
16417
16418
16419
16420
16421
16422
16423
16424
16425
16426
16427
16428
16429
16430
16431
16432
16433
16434
16435
16436
16437
16438
16439
16440
16441
16442
16443
16444
16445
16446
16447
16448
16449
16450
16451
16452
16453
16454
16455
16456
16457
16458
16459
16460
16461
16462
16463
16464
16465
16466
16467
16468
16469
16470
16471
16472
16473
16474
16475
16476
16477
16478
16479
16480
16481
16482
16483
16484
16485
16486
16487
16488
16489
16490
16491
16492
16493
16494
16495
16496
16497
16498
16499
16500
16501
16502
16503
16504
16505
16506
16507
16508
16509
16510
16511
16512
16513
16514
16515
16516
16517
16518
16519
16520
16521
16522
16523
16524
16525
16526
16527
16528
16529
16530
16531
16532
16533
16534
16535
16536
16537
16538
16539
16540
16541
16542
16543
16544
16545
16546
16547
16548
16549
16550
16551
16552
16553
16554
16555
16556
16557
16558
16559
16560
16561
16562
16563
16564
16565
16566
16567
16568
16569
16570
16571
16572
16573
16574
16575
16576
16577
16578
16579
16580
16581
16582
16583
16584
16585
16586
16587
16588
16589
16590
16591
16592
16593
16594
16595
16596
16597
16598
16599
16600
16601
16602
16603
16604
16605
16606
16607
16608
16609
16610
16611
16612
16613
16614
16615
16616
16617
16618
16619
16620
16621
16622
16623
16624
16625
16626
16627
16628
16629
16630
16631
16632
16633
16634
16635
16636
16637
16638
16639
16640
16641
16642
16643
16644
16645
16646
16647
16648
16649
16650
16651
16652
16653
16654
16655
16656
16657
16658
16659
16660
16661
16662
16663
16664
16665
16666
16667
16668
16669
16670
16671
16672
16673
16674
16675
16676
16677
16678
16679
16680
16681
16682
16683
16684
16685
16686
16687
16688
16689
16690
16691
16692
16693
16694
16695
16696
16697
16698
16699
16700
16701
16702
16703
16704
16705
16706
16707
16708
16709
16710
16711
16712
16713
16714
16715
16716
16717
16718
16719
16720
16721
16722
16723
16724
16725
16726
16727
16728
16729
16730
16731
16732
16733
16734
16735
16736
16737
16738
16739
16740
16741
16742
16743
16744
16745
16746
16747
16748
16749
16750
16751
16752
16753
16754
16755
16756
16757
16758
16759
16760
16761
16762
16763
16764
16765
16766
16767
16768
16769
16770
16771
16772
16773
16774
16775
16776
16777
16778
16779
16780
16781
16782
16783
16784
16785
16786
16787
16788
16789
16790
16791
16792
16793
16794
16795
16796
16797
16798
16799
16800
16801
16802
16803
16804
16805
16806
16807
16808
16809
16810
16811
16812
16813
16814
16815
16816
16817
16818
16819
16820
16821
16822
16823
16824
16825
16826
16827
16828
16829
16830
16831
16832
16833
16834
16835
16836
16837
16838
16839
16840
16841
16842
16843
16844
16845
16846
16847
16848
16849
16850
16851
16852
16853
16854
16855
16856
16857
16858
16859
16860
16861
16862
16863
16864
16865
16866
16867
16868
16869
16870
16871
16872
16873
16874
16875
16876
16877
16878
16879
16880
16881
16882
16883
16884
16885
16886
16887
16888
16889
16890
16891
16892
16893
16894
16895
16896
16897
16898
16899
16900
16901
16902
16903
16904
16905
16906
16907
16908
16909
16910
16911
16912
16913
16914
16915
16916
16917
16918
16919
16920
16921
16922
16923
16924
16925
16926
16927
16928
16929
16930
16931
16932
16933
16934
16935
16936
16937
16938
16939
16940
16941
16942
16943
16944
16945
16946
16947
16948
16949
16950
16951
16952
16953
16954
16955
16956
16957
16958
16959
16960
16961
16962
16963
16964
16965
16966
16967
16968
16969
16970
16971
16972
16973
16974
16975
16976
16977
16978
16979
16980
16981
16982
16983
16984
16985
16986
16987
16988
16989
16990
16991
16992
16993
16994
16995
16996
16997
16998
16999
17000
17001
17002
17003
17004
17005
17006
17007
17008
17009
17010
17011
17012
17013
17014
17015
17016
17017
17018
17019
17020
17021
17022
17023
17024
17025
17026
17027
17028
17029
17030
17031
17032
17033
17034
17035
17036
17037
17038
17039
17040
17041
17042
17043
17044
17045
17046
17047
17048
17049
17050
17051
17052
17053
17054
17055
17056
17057
17058
17059
17060
17061
17062
17063
17064
17065
17066
17067
17068
17069
17070
17071
17072
17073
17074
17075
17076
17077
17078
17079
17080
17081
17082
17083
17084
17085
17086
17087
17088
17089
17090
17091
17092
17093
17094
17095
17096
17097
17098
17099
17100
17101
17102
17103
17104
17105
17106
17107
17108
17109
17110
17111
17112
17113
17114
17115
17116
17117
17118
17119
17120
17121
17122
17123
17124
17125
17126
17127
17128
17129
17130
17131
17132
17133
17134
17135
17136
17137
17138
17139
17140
17141
17142
17143
17144
17145
17146
17147
17148
17149
17150
17151
17152
17153
17154
17155
17156
17157
17158
17159
17160
17161
17162
17163
17164
17165
17166
17167
17168
17169
17170
17171
17172
17173
17174
17175
17176
17177
17178
17179
17180
17181
17182
17183
17184
17185
17186
17187
17188
17189
17190
17191
17192
17193
17194
17195
17196
17197
17198
17199
17200
17201
17202
17203
17204
17205
17206
17207
17208
17209
17210
17211
17212
17213
17214
17215
17216
17217
17218
17219
17220
17221
17222
17223
17224
17225
17226
17227
17228
17229
17230
17231
17232
17233
17234
17235
17236
17237
17238
17239
17240
17241
17242
17243
17244
17245
17246
17247
17248
17249
17250
17251
17252
17253
17254
17255
17256
17257
17258
17259
17260
17261
17262
17263
17264
17265
17266
17267
17268
17269
17270
17271
17272
17273
17274
17275
17276
17277
17278
17279
17280
17281
17282
17283
17284
17285
17286
17287
17288
17289
17290
17291
17292
17293
17294
17295
17296
17297
17298
17299
17300
17301
17302
17303
17304
17305
17306
17307
17308
17309
17310
17311
17312
17313
17314
17315
17316
17317
17318
17319
17320
17321
17322
17323
17324
17325
17326
17327
17328
17329
17330
17331
17332
17333
17334
17335
17336
17337
17338
17339
17340
17341
17342
17343
17344
17345
17346
17347
17348
17349
17350
17351
17352
17353
17354
17355
17356
17357
17358
17359
17360
17361
17362
17363
17364
17365
17366
17367
17368
17369
17370
17371
17372
17373
17374
17375
17376
17377
17378
17379
17380
17381
17382
17383
17384
17385
17386
17387
17388
17389
17390
17391
17392
17393
17394
17395
17396
17397
17398
17399
17400
17401
17402
17403
17404
17405
17406
17407
17408
17409
17410
17411
17412
17413
17414
17415
17416
17417
17418
17419
17420
17421
17422
17423
17424
17425
17426
17427
17428
17429
17430
17431
17432
17433
17434
17435
17436
17437
17438
17439
17440
17441
17442
17443
17444
17445
17446
17447
17448
17449
17450
17451
17452
17453
17454
17455
17456
17457
17458
17459
17460
17461
17462
17463
17464
17465
17466
17467
17468
17469
17470
17471
17472
17473
17474
17475
17476
17477
17478
17479
17480
17481
17482
17483
17484
17485
17486
17487
17488
17489
17490
17491
17492
17493
17494
17495
17496
17497
17498
17499
17500
17501
17502
17503
17504
17505
17506
17507
17508
17509
17510
17511
17512
17513
17514
17515
17516
17517
17518
17519
17520
17521
17522
17523
17524
17525
17526
17527
17528
17529
17530
17531
17532
17533
17534
17535
17536
17537
17538
17539
17540
17541
17542
17543
17544
17545
17546
17547
17548
17549
17550
17551
17552
17553
17554
17555
17556
17557
17558
17559
17560
17561
17562
17563
17564
17565
17566
17567
17568
17569
17570
17571
17572
17573
17574
17575
17576
17577
17578
17579
17580
17581
17582
17583
17584
17585
17586
17587
17588
17589
17590
17591
17592
17593
17594
17595
17596
17597
17598
17599
17600
17601
17602
17603
17604
17605
17606
17607
17608
17609
17610
17611
17612
17613
17614
17615
17616
17617
17618
17619
17620
17621
17622
17623
17624
17625
17626
17627
17628
17629
17630
17631
17632
17633
17634
17635
17636
17637
17638
17639
17640
17641
17642
17643
17644
17645
17646
17647
17648
17649
17650
17651
17652
17653
17654
17655
17656
17657
17658
17659
17660
17661
17662
17663
17664
17665
17666
17667
17668
17669
17670
17671
17672
17673
17674
17675
17676
17677
17678
17679
17680
17681
17682
17683
17684
17685
17686
17687
17688
17689
17690
17691
17692
17693
17694
17695
17696
17697
17698
17699
17700
17701
17702
17703
17704
17705
17706
17707
17708
17709
17710
17711
17712
17713
17714
17715
17716
17717
17718
17719
17720
17721
17722
17723
17724
17725
17726
17727
17728
17729
17730
17731
17732
17733
17734
17735
17736
17737
17738
17739
17740
17741
17742
17743
17744
17745
17746
17747
17748
17749
17750
17751
17752
17753
17754
17755
17756
17757
17758
17759
17760
17761
17762
17763
17764
17765
17766
17767
17768
17769
17770
17771
17772
17773
17774
17775
17776
17777
17778
17779
17780
17781
17782
17783
17784
17785
17786
17787
17788
17789
17790
17791
17792
17793
17794
17795
17796
17797
17798
17799
17800
17801
17802
17803
17804
17805
17806
17807
17808
17809
17810
17811
17812
17813
17814
17815
17816
17817
17818
17819
17820
17821
17822
17823
17824
17825
17826
17827
17828
17829
17830
17831
17832
17833
17834
17835
17836
17837
17838
17839
17840
17841
17842
17843
17844
17845
17846
17847
17848
17849
17850
17851
17852
17853
17854
17855
17856
17857
17858
17859
17860
17861
17862
17863
17864
17865
17866
17867
17868
17869
17870
17871
17872
17873
17874
17875
17876
17877
17878
17879
17880
17881
17882
17883
17884
17885
17886
17887
17888
17889
17890
17891
17892
17893
17894
17895
17896
17897
17898
17899
17900
17901
17902
17903
17904
17905
17906
17907
17908
17909
17910
17911
17912
17913
17914
17915
17916
17917
17918
17919
17920
17921
17922
17923
17924
17925
17926
17927
17928
17929
17930
17931
17932
17933
17934
17935
17936
17937
17938
17939
17940
17941
17942
17943
17944
17945
17946
17947
17948
17949
17950
17951
17952
17953
17954
17955
17956
17957
17958
17959
17960
17961
17962
17963
17964
17965
17966
17967
17968
17969
17970
17971
17972
17973
17974
17975
17976
17977
17978
17979
17980
17981
17982
17983
17984
17985
17986
17987
17988
17989
17990
17991
17992
17993
17994
17995
17996
17997
17998
17999
18000
18001
18002
18003
18004
18005
18006
18007
18008
18009
18010
18011
18012
18013
18014
18015
18016
18017
18018
18019
18020
18021
18022
18023
18024
18025
18026
18027
18028
18029
18030
18031
18032
18033
18034
18035
18036
18037
18038
18039
18040
18041
18042
18043
18044
18045
18046
18047
18048
18049
18050
18051
18052
18053
18054
18055
18056
18057
18058
18059
18060
18061
18062
18063
18064
18065
18066
18067
18068
18069
18070
18071
18072
18073
18074
18075
18076
18077
18078
18079
18080
18081
18082
18083
18084
18085
18086
18087
18088
18089
18090
18091
18092
18093
18094
18095
18096
18097
18098
18099
18100
18101
18102
18103
18104
18105
18106
18107
18108
18109
18110
18111
18112
18113
18114
18115
18116
18117
18118
18119
18120
18121
18122
18123
18124
18125
18126
18127
18128
18129
18130
18131
18132
18133
18134
18135
18136
18137
18138
18139
18140
18141
18142
18143
18144
18145
18146
18147
18148
18149
18150
18151
18152
18153
18154
18155
18156
18157
18158
18159
18160
18161
18162
18163
18164
18165
18166
18167
18168
18169
18170
18171
18172
18173
18174
18175
18176
18177
18178
18179
18180
18181
18182
18183
18184
18185
18186
18187
18188
18189
18190
18191
18192
18193
18194
18195
18196
18197
18198
18199
18200
18201
18202
18203
18204
18205
18206
18207
18208
18209
18210
18211
18212
18213
18214
18215
18216
18217
18218
18219
18220
18221
18222
18223
18224
18225
18226
18227
18228
18229
18230
18231
18232
18233
18234
18235
18236
18237
18238
18239
18240
18241
18242
18243
18244
18245
18246
18247
18248
18249
18250
18251
18252
18253
18254
18255
18256
18257
18258
18259
18260
18261
18262
18263
18264
18265
18266
18267
18268
18269
18270
18271
18272
18273
18274
18275
18276
18277
18278
18279
18280
18281
18282
18283
18284
18285
18286
18287
18288
18289
18290
18291
18292
18293
18294
18295
18296
18297
18298
18299
18300
18301
18302
18303
18304
18305
18306
18307
18308
18309
18310
18311
18312
18313
18314
18315
18316
18317
18318
18319
18320
18321
18322
18323
18324
18325
18326
18327
18328
18329
18330
18331
18332
18333
18334
18335
18336
18337
18338
18339
18340
18341
18342
18343
18344
18345
18346
18347
18348
18349
18350
18351
18352
18353
18354
18355
18356
18357
18358
18359
18360
18361
18362
18363
18364
18365
18366
18367
18368
18369
18370
18371
18372
18373
18374
18375
18376
18377
18378
18379
18380
18381
18382
18383
18384
18385
18386
18387
18388
18389
18390
18391
18392
18393
18394
18395
18396
18397
18398
18399
18400
18401
18402
18403
18404
18405
18406
18407
18408
18409
18410
18411
18412
18413
18414
18415
18416
18417
18418
18419
18420
18421
18422
18423
18424
18425
18426
18427
18428
18429
18430
18431
18432
18433
18434
18435
18436
18437
18438
18439
18440
18441
18442
18443
18444
18445
18446
18447
18448
18449
18450
18451
18452
18453
18454
18455
18456
18457
18458
18459
18460
18461
18462
18463
18464
18465
18466
18467
18468
18469
18470
18471
18472
18473
18474
18475
18476
18477
18478
18479
18480
18481
18482
18483
18484
18485
18486
18487
18488
18489
18490
18491
18492
18493
18494
18495
18496
18497
18498
18499
18500
18501
18502
18503
18504
18505
18506
18507
18508
18509
18510
18511
18512
18513
18514
18515
18516
18517
18518
18519
18520
18521
18522
18523
18524
18525
18526
18527
18528
18529
18530
18531
18532
18533
18534
18535
18536
18537
18538
18539
18540
18541
18542
18543
18544
18545
18546
18547
18548
18549
18550
18551
18552
18553
18554
18555
18556
18557
18558
18559
18560
18561
18562
18563
18564
18565
18566
18567
18568
18569
18570
18571
18572
18573
18574
18575
18576
18577
18578
18579
18580
18581
18582
18583
18584
18585
18586
18587
18588
18589
18590
18591
18592
18593
18594
18595
18596
18597
18598
18599
18600
18601
18602
18603
18604
18605
18606
18607
18608
18609
18610
18611
18612
18613
18614
18615
18616
18617
18618
18619
18620
18621
18622
18623
18624
18625
18626
18627
18628
18629
18630
18631
18632
18633
18634
18635
18636
18637
18638
18639
18640
18641
18642
18643
18644
18645
18646
18647
18648
18649
18650
18651
18652
18653
18654
18655
18656
18657
18658
18659
18660
18661
18662
18663
18664
18665
18666
18667
18668
18669
18670
18671
18672
18673
18674
18675
18676
18677
18678
18679
18680
18681
18682
18683
18684
18685
18686
18687
18688
18689
18690
18691
18692
18693
18694
18695
18696
18697
18698
18699
18700
18701
18702
18703
18704
18705
18706
18707
18708
18709
18710
18711
18712
18713
18714
18715
18716
18717
18718
18719
18720
18721
18722
18723
18724
18725
18726
18727
18728
18729
18730
18731
18732
18733
18734
18735
18736
18737
18738
18739
18740
18741
18742
18743
18744
18745
18746
18747
18748
18749
18750
18751
18752
18753
18754
18755
18756
18757
18758
18759
18760
18761
18762
18763
18764
18765
18766
18767
18768
18769
18770
18771
18772
18773
18774
18775
18776
18777
18778
18779
18780
18781
18782
18783
18784
18785
18786
18787
18788
18789
18790
18791
18792
18793
18794
18795
18796
18797
18798
18799
18800
18801
18802
18803
18804
18805
18806
18807
18808
18809
18810
18811
18812
18813
18814
18815
18816
18817
18818
18819
18820
18821
18822
18823
18824
18825
18826
18827
18828
18829
18830
18831
18832
18833
18834
18835
18836
18837
18838
18839
18840
18841
18842
18843
18844
18845
18846
18847
18848
18849
18850
18851
18852
18853
18854
18855
18856
18857
18858
18859
18860
18861
18862
18863
18864
18865
18866
18867
18868
18869
18870
18871
18872
18873
18874
18875
18876
18877
18878
18879
18880
18881
18882
18883
18884
18885
18886
18887
18888
18889
18890
18891
18892
18893
18894
18895
18896
18897
18898
18899
18900
18901
18902
18903
18904
18905
18906
18907
18908
18909
18910
18911
18912
18913
18914
18915
18916
18917
18918
18919
18920
18921
18922
18923
18924
18925
18926
18927
18928
18929
18930
18931
18932
18933
18934
18935
18936
18937
18938
18939
18940
18941
18942
18943
18944
18945
18946
18947
18948
18949
18950
18951
18952
18953
18954
18955
18956
18957
18958
18959
18960
18961
18962
18963
18964
18965
18966
18967
18968
18969
18970
18971
18972
18973
18974
18975
18976
18977
18978
18979
18980
18981
18982
18983
18984
18985
18986
18987
18988
18989
18990
18991
18992
18993
18994
18995
18996
18997
18998
18999
19000
19001
19002
19003
19004
19005
19006
19007
19008
19009
19010
19011
19012
19013
19014
19015
19016
19017
19018
19019
19020
19021
19022
19023
19024
19025
19026
19027
19028
19029
19030
19031
19032
19033
19034
19035
19036
19037
19038
19039
19040
19041
19042
19043
19044
19045
19046
19047
19048
19049
19050
19051
19052
19053
19054
19055
19056
19057
19058
19059
19060
19061
19062
19063
19064
19065
19066
19067
19068
19069
19070
19071
19072
19073
19074
19075
19076
19077
19078
19079
19080
19081
19082
19083
19084
19085
19086
19087
19088
19089
19090
19091
19092
19093
19094
19095
19096
19097
19098
19099
19100
19101
19102
19103
19104
19105
19106
19107
19108
19109
19110
19111
19112
19113
19114
19115
19116
19117
19118
19119
19120
19121
19122
19123
19124
19125
19126
19127
19128
19129
19130
19131
19132
19133
19134
19135
19136
19137
19138
19139
19140
19141
19142
19143
19144
19145
19146
19147
19148
19149
19150
19151
19152
19153
19154
19155
19156
19157
19158
19159
19160
19161
19162
19163
19164
19165
19166
19167
19168
19169
19170
19171
19172
19173
19174
19175
19176
19177
19178
19179
19180
19181
19182
19183
19184
19185
19186
19187
19188
19189
19190
19191
19192
19193
19194
19195
19196
19197
19198
19199
19200
19201
19202
19203
19204
19205
19206
19207
19208
19209
19210
19211
19212
19213
19214
19215
19216
19217
19218
19219
19220
19221
19222
19223
19224
19225
19226
19227
19228
19229
19230
19231
19232
19233
19234
19235
19236
19237
19238
19239
19240
19241
19242
19243
19244
19245
19246
19247
19248
19249
19250
19251
19252
19253
19254
19255
19256
19257
19258
19259
19260
19261
19262
19263
19264
19265
19266
19267
19268
19269
19270
19271
19272
19273
19274
19275
19276
19277
19278
19279
19280
19281
19282
19283
19284
19285
19286
19287
19288
19289
19290
19291
19292
19293
19294
19295
19296
19297
19298
19299
19300
19301
19302
19303
19304
19305
19306
19307
19308
19309
19310
19311
19312
19313
19314
19315
19316
19317
19318
19319
19320
19321
19322
19323
19324
19325
19326
19327
19328
19329
19330
19331
19332
19333
19334
19335
19336
19337
19338
19339
19340
19341
19342
19343
19344
19345
19346
19347
19348
19349
19350
19351
19352
19353
19354
19355
19356
19357
19358
19359
19360
19361
19362
19363
19364
19365
19366
19367
19368
19369
19370
19371
19372
19373
19374
19375
19376
19377
19378
19379
19380
19381
19382
19383
19384
19385
19386
19387
19388
19389
19390
19391
19392
19393
19394
19395
19396
19397
19398
19399
19400
19401
19402
19403
19404
19405
19406
19407
19408
19409
19410
19411
19412
19413
19414
19415
19416
19417
19418
19419
19420
19421
19422
19423
19424
19425
19426
19427
19428
19429
19430
19431
19432
19433
19434
19435
19436
19437
19438
19439
19440
19441
19442
19443
19444
19445
19446
19447
19448
19449
19450
19451
19452
19453
19454
19455
19456
19457
19458
19459
19460
19461
19462
19463
19464
19465
19466
19467
19468
19469
19470
19471
19472
19473
19474
19475
19476
19477
19478
19479
19480
19481
19482
19483
19484
19485
19486
19487
19488
19489
19490
19491
19492
19493
19494
19495
19496
19497
19498
19499
19500
19501
19502
19503
19504
19505
19506
19507
19508
19509
19510
19511
19512
19513
19514
19515
19516
19517
19518
19519
19520
19521
19522
19523
19524
19525
19526
19527
19528
19529
19530
19531
19532
19533
19534
19535
19536
19537
19538
19539
19540
19541
19542
19543
19544
19545
19546
19547
19548
19549
19550
19551
19552
19553
19554
19555
19556
19557
19558
19559
19560
19561
19562
19563
19564
19565
19566
19567
19568
19569
19570
19571
19572
19573
19574
19575
19576
19577
19578
19579
19580
19581
19582
19583
19584
19585
19586
19587
19588
19589
19590
19591
19592
19593
19594
19595
19596
19597
19598
19599
19600
19601
19602
19603
19604
19605
19606
19607
19608
19609
19610
19611
19612
19613
19614
19615
19616
19617
19618
19619
19620
19621
19622
19623
19624
19625
19626
19627
19628
19629
19630
19631
19632
19633
19634
19635
19636
19637
19638
19639
19640
19641
19642
19643
19644
19645
19646
19647
19648
19649
19650
19651
19652
19653
19654
19655
19656
19657
19658
19659
19660
19661
19662
19663
19664
19665
19666
19667
19668
19669
19670
19671
19672
19673
19674
19675
19676
19677
19678
19679
19680
19681
19682
19683
19684
19685
19686
19687
19688
19689
19690
19691
19692
19693
19694
19695
19696
19697
19698
19699
19700
19701
19702
19703
19704
19705
19706
19707
19708
19709
19710
19711
19712
19713
19714
19715
19716
19717
19718
19719
19720
19721
19722
19723
19724
19725
19726
19727
19728
19729
19730
19731
19732
19733
19734
19735
19736
19737
19738
19739
19740
19741
19742
19743
19744
19745
19746
19747
19748
19749

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>

<!DOCTYPE html
   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >

<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
  <head>
    <title>
      Nostromo, by Joseph Conrad
    </title>
    <style type="text/css">
    <!--
    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
    -->
</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

Project Gutenberg's Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard, by Joseph Conrad

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard

Author: Joseph Conrad

Release Date: January 9, 2006 [EBook #2021]
Last Updated: September 10, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOSTROMO: A TALE OF THE SEABOARD ***




Produced by Judy Boss and David Widger





</pre>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      NOSTROMO
    </h1>
    <h2>
      A TALE OF THE SEABOARD
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Joseph Conrad
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      &ldquo;So foul a sky clears not without a storm.&rdquo; &mdash;SHAKESPEARE
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      TO JOHN GALSWORTHY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <h2>
        Contents
      </h2>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>AUTHOR&rsquo;S NOTE</b></big> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>NOSTROMO</b></big> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <big><b>PART FIRST &nbsp;&nbsp;THE SILVER OF
        THE MINE</b></big> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER ONE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER TWO </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THREE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER FOUR </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER FIVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER SIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER SEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER EIGHT </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <big><b>PART SECOND &nbsp;&nbsp;THE ISABELS</b></big>
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER ONE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER TWO </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER THREE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER FOUR </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER FIVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER SIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER SEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER EIGHT </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <big><b>PART THIRD &nbsp;&nbsp;THE LIGHTHOUSE</b></big>
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER ONE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER TWO </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER THREE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER FOUR </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER FIVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER SIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER SEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER EIGHT </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER NINE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER TEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER ELEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER TWELVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER THIRTEEN </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      AUTHOR&rsquo;S NOTE
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Nostromo</i>&rdquo; is the most anxiously meditated of the longer novels
      which belong to the period following upon the publication of the &ldquo;Typhoon&rdquo;
       volume of short stories.
    </p>
    <p>
      I don&rsquo;t mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change
      in my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing life.
      And perhaps there was never any change, except in that mysterious,
      extraneous thing which has nothing to do with the theories of art; a
      subtle change in the nature of the inspiration; a phenomenon for which I
      can not in any way be held responsible. What, however, did cause me some
      concern was that after finishing the last story of the &ldquo;Typhoon&rdquo; volume it
      seemed somehow that there was nothing more in the world to write about.
    </p>
    <p>
      This so strangely negative but disturbing mood lasted some little time;
      and then, as with many of my longer stories, the first hint for &ldquo;Nostromo&rdquo;
       came to me in the shape of a vagrant anecdote completely destitute of
      valuable details.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a matter of fact in 1875 or &lsquo;6, when very young, in the West Indies or
      rather in the Gulf of Mexico, for my contacts with land were short, few,
      and fleeting, I heard the story of some man who was supposed to have
      stolen single-handed a whole lighter-full of silver, somewhere on the
      Tierra Firme seaboard during the troubles of a revolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the face of it this was something of a feat. But I heard no details,
      and having no particular interest in crime qua crime I was not likely to
      keep that one in my mind. And I forgot it till twenty-six or seven years
      afterwards I came upon the very thing in a shabby volume picked up outside
      a second-hand book-shop. It was the life story of an American seaman
      written by himself with the assistance of a journalist. In the course of
      his wanderings that American sailor worked for some months on board a
      schooner, the master and owner of which was the thief of whom I had heard
      in my very young days. I have no doubt of that because there could hardly
      have been two exploits of that peculiar kind in the same part of the world
      and both connected with a South American revolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fellow had actually managed to steal a lighter with silver, and this,
      it seems, only because he was implicitly trusted by his employers, who
      must have been singularly poor judges of character. In the sailor&rsquo;s story
      he is represented as an unmitigated rascal, a small cheat, stupidly
      ferocious, morose, of mean appearance, and altogether unworthy of the
      greatness this opportunity had thrust upon him. What was interesting was
      that he would boast of it openly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He used to say: &ldquo;People think I make a lot of money in this schooner of
      mine. But that is nothing. I don&rsquo;t care for that. Now and then I go away
      quietly and lift a bar of silver. I must get rich slowly&mdash;you
      understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was also another curious point about the man. Once in the course of
      some quarrel the sailor threatened him: &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to prevent me reporting
      ashore what you have told me about that silver?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The cynical ruffian was not alarmed in the least. He actually laughed.
      &ldquo;You fool, if you dare talk like that on shore about me you will get a
      knife stuck in your back. Every man, woman, and child in that port is my
      friend. And who&rsquo;s to prove the lighter wasn&rsquo;t sunk? I didn&rsquo;t show you
      where the silver is hidden. Did I? So you know nothing. And suppose I
      lied? Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ultimately the sailor, disgusted with the sordid meanness of that
      impenitent thief, deserted from the schooner. The whole episode takes
      about three pages of his autobiography. Nothing to speak of; but as I
      looked them over, the curious confirmation of the few casual words heard
      in my early youth evoked the memories of that distant time when everything
      was so fresh, so surprising, so venturesome, so interesting; bits of
      strange coasts under the stars, shadows of hills in the sunshine, men&rsquo;s
      passions in the dusk, gossip half-forgotten, faces grown dim. . . .
      Perhaps, perhaps, there still was in the world something to write about.
      Yet I did not see anything at first in the mere story. A rascal steals a
      large parcel of a valuable commodity&mdash;so people say. It&rsquo;s either true
      or untrue; and in any case it has no value in itself. To invent a
      circumstantial account of the robbery did not appeal to me, because my
      talents not running that way I did not think that the game was worth the
      candle. It was only when it dawned upon me that the purloiner of the
      treasure need not necessarily be a confirmed rogue, that he could be even
      a man of character, an actor and possibly a victim in the changing scenes
      of a revolution, it was only then that I had the first vision of a
      twilight country which was to become the province of Sulaco, with its high
      shadowy Sierra and its misty Campo for mute witnesses of events flowing
      from the passions of men short-sighted in good and evil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such are in very truth the obscure origins of &ldquo;Nostromo&rdquo;&mdash;the book.
      From that moment, I suppose, it had to be. Yet even then I hesitated, as
      if warned by the instinct of self-preservation from venturing on a distant
      and toilsome journey into a land full of intrigues and revolutions. But it
      had to be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      It took the best part of the years 1903-4 to do; with many intervals of
      renewed hesitation, lest I should lose myself in the ever-enlarging vistas
      opening before me as I progressed deeper in my knowledge of the country.
      Often, also, when I had thought myself to a standstill over the tangled-up
      affairs of the Republic, I would, figuratively speaking, pack my bag, rush
      away from Sulaco for a change of air and write a few pages of the &ldquo;Mirror
      of the Sea.&rdquo; But generally, as I&rsquo;ve said before, my sojourn on the
      Continent of Latin America, famed for its hospitality, lasted for about
      two years. On my return I found (speaking somewhat in the style of Captain
      Gulliver) my family all well, my wife heartily glad to learn that the fuss
      was all over, and our small boy considerably grown during my absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      My principal authority for the history of Costaguana is, of course, my
      venerated friend, the late Don Jose Avellanos, Minister to the Courts of
      England and Spain, etc., etc., in his impartial and eloquent &ldquo;History of
      Fifty Years of Misrule.&rdquo; That work was never published&mdash;the reader
      will discover why&mdash;and I am in fact the only person in the world
      possessed of its contents. I have mastered them in not a few hours of
      earnest meditation, and I hope that my accuracy will be trusted. In
      justice to myself, and to allay the fears of prospective readers, I beg to
      point out that the few historical allusions are never dragged in for the
      sake of parading my unique erudition, but that each of them is closely
      related to actuality; either throwing a light on the nature of current
      events or affecting directly the fortunes of the people of whom I speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to their own histories I have tried to set them down, Aristocracy and
      People, men and women, Latin and Anglo-Saxon, bandit and politician, with
      as cool a hand as was possible in the heat and clash of my own conflicting
      emotions. And after all this is also the story of their conflicts. It is
      for the reader to say how far they are deserving of interest in their
      actions and in the secret purposes of their hearts revealed in the bitter
      necessities of the time. I confess that, for me, that time is the time of
      firm friendships and unforgotten hospitalities. And in my gratitude I must
      mention here Mrs. Gould, &ldquo;the first lady of Sulaco,&rdquo; whom we may safely
      leave to the secret devotion of Dr. Monygham, and Charles Gould, the
      Idealist-creator of Material Interests whom we must leave to his Mine&mdash;from
      which there is no escape in this world.
    </p>
    <p>
      About Nostromo, the second of the two racially and socially contrasted
      men, both captured by the silver of the San Tome Mine, I feel bound to say
      something more.
    </p>
    <p>
      I did not hesitate to make that central figure an Italian. First of all
      the thing is perfectly credible: Italians were swarming into the
      Occidental Province at the time, as anybody who will read further can see;
      and secondly, there was no one who could stand so well by the side of
      Giorgio Viola the Garibaldino, the Idealist of the old, humanitarian
      revolutions. For myself I needed there a Man of the People as free as
      possible from his class-conventions and all settled modes of thinking.
      This is not a side snarl at conventions. My reasons were not moral but
      artistic. Had he been an Anglo-Saxon he would have tried to get into local
      politics. But Nostromo does not aspire to be a leader in a personal game.
      He does not want to raise himself above the mass. He is content to feel
      himself a power&mdash;within the People.
    </p>
    <p>
      But mainly Nostromo is what he is because I received the inspiration for
      him in my early days from a Mediterranean sailor. Those who have read
      certain pages of mine will see at once what I mean when I say that
      Dominic, the padrone of the Tremolino, might under given circumstances
      have been a Nostromo. At any rate Dominic would have understood the
      younger man perfectly&mdash;if scornfully. He and I were engaged together
      in a rather absurd adventure, but the absurdity does not matter. It is a
      real satisfaction to think that in my very young days there must, after
      all, have been something in me worthy to command that man&rsquo;s half-bitter
      fidelity, his half-ironic devotion. Many of Nostromo&rsquo;s speeches I have
      heard first in Dominic&rsquo;s voice. His hand on the tiller and his fearless
      eyes roaming the horizon from within the monkish hood shadowing his face,
      he would utter the usual exordium of his remorseless wisdom: &ldquo;<i>Vous
      autres gentilhommes!</i>&rdquo; in a caustic tone that hangs on my ear yet. Like
      Nostromo! &ldquo;You <i>hombres finos!</i>&rdquo; Very much like Nostromo. But Dominic
      the Corsican nursed a certain pride of ancestry from which my Nostromo is
      free; for Nostromo&rsquo;s lineage had to be more ancient still. He is a man
      with the weight of countless generations behind him and no parentage to
      boast of. . . . Like the People.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his firm grip on the earth he inherits, in his improvidence and
      generosity, in his lavishness with his gifts, in his manly vanity, in the
      obscure sense of his greatness and in his faithful devotion with something
      despairing as well as desperate in its impulses, he is a Man of the
      People, their very own unenvious force, disdaining to lead but ruling from
      within. Years afterwards, grown older as the famous Captain Fidanza, with
      a stake in the country, going about his many affairs followed by
      respectful glances in the modernized streets of Sulaco, calling on the
      widow of the cargador, attending the Lodge, listening in unmoved silence
      to anarchist speeches at the meeting, the enigmatical patron of the new
      revolutionary agitation, the trusted, the wealthy comrade Fidanza with the
      knowledge of his moral ruin locked up in his breast, he remains
      essentially a Man of the People. In his mingled love and scorn of life and
      in the bewildered conviction of having been betrayed, of dying betrayed he
      hardly knows by what or by whom, he is still of the People, their
      undoubted Great Man&mdash;with a private history of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      One more figure of those stirring times I would like to mention: and that
      is Antonia Avellanos&mdash;the &ldquo;beautiful Antonia.&rdquo; Whether she is a
      possible variation of Latin-American girlhood I wouldn&rsquo;t dare to affirm.
      But, for me, she is. Always a little in the background by the side of her
      father (my venerated friend) I hope she has yet relief enough to make
      intelligible what I am going to say. Of all the people who had seen with
      me the birth of the Occidental Republic, she is the only one who has kept
      in my memory the aspect of continued life. Antonia the Aristocrat and
      Nostromo the Man of the People are the artisans of the New Era, the true
      creators of the New State; he by his legendary and daring feat, she, like
      a woman, simply by the force of what she is: the only being capable of
      inspiring a sincere passion in the heart of a trifler.
    </p>
    <p>
      If anything could induce me to revisit Sulaco (I should hate to see all
      these changes) it would be Antonia. And the true reason for that&mdash;why
      not be frank about it?&mdash;the true reason is that I have modelled her
      on my first love. How we, a band of tallish schoolboys, the chums of her
      two brothers, how we used to look up to that girl just out of the
      schoolroom herself, as the standard-bearer of a faith to which we all were
      born but which she alone knew how to hold aloft with an unflinching hope!
      She had perhaps more glow and less serenity in her soul than Antonia, but
      she was an uncompromising Puritan of patriotism with no taint of the
      slightest worldliness in her thoughts. I was not the only one in love with
      her; but it was I who had to hear oftenest her scathing criticism of my
      levities&mdash;very much like poor Decoud&mdash;or stand the brunt of her
      austere, unanswerable invective. She did not quite understand&mdash;but
      never mind. That afternoon when I came in, a shrinking yet defiant sinner,
      to say the final good-bye I received a hand-squeeze that made my heart
      leap and saw a tear that took my breath away. She was softened at the last
      as though she had suddenly perceived (we were such children still!) that I
      was really going away for good, going very far away&mdash;even as far as
      Sulaco, lying unknown, hidden from our eyes in the darkness of the Placid
      Gulf.
    </p>
    <p>
      That&rsquo;s why I long sometimes for another glimpse of the &ldquo;beautiful Antonia&rdquo;
       (or can it be the Other?) moving in the dimness of the great cathedral,
      saying a short prayer at the tomb of the first and last
      Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco, standing absorbed in filial devotion before
      the monument of Don Jose Avellanos, and, with a lingering, tender,
      faithful glance at the medallion-memorial to Martin Decoud, going out
      serenely into the sunshine of the Plaza with her upright carriage and her
      white head; a relic of the past disregarded by men awaiting impatiently
      the Dawns of other New Eras, the coming of more Revolutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      But this is the idlest of dreams; for I did understand perfectly well at
      the time that the moment the breath left the body of the Magnificent
      Capataz, the Man of the People, freed at last from the toils of love and
      wealth, there was nothing more for me to do in Sulaco.
    </p>
    <p>
      J. C.
    </p>
    <p>
      October, 1917.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      NOSTROMO
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PART FIRST THE SILVER OF THE MINE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ONE
    </h2>
    <p>
      In the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, the town of
      Sulaco&mdash;the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardens bears witness to
      its antiquity&mdash;had never been commercially anything more important
      than a coasting port with a fairly large local trade in ox-hides and
      indigo. The clumsy deep-sea galleons of the conquerors that, needing a
      brisk gale to move at all, would lie becalmed, where your modern ship
      built on clipper lines forges ahead by the mere flapping of her sails, had
      been barred out of Sulaco by the prevailing calms of its vast gulf. Some
      harbours of the earth are made difficult of access by the treachery of
      sunken rocks and the tempests of their shores. Sulaco had found an
      inviolable sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in the solemn
      hush of the deep Golfo Placido as if within an enormous semi-circular and
      unroofed temple open to the ocean, with its walls of lofty mountains hung
      with the mourning draperies of cloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      On one side of this broad curve in the straight seaboard of the Republic
      of Costaguana, the last spur of the coast range forms an insignificant
      cape whose name is Punta Mala. From the middle of the gulf the point of
      the land itself is not visible at all; but the shoulder of a steep hill at
      the back can be made out faintly like a shadow on the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other side, what seems to be an isolated patch of blue mist floats
      lightly on the glare of the horizon. This is the peninsula of Azuera, a
      wild chaos of sharp rocks and stony levels cut about by vertical ravines.
      It lies far out to sea like a rough head of stone stretched from a
      green-clad coast at the end of a slender neck of sand covered with
      thickets of thorny scrub. Utterly waterless, for the rainfall runs off at
      once on all sides into the sea, it has not soil enough&mdash;it is said&mdash;to
      grow a single blade of grass, as if it were blighted by a curse. The poor,
      associating by an obscure instinct of consolation the ideas of evil and
      wealth, will tell you that it is deadly because of its forbidden
      treasures. The common folk of the neighbourhood, peons of the estancias,
      vaqueros of the seaboard plains, tame Indians coming miles to market with
      a bundle of sugar-cane or a basket of maize worth about threepence, are
      well aware that heaps of shining gold lie in the gloom of the deep
      precipices cleaving the stony levels of Azuera. Tradition has it that many
      adventurers of olden time had perished in the search. The story goes also
      that within men&rsquo;s memory two wandering sailors&mdash;Americanos, perhaps,
      but gringos of some sort for certain&mdash;talked over a gambling,
      good-for-nothing mozo, and the three stole a donkey to carry for them a
      bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin, and provisions enough to last a few
      days. Thus accompanied, and with revolvers at their belts, they had
      started to chop their way with machetes through the thorny scrub on the
      neck of the peninsula.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the second evening an upright spiral of smoke (it could only have been
      from their camp-fire) was seen for the first time within memory of man
      standing up faintly upon the sky above a razor-backed ridge on the stony
      head. The crew of a coasting schooner, lying becalmed three miles off the
      shore, stared at it with amazement till dark. A negro fisherman, living in
      a lonely hut in a little bay near by, had seen the start and was on the
      lookout for some sign. He called to his wife just as the sun was about to
      set. They had watched the strange portent with envy, incredulity, and awe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The impious adventurers gave no other sign. The sailors, the Indian, and
      the stolen burro were never seen again. As to the mozo, a Sulaco man&mdash;his
      wife paid for some masses, and the poor four-footed beast, being without
      sin, had been probably permitted to die; but the two gringos, spectral and
      alive, are believed to be dwelling to this day amongst the rocks, under
      the fatal spell of their success. Their souls cannot tear themselves away
      from their bodies mounting guard over the discovered treasure. They are
      now rich and hungry and thirsty&mdash;a strange theory of tenacious gringo
      ghosts suffering in their starved and parched flesh of defiant heretics,
      where a Christian would have renounced and been released.
    </p>
    <p>
      These, then, are the legendary inhabitants of Azuera guarding its
      forbidden wealth; and the shadow on the sky on one side with the round
      patch of blue haze blurring the bright skirt of the horizon on the other,
      mark the two outermost points of the bend which bears the name of Golfo
      Placido, because never a strong wind had been known to blow upon its
      waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      On crossing the imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera the ships
      from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezes of the ocean.
      They become the prey of capricious airs that play with them for thirty
      hours at a stretch sometimes. Before them the head of the calm gulf is
      filled on most days of the year by a great body of motionless and opaque
      clouds. On the rare clear mornings another shadow is cast upon the sweep
      of the gulf. The dawn breaks high behind the towering and serrated wall of
      the Cordillera, a clear-cut vision of dark peaks rearing their steep
      slopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from the very edge of the
      shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon
      the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinkle with tiny black dots
      the smooth dome of snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow of the
      mountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys. They swathe
      in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices above the wooded slopes,
      hide the peaks, smoke in stormy trails across the snows of Higuerota. The
      Cordillera is gone from you as if it had dissolved itself into great piles
      of grey and black vapours that travel out slowly to seaward and vanish
      into thin air all along the front before the blazing heat of the day. The
      wasting edge of the cloud-bank always strives for, but seldom wins, the
      middle of the gulf. The sun&mdash;as the sailors say&mdash;is eating it
      up. Unless perchance a sombre thunder-head breaks away from the main body
      to career all over the gulf till it escapes into the offing beyond Azuera,
      where it bursts suddenly into flame and crashes like a sinster pirate-ship
      of the air, hove-to above the horizon, engaging the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothers the whole
      quiet gulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in which the sound of the
      falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasing abruptly&mdash;now
      here, now there. Indeed, these cloudy nights are proverbial with the
      seamen along the whole west coast of a great continent. Sky, land, and sea
      disappear together out of the world when the Placido&mdash;as the saying
      is&mdash;goes to sleep under its black poncho. The few stars left below
      the seaward frown of the vault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black
      cavern. In its vastness your ship floats unseen under your feet, her sails
      flutter invisible above your head. The eye of God Himself&mdash;they add
      with grim profanity&mdash;could not find out what work a man&rsquo;s hand is
      doing in there; and you would be free to call the devil to your aid with
      impunity if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabited islets
      basking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, and opposite the
      entrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of &ldquo;The Isabels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel, which is round; and Hermosa,
      which is the smallest.
    </p>
    <p>
      That last is no more than a foot high, and about seven paces across, a
      mere flat top of a grey rock which smokes like a hot cinder after a
      shower, and where no man would care to venture a naked sole before sunset.
      On the Little Isabel an old ragged palm, with a thick bulging trunk rough
      with spines, a very witch amongst palm trees, rustles a dismal bunch of
      dead leaves above the coarse sand. The Great Isabel has a spring of fresh
      water issuing from the overgrown side of a ravine. Resembling an emerald
      green wedge of land a mile long, and laid flat upon the sea, it bears two
      forest trees standing close together, with a wide spread of shade at the
      foot of their smooth trunks. A ravine extending the whole length of the
      island is full of bushes; and presenting a deep tangled cleft on the high
      side spreads itself out on the other into a shallow depression abutting on
      a small strip of sandy shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      From that low end of the Great Isabel the eye plunges through an opening
      two miles away, as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out of the regular
      sweep of the coast, right into the harbour of Sulaco. It is an oblong,
      lake-like piece of water. On one side the short wooded spurs and valleys
      of the Cordillera come down at right angles to the very strand; on the
      other the open view of the great Sulaco plain passes into the opal mystery
      of great distances overhung by dry haze. The town of Sulaco itself&mdash;tops
      of walls, a great cupola, gleams of white miradors in a vast grove of
      orange trees&mdash;lies between the mountains and the plain, at some
      little distance from its harbour and out of the direct line of sight from
      the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWO
    </h2>
    <p>
      The only sign of commercial activity within the harbour, visible from the
      beach of the Great Isabel, is the square blunt end of the wooden jetty
      which the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company (the O.S.N. of familiar speech)
      had thrown over the shallow part of the bay soon after they had resolved
      to make of Sulaco one of their ports of call for the Republic of
      Costaguana. The State possesses several harbours on its long seaboard, but
      except Cayta, an important place, all are either small and inconvenient
      inlets in an iron-bound coast&mdash;like Esmeralda, for instance, sixty
      miles to the south&mdash;or else mere open roadsteads exposed to the winds
      and fretted by the surf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the very atmospheric conditions which had kept away the merchant
      fleets of bygone ages induced the O.S.N. Company to violate the sanctuary
      of peace sheltering the calm existence of Sulaco. The variable airs
      sporting lightly with the vast semicircle of waters within the head of
      Azuera could not baffle the steam power of their excellent fleet. Year
      after year the black hulls of their ships had gone up and down the coast,
      in and out, past Azuera, past the Isabels, past Punta Mala&mdash;disregarding
      everything but the tyranny of time. Their names, the names of all
      mythology, became the household words of a coast that had never been ruled
      by the gods of Olympus. The Juno was known only for her comfortable cabins
      amidships, the Saturn for the geniality of her captain and the painted and
      gilt luxuriousness of her saloon, whereas the Ganymede was fitted out
      mainly for cattle transport, and to be avoided by coastwise passengers.
      The humblest Indian in the obscurest village on the coast was familiar
      with the Cerberus, a little black puffer without charm or living
      accommodation to speak of, whose mission was to creep inshore along the
      wooded beaches close to mighty ugly rocks, stopping obligingly before
      every cluster of huts to collect produce, down to three-pound parcels of
      indiarubber bound in a wrapper of dry grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as they seldom failed to account for the smallest package, rarely lost
      a bullock, and had never drowned a single passenger, the name of the
      O.S.N. stood very high for trustworthiness. People declared that under the
      Company&rsquo;s care their lives and property were safer on the water than in
      their own houses on shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      The O.S.N.&lsquo;s superintendent in Sulaco for the whole Costaguana section of
      the service was very proud of his Company&rsquo;s standing. He resumed it in a
      saying which was very often on his lips, &ldquo;We never make mistakes.&rdquo; To the
      Company&rsquo;s officers it took the form of a severe injunction, &ldquo;We must make
      no mistakes. I&rsquo;ll have no mistakes here, no matter what Smith may do at
      his end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Smith, on whom he had never set eyes in his life, was the other
      superintendent of the service, quartered some fifteen hundred miles away
      from Sulaco. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk to me of your Smith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, calming down suddenly, he would dismiss the subject with studied
      negligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Smith knows no more of this continent than a baby.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our excellent Senor Mitchell&rdquo; for the business and official world of
      Sulaco; &ldquo;Fussy Joe&rdquo; for the commanders of the Company&rsquo;s ships, Captain
      Joseph Mitchell prided himself on his profound knowledge of men and things
      in the country&mdash;cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last he accounted
      as most unfavourable to the orderly working of his Company the frequent
      changes of government brought about by revolutions of the military type.
    </p>
    <p>
      The political atmosphere of the Republic was generally stormy in these
      days. The fugitive patriots of the defeated party had the knack of turning
      up again on the coast with half a steamer&rsquo;s load of small arms and
      ammunition. Such resourcefulness Captain Mitchell considered as perfectly
      wonderful in view of their utter destitution at the time of flight. He had
      observed that &ldquo;they never seemed to have enough change about them to pay
      for their passage ticket out of the country.&rdquo; And he could speak with
      knowledge; for on a memorable occasion he had been called upon to save the
      life of a dictator, together with the lives of a few Sulaco officials&mdash;the
      political chief, the director of the customs, and the head of police&mdash;belonging
      to an overturned government. Poor Senor Ribiera (such was the dictator&rsquo;s
      name) had come pelting eighty miles over mountain tracks after the lost
      battle of Socorro, in the hope of out-distancing the fatal news&mdash;which,
      of course, he could not manage to do on a lame mule. The animal, moreover,
      expired under him at the end of the Alameda, where the military band plays
      sometimes in the evenings between the revolutions. &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; Captain Mitchell
      would pursue with portentous gravity, &ldquo;the ill-timed end of that mule
      attracted attention to the unfortunate rider. His features were recognized
      by several deserters from the Dictatorial army amongst the rascally mob
      already engaged in smashing the windows of the Intendencia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Early on the morning of that day the local authorities of Sulaco had fled
      for refuge to the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s offices, a strong building near the
      shore end of the jetty, leaving the town to the mercies of a revolutionary
      rabble; and as the Dictator was execrated by the populace on account of
      the severe recruitment law his necessities had compelled him to enforce
      during the struggle, he stood a good chance of being torn to pieces.
      Providentially, Nostromo&mdash;invaluable fellow&mdash;with some Italian
      workmen, imported to work upon the National Central Railway, was at hand,
      and managed to snatch him away&mdash;for the time at least. Ultimately,
      Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking everybody off in his own gig to one
      of the Company&rsquo;s steamers&mdash;it was the Minerva&mdash;just then, as
      luck would have it, entering the harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had to lower these gentlemen at the end of a rope out of a hole in the
      wall at the back, while the mob which, pouring out of the town, had spread
      itself all along the shore, howled and foamed at the foot of the building
      in front. He had to hurry them then the whole length of the jetty; it had
      been a desperate dash, neck or nothing&mdash;and again it was Nostromo, a
      fellow in a thousand, who, at the head, this time, of the Company&rsquo;s body
      of lightermen, held the jetty against the rushes of the rabble, thus
      giving the fugitives time to reach the gig lying ready for them at the
      other end with the Company&rsquo;s flag at the stern. Sticks, stones, shots
      flew; knives, too, were thrown. Captain Mitchell exhibited willingly the
      long cicatrice of a cut over his left ear and temple, made by a
      razor-blade fastened to a stick&mdash;a weapon, he explained, very much in
      favour with the &ldquo;worst kind of nigger out here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointed collars
      and short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, and really very
      communicative under his air of pompous reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These gentlemen,&rdquo; he would say, staring with great solemnity, &ldquo;had to run
      like rabbits, sir. I ran like a rabbit myself. Certain forms of death are&mdash;er&mdash;distasteful
      to a&mdash;a&mdash;er&mdash;respectable man. They would have pounded me to
      death, too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate. Under providence we
      owed our preservation to my Capataz de Cargadores, as they called him in
      the town, a man who, when I discovered his value, sir, was just the bos&rsquo;n
      of an Italian ship, a big Genoese ship, one of the few European ships that
      ever came to Sulaco with a general cargo before the building of the
      National Central. He left her on account of some very respectable friends
      he made here, his own countrymen, but also, I suppose, to better himself.
      Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character. I engaged him to be the
      foreman of our lightermen, and caretaker of our jetty. That&rsquo;s all that he
      was. But without him Senor Ribiera would have been a dead man. This
      Nostromo, sir, a man absolutely above reproach, became the terror of all
      the thieves in the town. We were infested, infested, overrun, sir, here at
      that time by ladrones and matreros, thieves and murderers from the whole
      province. On this occasion they had been flocking into Sulaco for a week
      past. They had scented the end, sir. Fifty per cent. of that murdering mob
      were professional bandits from the Campo, sir, but there wasn&rsquo;t one that
      hadn&rsquo;t heard of Nostromo. As to the town leperos, sir, the sight of his
      black whiskers and white teeth was enough for them. They quailed before
      him, sir. That&rsquo;s what the force of character will do for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It could very well be said that it was Nostromo alone who saved the lives
      of these gentlemen. Captain Mitchell, on his part, never left them till he
      had seen them collapse, panting, terrified, and exasperated, but safe, on
      the luxuriant velvet sofas in the first-class saloon of the Minerva. To
      the very last he had been careful to address the ex-Dictator as &ldquo;Your
      Excellency.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, I could do no other. The man was down&mdash;ghastly, livid, one mass
      of scratches.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Minerva never let go her anchor that call. The superintendent ordered
      her out of the harbour at once. No cargo could be landed, of course, and
      the passengers for Sulaco naturally refused to go ashore. They could hear
      the firing and see plainly the fight going on at the edge of the water.
      The repulsed mob devoted its energies to an attack upon the Custom House,
      a dreary, unfinished-looking structure with many windows two hundred yards
      away from the O.S.N. Offices, and the only other building near the
      harbour. Captain Mitchell, after directing the commander of the Minerva to
      land &ldquo;these gentlemen&rdquo; in the first port of call outside Costaguana, went
      back in his gig to see what could be done for the protection of the
      Company&rsquo;s property. That and the property of the railway were preserved by
      the European residents; that is, by Captain Mitchell himself and the staff
      of engineers building the road, aided by the Italian and Basque workmen
      who rallied faithfully round their English chiefs. The Company&rsquo;s
      lightermen, too, natives of the Republic, behaved very well under their
      Capataz. An outcast lot of very mixed blood, mainly negroes, everlastingly
      at feud with the other customers of low grog shops in the town, they
      embraced with delight this opportunity to settle their personal scores
      under such favourable auspices. There was not one of them that had not, at
      some time or other, looked with terror at Nostromo&rsquo;s revolver poked very
      close at his face, or been otherwise daunted by Nostromo&rsquo;s resolution. He
      was &ldquo;much of a man,&rdquo; their Capataz was, they said, too scornful in his
      temper ever to utter abuse, a tireless taskmaster, and the more to be
      feared because of his aloofness. And behold! there he was that day, at
      their head, condescending to make jocular remarks to this man or the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such leadership was inspiriting, and in truth all the harm the mob managed
      to achieve was to set fire to one&mdash;only one&mdash;stack of
      railway-sleepers, which, being creosoted, burned well. The main attack on
      the railway yards, on the O.S.N. Offices, and especially on the Custom
      House, whose strong room, it was well known, contained a large treasure in
      silver ingots, failed completely. Even the little hotel kept by old
      Giorgio, standing alone halfway between the harbour and the town, escaped
      looting and destruction, not by a miracle, but because with the safes in
      view they had neglected it at first, and afterwards found no leisure to
      stop. Nostromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing them too hard then.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THREE
    </h2>
    <p>
      It might have been said that there he was only protecting his own. From
      the first he had been admitted to live in the intimacy of the family of
      the hotel-keeper who was a countryman of his. Old Giorgio Viola, a Genoese
      with a shaggy white leonine head&mdash;often called simply &ldquo;the
      Garibaldino&rdquo; (as Mohammedans are called after their prophet)&mdash;was, to
      use Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s own words, the &ldquo;respectable married friend&rdquo; by
      whose advice Nostromo had left his ship to try for a run of shore luck in
      Costaguana.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man, full of scorn for the populace, as your austere republican so
      often is, had disregarded the preliminary sounds of trouble. He went on
      that day as usual pottering about the &ldquo;casa&rdquo; in his slippers, muttering
      angrily to himself his contempt of the non-political nature of the riot,
      and shrugging his shoulders. In the end he was taken unawares by the
      out-rush of the rabble. It was too late then to remove his family, and,
      indeed, where could he have run to with the portly Signora Teresa and two
      little girls on that great plain? So, barricading every opening, the old
      man sat down sternly in the middle of the darkened cafe with an old
      shot-gun on his knees. His wife sat on another chair by his side,
      muttering pious invocations to all the saints of the calendar.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old republican did not believe in saints, or in prayers, or in what he
      called &ldquo;priest&rsquo;s religion.&rdquo; Liberty and Garibaldi were his divinities; but
      he tolerated &ldquo;superstition&rdquo; in women, preserving in these matters a lofty
      and silent attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      His two girls, the eldest fourteen, and the other two years younger,
      crouched on the sanded floor, on each side of the Signora Teresa, with
      their heads on their mother&rsquo;s lap, both scared, but each in her own way,
      the dark-haired Linda indignant and angry, the fair Giselle, the younger,
      bewildered and resigned. The Patrona removed her arms, which embraced her
      daughters, for a moment to cross herself and wring her hands hurriedly.
      She moaned a little louder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Gian&rsquo; Battista, why art thou not here? Oh! why art thou not here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was not then invoking the saint himself, but calling upon Nostromo,
      whose patron he was. And Giorgio, motionless on the chair by her side,
      would be provoked by these reproachful and distracted appeals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, woman! Where&rsquo;s the sense of it? There&rsquo;s his duty,&rdquo; he murmured in
      the dark; and she would retort, panting&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! I have no patience. Duty! What of the woman who has been like a
      mother to him? I bent my knee to him this morning; don&rsquo;t you go out, Gian&rsquo;
      Battista&mdash;stop in the house, Battistino&mdash;look at those two
      little innocent children!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Viola was an Italian, too, a native of Spezzia, and though
      considerably younger than her husband, already middle-aged. She had a
      handsome face, whose complexion had turned yellow because the climate of
      Sulaco did not suit her at all. Her voice was a rich contralto. When, with
      her arms folded tight under her ample bosom, she scolded the squat,
      thick-legged China girls handling linen, plucking fowls, pounding corn in
      wooden mortars amongst the mud outbuildings at the back of the house, she
      could bring out such an impassioned, vibrating, sepulchral note that the
      chained watch-dog bolted into his kennel with a great rattle. Luis, a
      cinnamon-coloured mulatto with a sprouting moustache and thick, dark lips,
      would stop sweeping the cafe with a broom of palm-leaves to let a gentle
      shudder run down his spine. His languishing almond eyes would remain
      closed for a long time.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the staff of the Casa Viola, but all these people had fled early
      that morning at the first sounds of the riot, preferring to hide on the
      plain rather than trust themselves in the house; a preference for which
      they were in no way to blame, since, whether true or not, it was generally
      believed in the town that the Garibaldino had some money buried under the
      clay floor of the kitchen. The dog, an irritable, shaggy brute, barked
      violently and whined plaintively in turns at the back, running in and out
      of his kennel as rage or fear prompted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bursts of great shouting rose and died away, like wild gusts of wind on
      the plain round the barricaded house; the fitful popping of shots grew
      louder above the yelling. Sometimes there were intervals of unaccountable
      stillness outside, and nothing could have been more gaily peaceful than
      the narrow bright lines of sunlight from the cracks in the shutters, ruled
      straight across the cafe over the disarranged chairs and tables to the
      wall opposite. Old Giorgio had chosen that bare, whitewashed room for a
      retreat. It had only one window, and its only door swung out upon the
      track of thick dust fenced by aloe hedges between the harbour and the
      town, where clumsy carts used to creak along behind slow yokes of oxen
      guided by boys on horseback.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a pause of stillness Giorgio cocked his gun. The ominous sound wrung a
      low moan from the rigid figure of the woman sitting by his side. A sudden
      outbreak of defiant yelling quite near the house sank all at once to a
      confused murmur of growls. Somebody ran along; the loud catching of his
      breath was heard for an instant passing the door; there were hoarse
      mutters and footsteps near the wall; a shoulder rubbed against the
      shutter, effacing the bright lines of sunshine pencilled across the whole
      breadth of the room. Signora Teresa&rsquo;s arms thrown about the kneeling forms
      of her daughters embraced them closer with a convulsive pressure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mob, driven away from the Custom House, had broken up into several
      bands, retreating across the plain in the direction of the town. The
      subdued crash of irregular volleys fired in the distance was answered by
      faint yells far away. In the intervals the single shots rang feebly, and
      the low, long, white building blinded in every window seemed to be the
      centre of a turmoil widening in a great circle about its closed-up
      silence. But the cautious movements and whispers of a routed party seeking
      a momentary shelter behind the wall made the darkness of the room, striped
      by threads of quiet sunlight, alight with evil, stealthy sounds. The
      Violas had them in their ears as though invisible ghosts hovering about
      their chairs had consulted in mutters as to the advisability of setting
      fire to this foreigner&rsquo;s casa.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was trying to the nerves. Old Viola had risen slowly, gun in hand,
      irresolute, for he did not see how he could prevent them. Already voices
      could be heard talking at the back. Signora Teresa was beside herself with
      terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the traitor! the traitor!&rdquo; she mumbled, almost inaudibly. &ldquo;Now we are
      going to be burnt; and I bent my knee to him. No! he must run at the heels
      of his English.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to think that Nostromo&rsquo;s mere presence in the house would have
      made it perfectly safe. So far, she, too, was under the spell of that
      reputation the Capataz de Cargadores had made for himself by the
      waterside, along the railway line, with the English and with the populace
      of Sulaco. To his face, and even against her husband, she invariably
      affected to laugh it to scorn, sometimes good-naturedly, more often with a
      curious bitterness. But then women are unreasonable in their opinions, as
      Giorgio used to remark calmly on fitting occasions. On this occasion, with
      his gun held at ready before him, he stooped down to his wife&rsquo;s head, and,
      keeping his eyes steadfastly on the barricaded door, he breathed out into
      her ear that Nostromo would have been powerless to help. What could two
      men shut up in a house do against twenty or more bent upon setting fire to
      the roof? Gian&rsquo; Battista was thinking of the casa all the time, he was
      sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He think of the casa! He!&rdquo; gasped Signora Viola, crazily. She struck her
      breast with her open hands. &ldquo;I know him. He thinks of nobody but himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A discharge of firearms near by made her throw her head back and close her
      eyes. Old Giorgio set his teeth hard under his white moustache, and his
      eyes began to roll fiercely. Several bullets struck the end of the wall
      together; pieces of plaster could be heard falling outside; a voice
      screamed &ldquo;Here they come!&rdquo; and after a moment of uneasy silence there was
      a rush of running feet along the front.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the tension of old Giorgio&rsquo;s attitude relaxed, and a smile of
      contemptuous relief came upon his lips of an old fighter with a leonine
      face. These were not a people striving for justice, but thieves. Even to
      defend his life against them was a sort of degradation for a man who had
      been one of Garibaldi&rsquo;s immortal thousand in the conquest of Sicily. He
      had an immense scorn for this outbreak of scoundrels and leperos, who did
      not know the meaning of the word &ldquo;liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grounded his old gun, and, turning his head, glanced at the coloured
      lithograph of Garibaldi in a black frame on the white wall; a thread of
      strong sunshine cut it perpendicularly. His eyes, accustomed to the
      luminous twilight, made out the high colouring of the face, the red of the
      shirt, the outlines of the square shoulders, the black patch of the
      Bersagliere hat with cock&rsquo;s feathers curling over the crown. An immortal
      hero! This was your liberty; it gave you not only life, but immortality as
      well!
    </p>
    <p>
      For that one man his fanaticism had suffered no diminution. In the moment
      of relief from the apprehension of the greatest danger, perhaps, his
      family had been exposed to in all their wanderings, he had turned to the
      picture of his old chief, first and only, then laid his hand on his wife&rsquo;s
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children kneeling on the floor had not moved. Signora Teresa opened
      her eyes a little, as though he had awakened her from a very deep and
      dreamless slumber. Before he had time in his deliberate way to say a
      reassuring word she jumped up, with the children clinging to her, one on
      each side, gasped for breath, and let out a hoarse shriek.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck on the outside
      of the shutter. They could hear suddenly the snorting of a horse, the
      restive tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hard path in front of the house;
      the toe of a boot struck at the shutter again; a spur jingled at every
      blow, and an excited voice shouted, &ldquo;Hola! hola, in there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOUR
    </h2>
    <p>
      All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola,
      even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. &ldquo;If I
      see smoke rising over there,&rdquo; he thought to himself, &ldquo;they are lost.&rdquo;
       Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian
      workmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards
      the town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of
      making a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from
      behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for the
      rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on his
      silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his revolver,
      and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an idea that old Giorgio would
      choose that part of the house for a refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: &ldquo;Hola!
      Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see&mdash;&rdquo; murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent
      now. Outside Nostromo laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can hear the padrona is not dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have done your best to kill me with fear,&rdquo; cried Signora Teresa. She
      wanted to say something more, but her voice failed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted
      apologetically&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is a little upset.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She cannot upset me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Signora Teresa found her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is what I say. You have no heart&mdash;and you have no conscience,
      Gian&rsquo; Battista&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The party he led
      were babbling excitedly in Italian and Spanish, inciting each other to the
      pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying, &ldquo;Avanti!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has not stopped very long with us. There is no praise from strangers
      to be got here,&rdquo; Signora Teresa said tragically. &ldquo;Avanti! Yes! That is all
      he cares for. To be first somewhere&mdash;somehow&mdash;to be first with
      these English. They will be showing him to everybody. &lsquo;This is our
      Nostromo!&rsquo;&rdquo; She laughed ominously. &ldquo;What a name! What is that? Nostromo?
      He would take a name that is properly no word from them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meantime Giorgio, with tranquil movements, had been unfastening the door;
      the flood of light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girls gathered to
      her side, a picturesque woman in a pose of maternal exaltation. Behind her
      the wall was dazzlingly white, and the crude colours of the Garibaldi
      lithograph paled in the sunshine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwards as if referring all his
      quick, fleeting thoughts to the picture of his old chief on the wall. Even
      when he was cooking for the &ldquo;Signori Inglesi&rdquo;&mdash;the engineers (he was
      a famous cook, though the kitchen was a dark place)&mdash;he was, as it
      were, under the eye of the great man who had led him in a glorious
      struggle where, under the walls of Gaeta, tyranny would have expired for
      ever had it not been for that accursed Piedmontese race of kings and
      ministers. When sometimes a frying-pan caught fire during a delicate
      operation with some shredded onions, and the old man was seen backing out
      of the doorway, swearing and coughing violently in an acrid cloud of
      smoke, the name of Cavour&mdash;the arch intriguer sold to kings and
      tyrants&mdash;could be heard involved in imprecations against the China
      girls, cooking in general, and the brute of a country where he was reduced
      to live for the love of liberty that traitor had strangled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Signora Teresa, all in black, issuing from another door, advanced,
      portly and anxious, inclining her fine, black-browed head, opening her
      arms, and crying in a profound tone&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Giorgio! thou passionate man! Misericordia Divina! In the sun like this!
      He will make himself ill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At her feet the hens made off in all directions, with immense strides; if
      there were any engineers from up the line staying in Sulaco, a young
      English face or two would appear at the billiard-room occupying one end of
      the house; but at the other end, in the cafe, Luis, the mulatto, took good
      care not to show himself. The Indian girls, with hair like flowing black
      manes, and dressed only in a shift and short petticoat, stared dully from
      under the square-cut fringes on their foreheads; the noisy frizzling of
      fat had stopped, the fumes floated upwards in sunshine, a strong smell of
      burnt onions hung in the drowsy heat, enveloping the house; and the eye
      lost itself in a vast flat expanse of grass to the west, as if the plain
      between the Sierra overtopping Sulaco and the coast range away there
      towards Esmeralda had been as big as half the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Signora Teresa, after an impressive pause, remonstrated&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, Giorgio! Leave Cavour alone and take care of yourself now we are lost
      in this country all alone with the two children, because you cannot live
      under a king.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And while she looked at him she would sometimes put her hand hastily to
      her side with a short twitch of her fine lips and a knitting of her black,
      straight eyebrows like a flicker of angry pain or an angry thought on her
      handsome, regular features.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was pain; she suppressed the twinge. It had come to her first a few
      years after they had left Italy to emigrate to America and settle at last
      in Sulaco after wandering from town to town, trying shopkeeping in a small
      way here and there; and once an organized enterprise of fishing&mdash;in
      Maldonado&mdash;for Giorgio, like the great Garibaldi, had been a sailor
      in his time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes she had no patience with pain. For years its gnawing had been
      part of the landscape embracing the glitter of the harbour under the
      wooded spurs of the range; and the sunshine itself was heavy and dull&mdash;heavy
      with pain&mdash;not like the sunshine of her girlhood, in which
      middle-aged Giorgio had wooed her gravely and passionately on the shores
      of the gulf of Spezzia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You go in at once, Giorgio,&rdquo; she directed. &ldquo;One would think you do not
      wish to have any pity on me&mdash;with four Signori Inglesi staying in the
      house.&rdquo; &ldquo;<i>Va bene, va bene</i>,&rdquo; Giorgio would mutter. He obeyed. The
      Signori Inglesi would require their midday meal presently. He had been one
      of the immortal and invincible band of liberators who had made the
      mercenaries of tyranny fly like chaff before a hurricane, &ldquo;<i>un uragano
      terribile</i>.&rdquo; But that was before he was married and had children; and
      before tyranny had reared its head again amongst the traitors who had
      imprisoned Garibaldi, his hero.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were three doors in the front of the house, and each afternoon the
      Garibaldino could be seen at one or another of them with his big bush of
      white hair, his arms folded, his legs crossed, leaning back his leonine
      head against the side, and looking up the wooded slopes of the foothills
      at the snowy dome of Higuerota. The front of his house threw off a black
      long rectangle of shade, broadening slowly over the soft ox-cart track.
      Through the gaps, chopped out in the oleander hedges, the harbour branch
      railway, laid out temporarily on the level of the plain, curved away its
      shining parallel ribbons on a belt of scorched and withered grass within
      sixty yards of the end of the house. In the evening the empty material
      trains of flat cars circled round the dark green grove of Sulaco, and ran,
      undulating slightly with white jets of steam, over the plain towards the
      Casa Viola, on their way to the railway yards by the harbour. The Italian
      drivers saluted him from the foot-plate with raised hand, while the negro
      brakesmen sat carelessly on the brakes, looking straight forward, with the
      rims of their big hats flapping in the wind. In return Giorgio would give
      a slight sideways jerk of the head, without unfolding his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this memorable day of the riot his arms were not folded on his chest.
      His hand grasped the barrel of the gun grounded on the threshold; he did
      not look up once at the white dome of Higuerota, whose cool purity seemed
      to hold itself aloof from a hot earth. His eyes examined the plain
      curiously. Tall trails of dust subsided here and there. In a speckless sky
      the sun hung clear and blinding. Knots of men ran headlong; others made a
      stand; and the irregular rattle of firearms came rippling to his ears in
      the fiery, still air. Single figures on foot raced desperately. Horsemen
      galloped towards each other, wheeled round together, separated at speed.
      Giorgio saw one fall, rider and horse disappearing as if they had galloped
      into a chasm, and the movements of the animated scene were like the
      passages of a violent game played upon the plain by dwarfs mounted and on
      foot, yelling with tiny throats, under the mountain that seemed a colossal
      embodiment of silence. Never before had Giorgio seen this bit of plain so
      full of active life; his gaze could not take in all its details at once;
      he shaded his eyes with his hand, till suddenly the thundering of many
      hoofs near by startled him.
    </p>
    <p>
      A troop of horses had broken out of the fenced paddock of the Railway
      Company. They came on like a whirlwind, and dashed over the line snorting,
      kicking, squealing in a compact, piebald, tossing mob of bay, brown, grey
      backs, eyes staring, necks extended, nostrils red, long tails streaming.
      As soon as they had leaped upon the road the thick dust flew upwards from
      under their hoofs, and within six yards of Giorgio only a brown cloud with
      vague forms of necks and cruppers rolled by, making the soil tremble on
      its passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Viola coughed, turning his face away from the dust, and shaking his head
      slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There will be some horse-catching to be done before to-night,&rdquo; he
      muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the square of sunlight falling through the door Signora Teresa,
      kneeling before the chair, had bowed her head, heavy with a twisted mass
      of ebony hair streaked with silver, into the palm of her hands. The black
      lace shawl she used to drape about her face had dropped to the ground by
      her side. The two girls had got up, hand-in-hand, in short skirts, their
      loose hair falling in disorder. The younger had thrown her arm across her
      eyes, as if afraid to face the light. Linda, with her hand on the other&rsquo;s
      shoulder, stared fearlessly. Viola looked at his children. The sun brought
      out the deep lines on his face, and, energetic in expression, it had the
      immobility of a carving. It was impossible to discover what he thought.
      Bushy grey eyebrows shaded his dark glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! And do you not pray like your mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda pouted, advancing her red lips, which were almost too red; but she
      had admirable eyes, brown, with a sparkle of gold in the irises, full of
      intelligence and meaning, and so clear that they seemed to throw a glow
      upon her thin, colourless face. There were bronze glints in the sombre
      clusters of her hair, and the eyelashes, long and coal black, made her
      complexion appear still more pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother is going to offer up a lot of candles in the church. She always
      does when Nostromo has been away fighting. I shall have some to carry up
      to the Chapel of the Madonna in the Cathedral.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said all this quickly, with great assurance, in an animated,
      penetrating voice. Then, giving her sister&rsquo;s shoulder a slight shake, she
      added&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she will be made to carry one, too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why made?&rdquo; inquired Giorgio, gravely. &ldquo;Does she not want to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is timid,&rdquo; said Linda, with a little burst of laughter. &ldquo;People
      notice her fair hair as she goes along with us. They call out after her,
      &lsquo;Look at the Rubia! Look at the Rubiacita!&rsquo; They call out in the streets.
      She is timid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you? You are not timid&mdash;eh?&rdquo; the father pronounced, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tossed back all her dark hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody calls out after me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Giorgio contemplated his children thoughtfully. There was two years
      difference between them. They had been born to him late, years after the
      boy had died. Had he lived he would have been nearly as old as Gian&rsquo;
      Battista&mdash;he whom the English called Nostromo; but as to his
      daughters, the severity of his temper, his advancing age, his absorption
      in his memories, had prevented his taking much notice of them. He loved
      his children, but girls belong more to the mother, and much of his
      affection had been expended in the worship and service of liberty.
    </p>
    <p>
      When quite a youth he had deserted from a ship trading to La Plata, to
      enlist in the navy of Montevideo, then under the command of Garibaldi.
      Afterwards, in the Italian legion of the Republic struggling against the
      encroaching tyranny of Rosas, he had taken part, on great plains, on the
      banks of immense rivers, in the fiercest fighting perhaps the world had
      ever known. He had lived amongst men who had declaimed about liberty,
      suffered for liberty, died for liberty, with a desperate exaltation, and
      with their eyes turned towards an oppressed Italy. His own enthusiasm had
      been fed on scenes of carnage, on the examples of lofty devotion, on the
      din of armed struggle, on the inflamed language of proclamations. He had
      never parted from the chief of his choice&mdash;the fiery apostle of
      independence&mdash;keeping by his side in America and in Italy till after
      the fatal day of Aspromonte, when the treachery of kings, emperors, and
      ministers had been revealed to the world in the wounding and imprisonment
      of his hero&mdash;a catastrophe that had instilled into him a gloomy doubt
      of ever being able to understand the ways of Divine justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not deny it, however. It required patience, he would say. Though he
      disliked priests, and would not put his foot inside a church for anything,
      he believed in God. Were not the proclamations against tyrants addressed
      to the peoples in the name of God and liberty? &ldquo;God for men&mdash;religions
      for women,&rdquo; he muttered sometimes. In Sicily, an Englishman who had turned
      up in Palermo after its evacuation by the army of the king, had given him
      a Bible in Italian&mdash;the publication of the British and Foreign Bible
      Society, bound in a dark leather cover. In periods of political adversity,
      in the pauses of silence when the revolutionists issued no proclamations,
      Giorgio earned his living with the first work that came to hand&mdash;as
      sailor, as dock labourer on the quays of Genoa, once as a hand on a farm
      in the hills above Spezzia&mdash;and in his spare time he studied the
      thick volume. He carried it with him into battles. Now it was his only
      reading, and in order not to be deprived of it (the print was small) he
      had consented to accept the present of a pair of silver-mounted spectacles
      from Senora Emilia Gould, the wife of the Englishman who managed the
      silver mine in the mountains three leagues from the town. She was the only
      Englishwoman in Sulaco.
    </p>
    <p>
      Giorgio Viola had a great consideration for the English. This feeling,
      born on the battlefields of Uruguay, was forty years old at the very
      least. Several of them had poured their blood for the cause of freedom in
      America, and the first he had ever known he remembered by the name of
      Samuel; he commanded a negro company under Garibaldi, during the famous
      siege of Montevideo, and died heroically with his negroes at the fording
      of the Boyana. He, Giorgio, had reached the rank of ensign-alferez-and
      cooked for the general. Later, in Italy, he, with the rank of lieutenant,
      rode with the staff and still cooked for the general. He had cooked for
      him in Lombardy through the whole campaign; on the march to Rome he had
      lassoed his beef in the Campagna after the American manner; he had been
      wounded in the defence of the Roman Republic; he was one of the four
      fugitives who, with the general, carried out of the woods the inanimate
      body of the general&rsquo;s wife into the farmhouse where she died, exhausted by
      the hardships of that terrible retreat. He had survived that disastrous
      time to attend his general in Palermo when the Neapolitan shells from the
      castle crashed upon the town. He had cooked for him on the field of
      Volturno after fighting all day. And everywhere he had seen Englishmen in
      the front rank of the army of freedom. He respected their nation because
      they loved Garibaldi. Their very countesses and princesses had kissed the
      general&rsquo;s hands in London, it was said. He could well believe it; for the
      nation was noble, and the man was a saint. It was enough to look once at
      his face to see the divine force of faith in him and his great pity for
      all that was poor, suffering, and oppressed in this world.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devotion to a vast
      humanitarian idea which inspired the thought and stress of that
      revolutionary time, had left its mark upon Giorgio in a sort of austere
      contempt for all personal advantage. This man, whom the lowest class in
      Sulaco suspected of having a buried hoard in his kitchen, had all his life
      despised money. The leaders of his youth had lived poor, had died poor. It
      had been a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It was engendered
      partly by an existence of excitement, adventure, and wild warfare. But
      mostly it was a matter of principle. It did not resemble the carelessness
      of a condottiere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born of stern enthusiasm
      like the puritanism of religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloom upon Giorgio&rsquo;s old age. It
      cast a gloom because the cause seemed lost. Too many kings and emperors
      flourished yet in the world which God had meant for the people. He was sad
      because of his simplicity. Though always ready to help his countrymen, and
      greatly respected by the Italian emigrants wherever he lived (in his exile
      he called it), he could not conceal from himself that they cared nothing
      for the wrongs of down-trodden nations. They listened to his tales of war
      readily, but seemed to ask themselves what he had got out of it after all.
      There was nothing that they could see. &ldquo;We wanted nothing, we suffered for
      the love of all humanity!&rdquo; he cried out furiously sometimes, and the
      powerful voice, the blazing eyes, the shaking of the white mane, the
      brown, sinewy hand pointing upwards as if to call heaven to witness,
      impressed his hearers. After the old man had broken off abruptly with a
      jerk of the head and a movement of the arm, meaning clearly, &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s
      the good of talking to you?&rdquo; they nudged each other. There was in old
      Giorgio an energy of feeling, a personal quality of conviction, something
      they called &ldquo;terribilita&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;an old lion,&rdquo; they used to say of him.
      Some slight incident, a chance word would set him off talking on the beach
      to the Italian fishermen of Maldonado, in the little shop he kept
      afterwards (in Valparaiso) to his countrymen customers; of an evening,
      suddenly, in the cafe at one end of the Casa Viola (the other was reserved
      for the English engineers) to the select clientele of engine-drivers and
      foremen of the railway shops.
    </p>
    <p>
      With their handsome, bronzed, lean faces, shiny black ringlets, glistening
      eyes, broad-chested, bearded, sometimes a tiny gold ring in the lobe of
      the ear, the aristocracy of the railway works listened to him, turning
      away from their cards or dominoes. Here and there a fair-haired Basque
      studied his hand meantime, waiting without protest. No native of
      Costaguana intruded there. This was the Italian stronghold. Even the
      Sulaco policemen on a night patrol let their horses pace softly by,
      bending low in the saddle to glance through the window at the heads in a
      fog of smoke; and the drone of old Giorgio&rsquo;s declamatory narrative seemed
      to sink behind them into the plain. Only now and then the assistant of the
      chief of police, some broad-faced, brown little gentleman, with a great
      deal of Indian in him, would put in an appearance. Leaving his man outside
      with the horses he advanced with a confident, sly smile, and without a
      word up to the long trestle table. He pointed to one of the bottles on the
      shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his pipe into his mouth abruptly, served him in
      person. Nothing would be heard but the slight jingle of the spurs. His
      glass emptied, he would take a leisurely, scrutinizing look all round the
      room, go out, and ride away slowly, circling towards the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      In this way only was the power of the local authorities vindicated amongst
      the great body of strong-limbed foreigners who dug the earth, blasted the
      rocks, drove the engines for the &ldquo;progressive and patriotic undertaking.&rdquo;
       In these very words eighteen months before the Excellentissimo Senor don
      Vincente Ribiera, the Dictator of Costaguana, had described the National
      Central Railway in his great speech at the turning of the first sod.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had come on purpose to Sulaco, and there was a one-o&rsquo;clock
      dinner-party, a convite offered by the O.S.N. Company on board the Juno
      after the function on shore. Captain Mitchell had himself steered the
      cargo lighter, all draped with flags, which, in tow of the Juno&rsquo;s steam
      launch, took the Excellentissimo from the jetty to the ship. Everybody of
      note in Sulaco had been invited&mdash;the one or two foreign merchants,
      all the representatives of the old Spanish families then in town, the
      great owners of estates on the plain, grave, courteous, simple men,
      caballeros of pure descent, with small hands and feet, conservative,
      hospitable, and kind. The Occidental Province was their stronghold; their
      Blanco party had triumphed now; it was their President-Dictator, a Blanco
      of the Blancos, who sat smiling urbanely between the representatives of
      two friendly foreign powers. They had come with him from Sta. Marta to
      countenance by their presence the enterprise in which the capital of their
      countries was engaged. The only lady of that company was Mrs. Gould, the
      wife of Don Carlos, the administrator of the San Tome silver mine. The
      ladies of Sulaco were not advanced enough to take part in the public life
      to that extent. They had come out strongly at the great ball at the
      Intendencia the evening before, but Mrs. Gould alone had appeared, a
      bright spot in the group of black coats behind the President-Dictator, on
      the crimson cloth-covered stage erected under a shady tree on the shore of
      the harbour, where the ceremony of turning the first sod had taken place.
      She had come off in the cargo lighter, full of notabilities, sitting under
      the flutter of gay flags, in the place of honour by the side of Captain
      Mitchell, who steered, and her clear dress gave the only truly festive
      note to the sombre gathering in the long, gorgeous saloon of the Juno.
    </p>
    <p>
      The head of the chairman of the railway board (from London), handsome and
      pale in a silvery mist of white hair and clipped beard, hovered near her
      shoulder attentive, smiling, and fatigued. The journey from London to Sta.
      Marta in mail boats and the special carriages of the Sta. Marta coast-line
      (the only railway so far) had been tolerable&mdash;even pleasant&mdash;quite
      tolerable. But the trip over the mountains to Sulaco was another sort of
      experience, in an old diligencia over impassable roads skirting awful
      precipices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have been upset twice in one day on the brink of very deep ravines,&rdquo;
       he was telling Mrs. Gould in an undertone. &ldquo;And when we arrived here at
      last I don&rsquo;t know what we should have done without your hospitality. What
      an out-of-the-way place Sulaco is!&mdash;and for a harbour, too!
      Astonishing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but we are very proud of it. It used to be historically important.
      The highest ecclesiastical court for two viceroyalties, sat here in the
      olden time,&rdquo; she instructed him with animation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am impressed. I didn&rsquo;t mean to be disparaging. You seem very
      patriotic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The place is lovable, if only by its situation. Perhaps you don&rsquo;t know
      what an old resident I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How old, I wonder,&rdquo; he murmured, looking at her with a slight smile. Mrs.
      Gould&rsquo;s appearance was made youthful by the mobile intelligence of her
      face. &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t give you your ecclesiastical court back again; but you
      shall have more steamers, a railway, a telegraph-cable&mdash;a future in
      the great world which is worth infinitely more than any amount of
      ecclesiastical past. You shall be brought in touch with something greater
      than two viceroyalties. But I had no notion that a place on a sea-coast
      could remain so isolated from the world. If it had been a thousand miles
      inland now&mdash;most remarkable! Has anything ever happened here for a
      hundred years before to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While he talked in a slow, humorous tone, she kept her little smile.
      Agreeing ironically, she assured him that certainly not&mdash;nothing ever
      happened in Sulaco. Even the revolutions, of which there had been two in
      her time, had respected the repose of the place. Their course ran in the
      more populous southern parts of the Republic, and the great valley of Sta.
      Marta, which was like one great battlefield of the parties, with the
      possession of the capital for a prize and an outlet to another ocean. They
      were more advanced over there. Here in Sulaco they heard only the echoes
      of these great questions, and, of course, their official world changed
      each time, coming to them over their rampart of mountains which he himself
      had traversed in an old diligencia, with such a risk to life and limb.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chairman of the railway had been enjoying her hospitality for several
      days, and he was really grateful for it. It was only since he had left
      Sta. Marta that he had utterly lost touch with the feeling of European
      life on the background of his exotic surroundings. In the capital he had
      been the guest of the Legation, and had been kept busy negotiating with
      the members of Don Vincente&rsquo;s Government&mdash;cultured men, men to whom
      the conditions of civilized business were not unknown.
    </p>
    <p>
      What concerned him most at the time was the acquisition of land for the
      railway. In the Sta. Marta Valley, where there was already one line in
      existence, the people were tractable, and it was only a matter of price. A
      commission had been nominated to fix the values, and the difficulty
      resolved itself into the judicious influencing of the Commissioners. But
      in Sulaco&mdash;the Occidental Province for whose very development the
      railway was intended&mdash;there had been trouble. It had been lying for
      ages ensconced behind its natural barriers, repelling modern enterprise by
      the precipices of its mountain range, by its shallow harbour opening into
      the everlasting calms of a gulf full of clouds, by the benighted state of
      mind of the owners of its fertile territory&mdash;all these aristocratic
      old Spanish families, all those Don Ambrosios this and Don Fernandos that,
      who seemed actually to dislike and distrust the coming of the railway over
      their lands. It had happened that some of the surveying parties scattered
      all over the province had been warned off with threats of violence. In
      other cases outrageous pretensions as to price had been raised. But the
      man of railways prided himself on being equal to every emergency. Since he
      was met by the inimical sentiment of blind conservatism in Sulaco he would
      meet it by sentiment, too, before taking his stand on his right alone. The
      Government was bound to carry out its part of the contract with the board
      of the new railway company, even if it had to use force for the purpose.
      But he desired nothing less than an armed disturbance in the smooth
      working of his plans. They were much too vast and far-reaching, and too
      promising to leave a stone unturned; and so he imagined to get the
      President-Dictator over there on a tour of ceremonies and speeches,
      culminating in a great function at the turning of the first sod by the
      harbour shore. After all he was their own creature&mdash;that Don
      Vincente. He was the embodied triumph of the best elements in the State.
      These were facts, and, unless facts meant nothing, Sir John argued to
      himself, such a man&rsquo;s influence must be real, and his personal action
      would produce the conciliatory effect he required. He had succeeded in
      arranging the trip with the help of a very clever advocate, who was known
      in Sta. Marta as the agent of the Gould silver mine, the biggest thing in
      Sulaco, and even in the whole Republic. It was indeed a fabulously rich
      mine. Its so-called agent, evidently a man of culture and ability, seemed,
      without official position, to possess an extraordinary influence in the
      highest Government spheres. He was able to assure Sir John that the
      President-Dictator would make the journey. He regretted, however, in the
      course of the same conversation, that General Montero insisted upon going,
      too.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Montero, whom the beginning of the struggle had found an obscure
      army captain employed on the wild eastern frontier of the State, had
      thrown in his lot with the Ribiera party at a moment when special
      circumstances had given that small adhesion a fortuitous importance. The
      fortunes of war served him marvellously, and the victory of Rio Seco
      (after a day of desperate fighting) put a seal to his success. At the end
      he emerged General, Minister of War, and the military head of the Blanco
      party, although there was nothing aristocratic in his descent. Indeed, it
      was said that he and his brother, orphans, had been brought up by the
      munificence of a famous European traveller, in whose service their father
      had lost his life. Another story was that their father had been nothing
      but a charcoal burner in the woods, and their mother a baptised Indian
      woman from the far interior.
    </p>
    <p>
      However that might be, the Costaguana Press was in the habit of styling
      Montero&rsquo;s forest march from his commandancia to join the Blanco forces at
      the beginning of the troubles, the &ldquo;most heroic military exploit of modern
      times.&rdquo; About the same time, too, his brother had turned up from Europe,
      where he had gone apparently as secretary to a consul. Having, however,
      collected a small band of outlaws, he showed some talent as guerilla chief
      and had been rewarded at the pacification by the post of Military
      Commandant of the capital.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Minister of War, then, accompanied the Dictator. The board of the
      O.S.N. Company, working hand-in-hand with the railway people for the good
      of the Republic, had on this important occasion instructed Captain
      Mitchell to put the mail-boat Juno at the disposal of the distinguished
      party. Don Vincente, journeying south from Sta. Marta, had embarked at
      Cayta, the principal port of Costaguana, and came to Sulaco by sea. But
      the chairman of the railway company had courageously crossed the mountains
      in a ramshackle diligencia, mainly for the purpose of meeting his
      engineer-in-chief engaged in the final survey of the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      For all the indifference of a man of affairs to nature, whose hostility
      can always be overcome by the resources of finance, he could not help
      being impressed by his surroundings during his halt at the surveying camp
      established at the highest point his railway was to reach. He spent the
      night there, arriving just too late to see the last dying glow of sunlight
      upon the snowy flank of Higuerota. Pillared masses of black basalt framed
      like an open portal a portion of the white field lying aslant against the
      west. In the transparent air of the high altitudes everything seemed very
      near, steeped in a clear stillness as in an imponderable liquid; and with
      his ear ready to catch the first sound of the expected diligencia the
      engineer-in-chief, at the door of a hut of rough stones, had contemplated
      the changing hues on the enormous side of the mountain, thinking that in
      this sight, as in a piece of inspired music, there could be found together
      the utmost delicacy of shaded expression and a stupendous magnificence of
      effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir John arrived too late to hear the magnificent and inaudible strain
      sung by the sunset amongst the high peaks of the Sierra. It had sung
      itself out into the breathless pause of deep dusk before, climbing down
      the fore wheel of the diligencia with stiff limbs, he shook hands with the
      engineer.
    </p>
    <p>
      They gave him his dinner in a stone hut like a cubical boulder, with no
      door or windows in its two openings; a bright fire of sticks (brought on
      muleback from the first valley below) burning outside, sent in a wavering
      glare; and two candles in tin candlesticks&mdash;lighted, it was explained
      to him, in his honour&mdash;stood on a sort of rough camp table, at which
      he sat on the right hand of the chief. He knew how to be amiable; and the
      young men of the engineering staff, for whom the surveying of the railway
      track had the glamour of the first steps on the path of life, sat there,
      too, listening modestly, with their smooth faces tanned by the weather,
      and very pleased to witness so much affability in so great a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterwards, late at night, pacing to and fro outside, he had a long talk
      with his chief engineer. He knew him well of old. This was not the first
      undertaking in which their gifts, as elementally different as fire and
      water, had worked in conjunction. From the contact of these two
      personalities, who had not the same vision of the world, there was
      generated a power for the world&rsquo;s service&mdash;a subtle force that could
      set in motion mighty machines, men&rsquo;s muscles, and awaken also in human
      breasts an unbounded devotion to the task. Of the young fellows at the
      table, to whom the survey of the track was like the tracing of the path of
      life, more than one would be called to meet death before the work was
      done. But the work would be done: the force would be almost as strong as a
      faith. Not quite, however. In the silence of the sleeping camp upon the
      moonlit plateau forming the top of the pass like the floor of a vast arena
      surrounded by the basalt walls of precipices, two strolling figures in
      thick ulsters stood still, and the voice of the engineer pronounced
      distinctly the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t move mountains!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir John, raising his head to follow the pointing gesture, felt the full
      force of the words. The white Higuerota soared out of the shadows of rock
      and earth like a frozen bubble under the moon. All was still, till near
      by, behind the wall of a corral for the camp animals, built roughly of
      loose stones in the form of a circle, a pack mule stamped his forefoot and
      blew heavily twice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The engineer-in-chief had used the phrase in answer to the chairman&rsquo;s
      tentative suggestion that the tracing of the line could, perhaps, be
      altered in deference to the prejudices of the Sulaco landowners. The chief
      engineer believed that the obstinacy of men was the lesser obstacle.
      Moreover, to combat that they had the great influence of Charles Gould,
      whereas tunnelling under Higuerota would have been a colossal undertaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes! Gould. What sort of a man is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir John had heard much of Charles Gould in Sta. Marta, and wanted to know
      more. The engineer-in-chief assured him that the administrator of the San
      Tome silver mine had an immense influence over all these Spanish Dons. He
      had also one of the best houses in Sulaco, and the Gould hospitality was
      beyond all praise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They received me as if they had known me for years,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The little
      lady is kindness personified. I stayed with them for a month. He helped me
      to organize the surveying parties. His practical ownership of the San Tome
      silver mine gives him a special position. He seems to have the ear of
      every provincial authority apparently, and, as I said, he can wind all the
      hidalgos of the province round his little finger. If you follow his advice
      the difficulties will fall away, because he wants the railway. Of course,
      you must be careful in what you say. He&rsquo;s English, and besides he must be
      immensely wealthy. The Holroyd house is in with him in that mine, so you
      may imagine&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He interrupted himself as, from before one of the little fires burning
      outside the low wall of the corral, arose the figure of a man wrapped in a
      poncho up to the neck. The saddle which he had been using for a pillow
      made a dark patch on the ground against the red glow of embers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall see Holroyd himself on my way back through the States,&rdquo; said Sir
      John. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve ascertained that he, too, wants the railway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man who, perhaps disturbed by the proximity of the voices, had arisen
      from the ground, struck a match to light a cigarette. The flame showed a
      bronzed, black-whiskered face, a pair of eyes gazing straight; then,
      rearranging his wrappings, he sank full length and laid his head again on
      the saddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s our camp-master, whom I must send back to Sulaco now we are going
      to carry our survey into the Sta. Marta Valley,&rdquo; said the engineer. &ldquo;A
      most useful fellow, lent me by Captain Mitchell of the O.S.N. Company. It
      was very good of Mitchell. Charles Gould told me I couldn&rsquo;t do better than
      take advantage of the offer. He seems to know how to rule all these
      muleteers and peons. We had not the slightest trouble with our people. He
      shall escort your diligencia right into Sulaco with some of our railway
      peons. The road is bad. To have him at hand may save you an upset or two.
      He promised me to take care of your person all the way down as if you were
      his father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This camp-master was the Italian sailor whom all the Europeans in Sulaco,
      following Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s mispronunciation, were in the habit of
      calling Nostromo. And indeed, taciturn and ready, he did take excellent
      care of his charge at the bad parts of the road, as Sir John himself
      acknowledged to Mrs. Gould afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      At that time Nostromo had been already long enough in the country to raise
      to the highest pitch Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s opinion of the extraordinary value
      of his discovery. Clearly he was one of those invaluable subordinates whom
      to possess is a legitimate cause of boasting. Captain Mitchell plumed
      himself upon his eye for men&mdash;but he was not selfish&mdash;and in the
      innocence of his pride was already developing that mania for &ldquo;lending you
      my Capataz de Cargadores&rdquo; which was to bring Nostromo into personal
      contact, sooner or later, with every European in Sulaco, as a sort of
      universal factotum&mdash;a prodigy of efficiency in his own sphere of
      life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fellow is devoted to me, body and soul!&rdquo; Captain Mitchell was given
      to affirm; and though nobody, perhaps, could have explained why it should
      be so, it was impossible on a survey of their relation to throw doubt on
      that statement, unless, indeed, one were a bitter, eccentric character
      like Dr. Monygham&mdash;for instance&mdash;whose short, hopeless laugh
      expressed somehow an immense mistrust of mankind. Not that Dr. Monygham
      was a prodigal either of laughter or of words. He was bitterly taciturn
      when at his best. At his worst people feared the open scornfulness of his
      tongue. Only Mrs. Gould could keep his unbelief in men&rsquo;s motives within
      due bounds; but even to her (on an occasion not connected with Nostromo,
      and in a tone which for him was gentle), even to her, he had said once,
      &ldquo;Really, it is most unreasonable to demand that a man should think of
      other people so much better than he is able to think of himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Mrs. Gould had hastened to drop the subject. There were strange
      rumours of the English doctor. Years ago, in the time of Guzman Bento, he
      had been mixed up, it was whispered, in a conspiracy which was betrayed
      and, as people expressed it, drowned in blood. His hair had turned grey,
      his hairless, seamed face was of a brick-dust colour; the large check
      pattern of his flannel shirt and his old stained Panama hat were an
      established defiance to the conventionalities of Sulaco. Had it not been
      for the immaculate cleanliness of his apparel he might have been taken for
      one of those shiftless Europeans that are a moral eyesore to the
      respectability of a foreign colony in almost every exotic part of the
      world. The young ladies of Sulaco, adorning with clusters of pretty faces
      the balconies along the Street of the Constitution, when they saw him
      pass, with his limping gait and bowed head, a short linen jacket drawn on
      carelessly over the flannel check shirt, would remark to each other, &ldquo;Here
      is the Senor doctor going to call on Dona Emilia. He has got his little
      coat on.&rdquo; The inference was true. Its deeper meaning was hidden from their
      simple intelligence. Moreover, they expended no store of thought on the
      doctor. He was old, ugly, learned&mdash;and a little &ldquo;loco&rdquo;&mdash;mad, if
      not a bit of a sorcerer, as the common people suspected him of being. The
      little white jacket was in reality a concession to Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s humanizing
      influence. The doctor, with his habit of sceptical, bitter speech, had no
      other means of showing his profound respect for the character of the woman
      who was known in the country as the English Senora. He presented this
      tribute very seriously indeed; it was no trifle for a man of his habits.
      Mrs. Gould felt that, too, perfectly. She would never have thought of
      imposing upon him this marked show of deference.
    </p>
    <p>
      She kept her old Spanish house (one of the finest specimens in Sulaco)
      open for the dispensation of the small graces of existence. She dispensed
      them with simplicity and charm because she was guided by an alert
      perception of values. She was highly gifted in the art of human
      intercourse which consists in delicate shades of self-forgetfulness and in
      the suggestion of universal comprehension. Charles Gould (the Gould
      family, established in Costaguana for three generations, always went to
      England for their education and for their wives) imagined that he had
      fallen in love with a girl&rsquo;s sound common sense like any other man, but
      these were not exactly the reasons why, for instance, the whole surveying
      camp, from the youngest of the young men to their mature chief, should
      have found occasion to allude to Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s house so frequently amongst
      the high peaks of the Sierra. She would have protested that she had done
      nothing for them, with a low laugh and a surprised widening of her grey
      eyes, had anybody told her how convincingly she was remembered on the edge
      of the snow-line above Sulaco. But directly, with a little capable air of
      setting her wits to work, she would have found an explanation. &ldquo;Of course,
      it was such a surprise for these boys to find any sort of welcome here.
      And I suppose they are homesick. I suppose everybody must be always just a
      little homesick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was always sorry for homesick people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Born in the country, as his father before him, spare and tall, with a
      flaming moustache, a neat chin, clear blue eyes, auburn hair, and a thin,
      fresh, red face, Charles Gould looked like a new arrival from over the
      sea. His grandfather had fought in the cause of independence under
      Bolivar, in that famous English legion which on the battlefield of
      Carabobo had been saluted by the great Liberator as Saviours of his
      country. One of Charles Gould&rsquo;s uncles had been the elected President of
      that very province of Sulaco (then called a State) in the days of
      Federation, and afterwards had been put up against the wall of a church
      and shot by the order of the barbarous Unionist general, Guzman Bento. It
      was the same Guzman Bento who, becoming later Perpetual President, famed
      for his ruthless and cruel tyranny, readied his apotheosis in the popular
      legend of a sanguinary land-haunting spectre whose body had been carried
      off by the devil in person from the brick mausoleum in the nave of the
      Church of Assumption in Sta. Marta. Thus, at least, the priests explained
      its disappearance to the barefooted multitude that streamed in, awestruck,
      to gaze at the hole in the side of the ugly box of bricks before the great
      altar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guzman Bento of cruel memory had put to death great numbers of people
      besides Charles Gould&rsquo;s uncle; but with a relative martyred in the cause
      of aristocracy, the Sulaco Oligarchs (this was the phraseology of Guzman
      Bento&rsquo;s time; now they were called Blancos, and had given up the federal
      idea), which meant the families of pure Spanish descent, considered
      Charles as one of themselves. With such a family record, no one could be
      more of a Costaguanero than Don Carlos Gould; but his aspect was so
      characteristic that in the talk of common people he was just the Inglez&mdash;the
      Englishman of Sulaco. He looked more English than a casual tourist, a sort
      of heretic pilgrim, however, quite unknown in Sulaco. He looked more
      English than the last arrived batch of young railway engineers, than
      anybody out of the hunting-field pictures in the numbers of Punch reaching
      his wife&rsquo;s drawing-room two months or so after date. It astonished you to
      hear him talk Spanish (Castillan, as the natives say) or the Indian
      dialect of the country-people so naturally. His accent had never been
      English; but there was something so indelible in all these ancestral
      Goulds&mdash;liberators, explorers, coffee planters, merchants,
      revolutionists&mdash;of Costaguana, that he, the only representative of
      the third generation in a continent possessing its own style of
      horsemanship, went on looking thoroughly English even on horseback. This
      is not said of him in the mocking spirit of the Llaneros&mdash;men of the
      great plains&mdash;who think that no one in the world knows how to sit a
      horse but themselves. Charles Gould, to use the suitably lofty phrase,
      rode like a centaur. Riding for him was not a special form of exercise; it
      was a natural faculty, as walking straight is to all men sound of mind and
      limb; but, all the same, when cantering beside the rutty ox-cart track to
      the mine he looked in his English clothes and with his imported saddlery
      as though he had come this moment to Costaguana at his easy swift
      pasotrote, straight out of some green meadow at the other side of the
      world.
    </p>
    <p>
      His way would lie along the old Spanish road&mdash;the Camino Real of
      popular speech&mdash;the only remaining vestige of a fact and name left by
      that royalty old Giorgio Viola hated, and whose very shadow had departed
      from the land; for the big equestrian statue of Charles IV. at the
      entrance of the Alameda, towering white against the trees, was only known
      to the folk from the country and to the beggars of the town that slept on
      the steps around the pedestal, as the Horse of Stone. The other Carlos,
      turning off to the left with a rapid clatter of hoofs on the disjointed
      pavement&mdash;Don Carlos Gould, in his English clothes, looked as
      incongruous, but much more at home than the kingly cavalier reining in his
      steed on the pedestal above the sleeping leperos, with his marble arm
      raised towards the marble rim of a plumed hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The weather-stained effigy of the mounted king, with its vague suggestion
      of a saluting gesture, seemed to present an inscrutable breast to the
      political changes which had robbed it of its very name; but neither did
      the other horseman, well known to the people, keen and alive on his
      well-shaped, slate-coloured beast with a white eye, wear his heart on the
      sleeve of his English coat. His mind preserved its steady poise as if
      sheltered in the passionless stability of private and public decencies at
      home in Europe. He accepted with a like calm the shocking manner in which
      the Sulaco ladies smothered their faces with pearl powder till they looked
      like white plaster casts with beautiful living eyes, the peculiar gossip
      of the town, and the continuous political changes, the constant &ldquo;saving of
      the country,&rdquo; which to his wife seemed a puerile and bloodthirsty game of
      murder and rapine played with terrible earnestness by depraved children.
      In the early days of her Costaguana life, the little lady used to clench
      her hands with exasperation at not being able to take the public affairs
      of the country as seriously as the incidental atrocity of methods
      deserved. She saw in them a comedy of naive pretences, but hardly anything
      genuine except her own appalled indignation. Charles, very quiet and
      twisting his long moustaches, would decline to discuss them at all. Once,
      however, he observed to her gently&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, you seem to forget that I was born here.&rdquo; These few words made
      her pause as if they had been a sudden revelation. Perhaps the mere fact
      of being born in the country did make a difference. She had a great
      confidence in her husband; it had always been very great. He had struck
      her imagination from the first by his unsentimentalism, by that very
      quietude of mind which she had erected in her thought for a sign of
      perfect competency in the business of living. Don Jose Avellanos, their
      neighbour across the street, a statesman, a poet, a man of culture, who
      had represented his country at several European Courts (and had suffered
      untold indignities as a state prisoner in the time of the tyrant Guzman
      Bento), used to declare in Dona Emilia&rsquo;s drawing-room that Carlos had all
      the English qualities of character with a truly patriotic heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, raising her eyes to her husband&rsquo;s thin, red and tan face,
      could not detect the slightest quiver of a feature at what he must have
      heard said of his patriotism. Perhaps he had just dismounted on his return
      from the mine; he was English enough to disregard the hottest hours of the
      day. Basilio, in a livery of white linen and a red sash, had squatted for
      a moment behind his heels to unstrap the heavy, blunt spurs in the patio;
      and then the Senor Administrator would go up the staircase into the
      gallery. Rows of plants in pots, ranged on the balustrade between the
      pilasters of the arches, screened the corredor with their leaves and
      flowers from the quadrangle below, whose paved space is the true
      hearthstone of a South American house, where the quiet hours of domestic
      life are marked by the shifting of light and shadow on the flagstones.
    </p>
    <p>
      Senor Avellanos was in the habit of crossing the patio at five o&rsquo;clock
      almost every day. Don Jose chose to come over at tea-time because the
      English rite at Dona Emilia&rsquo;s house reminded him of the time he lived in
      London as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. He did not
      like tea; and, usually, rocking his American chair, his neat little shiny
      boots crossed on the foot-rest, he would talk on and on with a sort of
      complacent virtuosity wonderful in a man of his age, while he held the cup
      in his hands for a long time. His close-cropped head was perfectly white;
      his eyes coalblack.
    </p>
    <p>
      On seeing Charles Gould step into the sala he would nod provisionally and
      go on to the end of the oratorial period. Only then he would say&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carlos, my friend, you have ridden from San Tome in the heat of the day.
      Always the true English activity. No? What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drank up all the tea at once in one draught. This performance was
      invariably followed by a slight shudder and a low, involuntary &ldquo;br-r-r-r,&rdquo;
       which was not covered by the hasty exclamation, &ldquo;Excellent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then giving up the empty cup into his young friend&rsquo;s hand, extended with a
      smile, he continued to expatiate upon the patriotic nature of the San Tome
      mine for the simple pleasure of talking fluently, it seemed, while his
      reclining body jerked backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair of the
      sort exported from the United States. The ceiling of the largest
      drawing-room of the Casa Gould extended its white level far above his
      head. The loftiness dwarfed the mixture of heavy, straight-backed Spanish
      chairs of brown wood with leathern seats, and European furniture, low, and
      cushioned all over, like squat little monsters gorged to bursting with
      steel springs and horsehair. There were knick-knacks on little tables,
      mirrors let into the wall above marble consoles, square spaces of carpet
      under the two groups of armchairs, each presided over by a deep sofa;
      smaller rugs scattered all over the floor of red tiles; three windows from
      the ceiling down to the ground, opening on a balcony, and flanked by the
      perpendicular folds of the dark hangings. The stateliness of ancient days
      lingered between the four high, smooth walls, tinted a delicate
      primrose-colour; and Mrs. Gould, with her little head and shining coils of
      hair, sitting in a cloud of muslin and lace before a slender mahogany
      table, resembled a fairy posed lightly before dainty philtres dispensed
      out of vessels of silver and porcelain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould knew the history of the San Tome mine. Worked in the early days
      mostly by means of lashes on the backs of slaves, its yield had been paid
      for in its own weight of human bones. Whole tribes of Indians had perished
      in the exploitation; and then the mine was abandoned, since with this
      primitive method it had ceased to make a profitable return, no matter how
      many corpses were thrown into its maw. Then it became forgotten. It was
      rediscovered after the War of Independence. An English company obtained
      the right to work it, and found so rich a vein that neither the exactions
      of successive governments, nor the periodical raids of recruiting officers
      upon the population of paid miners they had created, could discourage
      their perseverance. But in the end, during the long turmoil of
      pronunciamentos that followed the death of the famous Guzman Bento, the
      native miners, incited to revolt by the emissaries sent out from the
      capital, had risen upon their English chiefs and murdered them to a man.
      The decree of confiscation which appeared immediately afterwards in the
      Diario Official, published in Sta. Marta, began with the words: &ldquo;Justly
      incensed at the grinding oppression of foreigners, actuated by sordid
      motives of gain rather than by love for a country where they come
      impoverished to seek their fortunes, the mining population of San Tome,
      etc. . . .&rdquo; and ended with the declaration: &ldquo;The chief of the State has
      resolved to exercise to the full his power of clemency. The mine, which by
      every law, international, human, and divine, reverts now to the Government
      as national property, shall remain closed till the sword drawn for the
      sacred defence of liberal principles has accomplished its mission of
      securing the happiness of our beloved country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And for many years this was the last of the San Tome mine. What advantage
      that Government had expected from the spoliation, it is impossible to tell
      now. Costaguana was made with difficulty to pay a beggarly money
      compensation to the families of the victims, and then the matter dropped
      out of diplomatic despatches. But afterwards another Government bethought
      itself of that valuable asset. It was an ordinary Costaguana Government&mdash;the
      fourth in six years&mdash;but it judged of its opportunities sanely. It
      remembered the San Tome mine with a secret conviction of its worthlessness
      in their own hands, but with an ingenious insight into the various uses a
      silver mine can be put to, apart from the sordid process of extracting the
      metal from under the ground. The father of Charles Gould, for a long time
      one of the most wealthy merchants of Costaguana, had already lost a
      considerable part of his fortune in forced loans to the successive
      Governments. He was a man of calm judgment, who never dreamed of pressing
      his claims; and when, suddenly, the perpetual concession of the San Tome
      mine was offered to him in full settlement, his alarm became extreme. He
      was versed in the ways of Governments. Indeed, the intention of this
      affair, though no doubt deeply meditated in the closet, lay open on the
      surface of the document presented urgently for his signature. The third
      and most important clause stipulated that the concession-holder should pay
      at once to the Government five years&rsquo; royalties on the estimated output of
      the mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Gould, senior, defended himself from this fatal favour with many
      arguments and entreaties, but without success. He knew nothing of mining;
      he had no means to put his concession on the European market; the mine as
      a working concern did not exist. The buildings had been burnt down, the
      mining plant had been destroyed, the mining population had disappeared
      from the neighbourhood years and years ago; the very road had vanished
      under a flood of tropical vegetation as effectually as if swallowed by the
      sea; and the main gallery had fallen in within a hundred yards from the
      entrance. It was no longer an abandoned mine; it was a wild, inaccessible,
      and rocky gorge of the Sierra, where vestiges of charred timber, some
      heaps of smashed bricks, and a few shapeless pieces of rusty iron could
      have been found under the matted mass of thorny creepers covering the
      ground. Mr. Gould, senior, did not desire the perpetual possession of that
      desolate locality; in fact, the mere vision of it arising before his mind
      in the still watches of the night had the power to exasperate him into
      hours of hot and agitated insomnia.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened, however, that the Finance Minister of the time was a man
      to whom, in years gone by, Mr. Gould had, unfortunately, declined to grant
      some small pecuniary assistance, basing his refusal on the ground that the
      applicant was a notorious gambler and cheat, besides being more than half
      suspected of a robbery with violence on a wealthy ranchero in a remote
      country district, where he was actually exercising the function of a
      judge. Now, after reaching his exalted position, that politician had
      proclaimed his intention to repay evil with good to Senor Gould&mdash;the
      poor man. He affirmed and reaffirmed this resolution in the drawing-rooms
      of Sta. Marta, in a soft and implacable voice, and with such malicious
      glances that Mr. Gould&rsquo;s best friends advised him earnestly to attempt no
      bribery to get the matter dropped. It would have been useless. Indeed, it
      would not have been a very safe proceeding. Such was also the opinion of a
      stout, loud-voiced lady of French extraction, the daughter, she said, of
      an officer of high rank (<i>officier superieur de l&rsquo;armee</i>), who was
      accommodated with lodgings within the walls of a secularized convent next
      door to the Ministry of Finance. That florid person, when approached on
      behalf of Mr. Gould in a proper manner, and with a suitable present, shook
      her head despondently. She was good-natured, and her despondency was
      genuine. She imagined she could not take money in consideration of
      something she could not accomplish. The friend of Mr. Gould, charged with
      the delicate mission, used to say afterwards that she was the only honest
      person closely or remotely connected with the Government he had ever met.
      &ldquo;No go,&rdquo; she had said with a cavalier, husky intonation which was natural
      to her, and using turns of expression more suitable to a child of parents
      unknown than to the orphaned daughter of a general officer. &ldquo;No; it&rsquo;s no
      go. <i>Pas moyen, mon garcon. C&rsquo;est dommage, tout de meme. Ah! zut! Je ne
      vole pas mon monde. Je ne suis pas ministre&mdash;moi! Vous pouvez
      emporter votre petit sac</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment, biting her carmine lip, she deplored inwardly the tyranny of
      the rigid principles governing the sale of her influence in high places.
      Then, significantly, and with a touch of impatience, &ldquo;<i>Allez</i>,&rdquo; she
      added, &ldquo;<i>et dites bien a votre bonhomme&mdash;entendez-vous?&mdash;qu&rsquo;il
      faut avaler la pilule</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After such a warning there was nothing for it but to sign and pay. Mr.
      Gould had swallowed the pill, and it was as though it had been compounded
      of some subtle poison that acted directly on his brain. He became at once
      mine-ridden, and as he was well read in light literature it took to his
      mind the form of the Old Man of the Sea fastened upon his shoulders. He
      also began to dream of vampires. Mr. Gould exaggerated to himself the
      disadvantages of his new position, because he viewed it emotionally. His
      position in Costaguana was no worse than before. But man is a desperately
      conservative creature, and the extravagant novelty of this outrage upon
      his purse distressed his sensibilities. Everybody around him was being
      robbed by the grotesque and murderous bands that played their game of
      governments and revolutions after the death of Guzman Bento. His
      experience had taught him that, however short the plunder might fall of
      their legitimate expectations, no gang in possession of the Presidential
      Palace would be so incompetent as to suffer itself to be baffled by the
      want of a pretext. The first casual colonel of the barefooted army of
      scarecrows that came along was able to expose with force and precision to
      any mere civilian his titles to a sum of 10,000 dollars; the while his
      hope would be immutably fixed upon a gratuity, at any rate, of no less
      than a thousand. Mr. Gould knew that very well, and, armed with
      resignation, had waited for better times. But to be robbed under the forms
      of legality and business was intolerable to his imagination. Mr. Gould,
      the father, had one fault in his sagacious and honourable character: he
      attached too much importance to form. It is a failing common to mankind,
      whose views are tinged by prejudices. There was for him in that affair a
      malignancy of perverted justice which, by means of a moral shock, attacked
      his vigorous physique. &ldquo;It will end by killing me,&rdquo; he used to affirm many
      times a day. And, in fact, since that time he began to suffer from fever,
      from liver pains, and mostly from a worrying inability to think of
      anything else. The Finance Minister could have formed no conception of the
      profound subtlety of his revenge. Even Mr. Gould&rsquo;s letters to his
      fourteen-year-old boy Charles, then away in England for his education,
      came at last to talk of practically nothing but the mine. He groaned over
      the injustice, the persecution, the outrage of that mine; he occupied
      whole pages in the exposition of the fatal consequences attaching to the
      possession of that mine from every point of view, with every dismal
      inference, with words of horror at the apparently eternal character of
      that curse. For the Concession had been granted to him and his descendants
      for ever. He implored his son never to return to Costaguana, never to
      claim any part of his inheritance there, because it was tainted by the
      infamous Concession; never to touch it, never to approach it, to forget
      that America existed, and pursue a mercantile career in Europe. And each
      letter ended with bitter self-reproaches for having stayed too long in
      that cavern of thieves, intriguers, and brigands.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be told repeatedly that one&rsquo;s future is blighted because of the
      possession of a silver mine is not, at the age of fourteen, a matter of
      prime importance as to its main statement; but in its form it is
      calculated to excite a certain amount of wonder and attention. In course
      of time the boy, at first only puzzled by the angry jeremiads, but rather
      sorry for his dad, began to turn the matter over in his mind in such
      moments as he could spare from play and study. In about a year he had
      evolved from the lecture of the letters a definite conviction that there
      was a silver mine in the Sulaco province of the Republic of Costaguana,
      where poor Uncle Harry had been shot by soldiers a great many years
      before. There was also connected closely with that mine a thing called the
      &ldquo;iniquitous Gould Concession,&rdquo; apparently written on a paper which his
      father desired ardently to &ldquo;tear and fling into the faces&rdquo; of presidents,
      members of judicature, and ministers of State. And this desire persisted,
      though the names of these people, he noticed, seldom remained the same for
      a whole year together. This desire (since the thing was iniquitous) seemed
      quite natural to the boy, though why the affair was iniquitous he did not
      know. Afterwards, with advancing wisdom, he managed to clear the plain
      truth of the business from the fantastic intrusions of the Old Man of the
      Sea, vampires, and ghouls, which had lent to his father&rsquo;s correspondence
      the flavour of a gruesome Arabian Nights tale. In the end, the growing
      youth attained to as close an intimacy with the San Tome mine as the old
      man who wrote these plaintive and enraged letters on the other side of the
      sea. He had been made several times already to pay heavy fines for
      neglecting to work the mine, he reported, besides other sums extracted
      from him on account of future royalties, on the ground that a man with
      such a valuable concession in his pocket could not refuse his financial
      assistance to the Government of the Republic. The last of his fortune was
      passing away from him against worthless receipts, he wrote, in a rage,
      whilst he was being pointed out as an individual who had known how to
      secure enormous advantages from the necessities of his country. And the
      young man in Europe grew more and more interested in that thing which
      could provoke such a tumult of words and passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      He thought of it every day; but he thought of it without bitterness. It
      might have been an unfortunate affair for his poor dad, and the whole
      story threw a queer light upon the social and political life of
      Costaguana. The view he took of it was sympathetic to his father, yet calm
      and reflective. His personal feelings had not been outraged, and it is
      difficult to resent with proper and durable indignation the physical or
      mental anguish of another organism, even if that other organism is one&rsquo;s
      own father. By the time he was twenty Charles Gould had, in his turn,
      fallen under the spell of the San Tome mine. But it was another form of
      enchantment, more suitable to his youth, into whose magic formula there
      entered hope, vigour, and self-confidence, instead of weary indignation
      and despair. Left after he was twenty to his own guidance (except for the
      severe injunction not to return to Costaguana), he had pursued his studies
      in Belgium and France with the idea of qualifying for a mining engineer.
      But this scientific aspect of his labours remained vague and imperfect in
      his mind. Mines had acquired for him a dramatic interest. He studied their
      peculiarities from a personal point of view, too, as one would study the
      varied characters of men. He visited them as one goes with curiosity to
      call upon remarkable persons. He visited mines in Germany, in Spain, in
      Cornwall. Abandoned workings had for him strong fascination. Their
      desolation appealed to him like the sight of human misery, whose causes
      are varied and profound. They might have been worthless, but also they
      might have been misunderstood. His future wife was the first, and perhaps
      the only person to detect this secret mood which governed the profoundly
      sensible, almost voiceless attitude of this man towards the world of
      material things. And at once her delight in him, lingering with half-open
      wings like those birds that cannot rise easily from a flat level, found a
      pinnacle from which to soar up into the skies.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had become acquainted in Italy, where the future Mrs. Gould was
      staying with an old and pale aunt who, years before, had married a
      middle-aged, impoverished Italian marquis. She now mourned that man, who
      had known how to give up his life to the independence and unity of his
      country, who had known how to be as enthusiastic in his generosity as the
      youngest of those who fell for that very cause of which old Giorgio Viola
      was a drifting relic, as a broken spar is suffered to float away
      disregarded after a naval victory. The Marchesa led a still, whispering
      existence, nun-like in her black robes and a white band over the forehead,
      in a corner of the first floor of an ancient and ruinous palace, whose
      big, empty halls downstairs sheltered under their painted ceilings the
      harvests, the fowls, and even the cattle, together with the whole family
      of the tenant farmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two young people had met in Lucca. After that meeting Charles Gould
      visited no mines, though they went together in a carriage, once, to see
      some marble quarries, where the work resembled mining in so far that it
      also was the tearing of the raw material of treasure from the earth.
      Charles Gould did not open his heart to her in any set speeches. He simply
      went on acting and thinking in her sight. This is the true method of
      sincerity. One of his frequent remarks was, &ldquo;I think sometimes that poor
      father takes a wrong view of that San Tome business.&rdquo; And they discussed
      that opinion long and earnestly, as if they could influence a mind across
      half the globe; but in reality they discussed it because the sentiment of
      love can enter into any subject and live ardently in remote phrases. For
      this natural reason these discussions were precious to Mrs. Gould in her
      engaged state. Charles feared that Mr. Gould, senior, was wasting his
      strength and making himself ill by his efforts to get rid of the
      Concession. &ldquo;I fancy that this is not the kind of handling it requires,&rdquo;
       he mused aloud, as if to himself. And when she wondered frankly that a man
      of character should devote his energies to plotting and intrigues, Charles
      would remark, with a gentle concern that understood her wonder, &ldquo;You must
      not forget that he was born there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She would set her quick mind to work upon that, and then make the
      inconsequent retort, which he accepted as perfectly sagacious, because, in
      fact, it was so&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and you? You were born there, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He knew his answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s different. I&rsquo;ve been away ten years. Dad never had such a long
      spell; and it was more than thirty years ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was the first person to whom he opened his lips after receiving the
      news of his father&rsquo;s death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has killed him!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had walked straight out of town with the news, straight out before him
      in the noonday sun on the white road, and his feet had brought him face to
      face with her in the hall of the ruined palazzo, a room magnificent and
      naked, with here and there a long strip of damask, black with damp and
      age, hanging down on a bare panel of the wall. It was furnished with
      exactly one gilt armchair, with a broken back, and an octagon columnar
      stand bearing a heavy marble vase ornamented with sculptured masks and
      garlands of flowers, and cracked from top to bottom. Charles Gould was
      dusty with the white dust of the road lying on his boots, on his
      shoulders, on his cap with two peaks. Water dripped from under it all over
      his face, and he grasped a thick oaken cudgel in his bare right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went very pale under the roses of her big straw hat, gloved, swinging
      a clear sunshade, caught just as she was going out to meet him at the
      bottom of the hill, where three poplars stand near the wall of a vineyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has killed him!&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;He ought to have had many years yet. We
      are a long-lived family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was too startled to say anything; he was contemplating with a
      penetrating and motionless stare the cracked marble urn as though he had
      resolved to fix its shape for ever in his memory. It was only when,
      turning suddenly to her, he blurted out twice, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve come to you&mdash;I&rsquo;ve
      come straight to you&mdash;,&rdquo; without being able to finish his phrase,
      that the great pitifulness of that lonely and tormented death in
      Costaguana came to her with the full force of its misery. He caught hold
      of her hand, raised it to his lips, and at that she dropped her parasol to
      pat him on the cheek, murmured &ldquo;Poor boy,&rdquo; and began to dry her eyes under
      the downward curve of her hat-brim, very small in her simple, white frock,
      almost like a lost child crying in the degraded grandeur of the noble
      hall, while he stood by her, again perfectly motionless in the
      contemplation of the marble urn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterwards they went out for a long walk, which was silent till he
      exclaimed suddenly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But if he had only grappled with it in a proper way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then they stopped. Everywhere there were long shadows lying on the
      hills, on the roads, on the enclosed fields of olive trees; the shadows of
      poplars, of wide chestnuts, of farm buildings, of stone walls; and in
      mid-air the sound of a bell, thin and alert, was like the throbbing pulse
      of the sunset glow. Her lips were slightly parted as though in surprise
      that he should not be looking at her with his usual expression. His usual
      expression was unconditionally approving and attentive. He was in his
      talks with her the most anxious and deferential of dictators, an attitude
      that pleased her immensely. It affirmed her power without detracting from
      his dignity. That slight girl, with her little feet, little hands, little
      face attractively overweighted by great coils of hair; with a rather large
      mouth, whose mere parting seemed to breathe upon you the fragrance of
      frankness and generosity, had the fastidious soul of an experienced woman.
      She was, before all things and all flatteries, careful of her pride in the
      object of her choice. But now he was actually not looking at her at all;
      and his expression was tense and irrational, as is natural in a man who
      elects to stare at nothing past a young girl&rsquo;s head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes. It was iniquitous. They corrupted him thoroughly, the poor old
      boy. Oh! why wouldn&rsquo;t he let me go back to him? But now I shall know how
      to grapple with this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After pronouncing these words with immense assurance, he glanced down at
      her, and at once fell a prey to distress, incertitude, and fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only thing he wanted to know now, he said, was whether she did love
      him enough&mdash;whether she would have the courage to go with him so far
      away? He put these questions to her in a voice that trembled with anxiety&mdash;for
      he was a determined man.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did. She would. And immediately the future hostess of all the
      Europeans in Sulaco had the physical experience of the earth falling away
      from under her. It vanished completely, even to the very sound of the
      bell. When her feet touched the ground again, the bell was still ringing
      in the valley; she put her hands up to her hair, breathing quickly, and
      glanced up and down the stony lane. It was reassuringly empty. Meantime,
      Charles, stepping with one foot into a dry and dusty ditch, picked up the
      open parasol, which had bounded away from them with a martial sound of
      drum taps. He handed it to her soberly, a little crestfallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      They turned back, and after she had slipped her hand on his arm, the first
      words he pronounced were&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s lucky that we shall be able to settle in a coast town. You&rsquo;ve heard
      its name. It is Sulaco. I am so glad poor father did get that house. He
      bought a big house there years ago, in order that there should always be a
      Casa Gould in the principal town of what used to be called the Occidental
      Province. I lived there once, as a small boy, with my dear mother, for a
      whole year, while poor father was away in the United States on business.
      You shall be the new mistress of the Casa Gould.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And later, in the inhabited corner of the Palazzo above the vineyards, the
      marble hills, the pines and olives of Lucca, he also said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The name of Gould has been always highly respected in Sulaco. My uncle
      Harry was chief of the State for some time, and has left a great name
      amongst the first families. By this I mean the pure Creole families, who
      take no part in the miserable farce of governments. Uncle Harry was no
      adventurer. In Costaguana we Goulds are no adventurers. He was of the
      country, and he loved it, but he remained essentially an Englishman in his
      ideas. He made use of the political cry of his time. It was Federation.
      But he was no politician. He simply stood up for social order out of pure
      love for rational liberty and from his hate of oppression. There was no
      nonsense about him. He went to work in his own way because it seemed
      right, just as I feel I must lay hold of that mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In such words he talked to her because his memory was very full of the
      country of his childhood, his heart of his life with that girl, and his
      mind of the San Tome Concession. He added that he would have to leave her
      for a few days to find an American, a man from San Francisco, who was
      still somewhere in Europe. A few months before he had made his
      acquaintance in an old historic German town, situated in a mining
      district. The American had his womankind with him, but seemed lonely while
      they were sketching all day long the old doorways and the turreted corners
      of the mediaeval houses. Charles Gould had with him the inseparable
      companionship of the mine. The other man was interested in mining
      enterprises, knew something of Costaguana, and was no stranger to the name
      of Gould. They had talked together with some intimacy which was made
      possible by the difference of their ages. Charles wanted now to find that
      capitalist of shrewd mind and accessible character. His father&rsquo;s fortune
      in Costaguana, which he had supposed to be still considerable, seemed to
      have melted in the rascally crucible of revolutions. Apart from some ten
      thousand pounds deposited in England, there appeared to be nothing left
      except the house in Sulaco, a vague right of forest exploitation in a
      remote and savage district, and the San Tome Concession, which had
      attended his poor father to the very brink of the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      He explained those things. It was late when they parted. She had never
      before given him such a fascinating vision of herself. All the eagerness
      of youth for a strange life, for great distances, for a future in which
      there was an air of adventure, of combat&mdash;a subtle thought of redress
      and conquest, had filled her with an intense excitement, which she
      returned to the giver with a more open and exquisite display of
      tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He left her to walk down the hill, and directly he found himself alone he
      became sober. That irreparable change a death makes in the course of our
      daily thoughts can be felt in a vague and poignant discomfort of mind. It
      hurt Charles Gould to feel that never more, by no effort of will, would he
      be able to think of his father in the same way he used to think of him
      when the poor man was alive. His breathing image was no longer in his
      power. This consideration, closely affecting his own identity, filled his
      breast with a mournful and angry desire for action. In this his instinct
      was unerring. Action is consolatory. It is the enemy of thought and the
      friend of flattering illusions. Only in the conduct of our action can we
      find the sense of mastery over the Fates. For his action, the mine was
      obviously the only field. It was imperative sometimes to know how to
      disobey the solemn wishes of the dead. He resolved firmly to make his
      disobedience as thorough (by way of atonement) as it well could be. The
      mine had been the cause of an absurd moral disaster; its working must be
      made a serious and moral success. He owed it to the dead man&rsquo;s memory.
      Such were the&mdash;properly speaking&mdash;emotions of Charles Gould. His
      thoughts ran upon the means of raising a large amount of capital in San
      Francisco or elsewhere; and incidentally there occurred to him also the
      general reflection that the counsel of the departed must be an unsound
      guide. Not one of them could be aware beforehand what enormous changes the
      death of any given individual may produce in the very aspect of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latest phase in the history of the mine Mrs. Gould knew from personal
      experience. It was in essence the history of her married life. The mantle
      of the Goulds&rsquo; hereditary position in Sulaco had descended amply upon her
      little person; but she would not allow the peculiarities of the strange
      garment to weigh down the vivacity of her character, which was the sign of
      no mere mechanical sprightliness, but of an eager intelligence. It must
      not be supposed that Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s mind was masculine. A woman with a
      masculine mind is not a being of superior efficiency; she is simply a
      phenomenon of imperfect differentiation&mdash;interestingly barren and
      without importance. Dona Emilia&rsquo;s intelligence being feminine led her to
      achieve the conquest of Sulaco, simply by lighting the way for her
      unselfishness and sympathy. She could converse charmingly, but she was not
      talkative. The wisdom of the heart having no concern with the erection or
      demolition of theories any more than with the defence of prejudices, has
      no random words at its command. The words it pronounces have the value of
      acts of integrity, tolerance, and compassion. A woman&rsquo;s true tenderness,
      like the true virility of man, is expressed in action of a conquering
      kind. The ladies of Sulaco adored Mrs. Gould. &ldquo;They still look upon me as
      something of a monster,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould had said pleasantly to one of the
      three gentlemen from San Francisco she had to entertain in her new Sulaco
      house just about a year after her marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were her first visitors from abroad, and they had come to look at the
      San Tome mine. She jested most agreeably, they thought; and Charles Gould,
      besides knowing thoroughly what he was about, had shown himself a real
      hustler. These facts caused them to be well disposed towards his wife. An
      unmistakable enthusiasm, pointed by a slight flavour of irony, made her
      talk of the mine absolutely fascinating to her visitors, and provoked them
      to grave and indulgent smiles in which there was a good deal of deference.
      Perhaps had they known how much she was inspired by an idealistic view of
      success they would have been amazed at the state of her mind as the
      Spanish-American ladies had been amazed at the tireless activity of her
      body. She would&mdash;in her own words&mdash;have been for them &ldquo;something
      of a monster.&rdquo; However, the Goulds were in essentials a reticent couple,
      and their guests departed without the suspicion of any other purpose but
      simple profit in the working of a silver mine. Mrs. Gould had out her own
      carriage, with two white mules, to drive them down to the harbour, whence
      the Ceres was to carry them off into the Olympus of plutocrats. Captain
      Mitchell had snatched at the occasion of leave-taking to remark to Mrs.
      Gould, in a low, confidential mutter, &ldquo;This marks an epoch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould loved the patio of her Spanish house. A broad flight of stone
      steps was overlooked silently from a niche in the wall by a Madonna in
      blue robes with the crowned child sitting on her arm. Subdued voices
      ascended in the early mornings from the paved well of the quadrangle, with
      the stamping of horses and mules led out in pairs to drink at the cistern.
      A tangle of slender bamboo stems drooped its narrow, blade-like leaves
      over the square pool of water, and the fat coachman sat muffled up on the
      edge, holding lazily the ends of halters in his hand. Barefooted servants
      passed to and fro, issuing from dark, low doorways below; two laundry
      girls with baskets of washed linen; the baker with the tray of bread made
      for the day; Leonarda&mdash;her own camerista&mdash;bearing high up, swung
      from her hand raised above her raven black head, a bunch of starched
      under-skirts dazzlingly white in the slant of sunshine. Then the old
      porter would hobble in, sweeping the flagstones, and the house was ready
      for the day. All the lofty rooms on three sides of the quadrangle opened
      into each other and into the corredor, with its wrought-iron railings and
      a border of flowers, whence, like the lady of the mediaeval castle, she
      could witness from above all the departures and arrivals of the Casa, to
      which the sonorous arched gateway lent an air of stately importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had watched her carriage roll away with the three guests from the
      north. She smiled. Their three arms went up simultaneously to their three
      hats. Captain Mitchell, the fourth, in attendance, had already begun a
      pompous discourse. Then she lingered. She lingered, approaching her face
      to the clusters of flowers here and there as if to give time to her
      thoughts to catch up with her slow footsteps along the straight vista of
      the corredor.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fringed Indian hammock from Aroa, gay with coloured featherwork, had
      been swung judiciously in a corner that caught the early sun; for the
      mornings are cool in Sulaco. The cluster of <i>flor de noche buena</i>
      blazed in great masses before the open glass doors of the reception rooms.
      A big green parrot, brilliant like an emerald in a cage that flashed like
      gold, screamed out ferociously, &ldquo;<i>Viva Costaguana!</i>&rdquo; then called
      twice mellifluously, &ldquo;Leonarda! Leonarda!&rdquo; in imitation of Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s
      voice, and suddenly took refuge in immobility and silence. Mrs. Gould
      reached the end of the gallery and put her head through the door of her
      husband&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, with one foot on a low wooden stool, was already strapping
      his spurs. He wanted to hurry back to the mine. Mrs. Gould, without coming
      in, glanced about the room. One tall, broad bookcase, with glass doors,
      was full of books; but in the other, without shelves, and lined with red
      baize, were arranged firearms: Winchester carbines, revolvers, a couple of
      shot-guns, and even two pairs of double-barrelled holster pistols. Between
      them, by itself, upon a strip of scarlet velvet, hung an old cavalry
      sabre, once the property of Don Enrique Gould, the hero of the Occidental
      Province, presented by Don Jose Avellanos, the hereditary friend of the
      family.
    </p>
    <p>
      Otherwise, the plastered white walls were completely bare, except for a
      water-colour sketch of the San Tome mountain&mdash;the work of Dona Emilia
      herself. In the middle of the red-tiled floor stood two long tables
      littered with plans and papers, a few chairs, and a glass show-case
      containing specimens of ore from the mine. Mrs. Gould, looking at all
      these things in turn, wondered aloud why the talk of these wealthy and
      enterprising men discussing the prospects, the working, and the safety of
      the mine rendered her so impatient and uneasy, whereas she could talk of
      the mine by the hour with her husband with unwearied interest and
      satisfaction. And dropping her eyelids expressively, she added&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you feel about it, Charley?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, surprised at her husband&rsquo;s silence, she raised her eyes, opened
      wide, as pretty as pale flowers. He had done with the spurs, and, twisting
      his moustache with both hands, horizontally, he contemplated her from the
      height of his long legs with a visible appreciation of her appearance. The
      consciousness of being thus contemplated pleased Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are considerable men,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. But have you listened to their conversation? They don&rsquo;t seem to
      have understood anything they have seen here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have seen the mine. They have understood that to some purpose,&rdquo;
       Charles Gould interjected, in defence of the visitors; and then his wife
      mentioned the name of the most considerable of the three. He was
      considerable in finance and in industry. His name was familiar to many
      millions of people. He was so considerable that he would never have
      travelled so far away from the centre of his activity if the doctors had
      not insisted, with veiled menaces, on his taking a long holiday.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Holroyd&rsquo;s sense of religion,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould pursued, &ldquo;was shocked and
      disgusted at the tawdriness of the dressed-up saints in the cathedral&mdash;the
      worship, he called it, of wood and tinsel. But it seemed to me that he
      looked upon his own God as a sort of influential partner, who gets his
      share of profits in the endowment of churches. That&rsquo;s a sort of idolatry.
      He told me he endowed churches every year, Charley.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No end of them,&rdquo; said Mr. Gould, marvelling inwardly at the mobility of
      her physiognomy. &ldquo;All over the country. He&rsquo;s famous for that sort of
      munificence.&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh, he didn&rsquo;t boast,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould declared, scrupulously. &ldquo;I
      believe he&rsquo;s really a good man, but so stupid! A poor Chulo who offers a
      little silver arm or leg to thank his god for a cure is as rational and
      more touching.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s at the head of immense silver and iron interests,&rdquo; Charles Gould
      observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes! The religion of silver and iron. He&rsquo;s a very civil man, though
      he looked awfully solemn when he first saw the Madonna on the staircase,
      who&rsquo;s only wood and paint; but he said nothing to me. My dear Charley, I
      heard those men talk among themselves. Can it be that they really wish to
      become, for an immense consideration, drawers of water and hewers of wood
      to all the countries and nations of the earth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A man must work to some end,&rdquo; Charles Gould said, vaguely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, frowning, surveyed him from head to foot. With his riding
      breeches, leather leggings (an article of apparel never before seen in
      Costaguana), a Norfolk coat of grey flannel, and those great flaming
      moustaches, he suggested an officer of cavalry turned gentleman farmer.
      This combination was gratifying to Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s tastes. &ldquo;How thin the poor
      boy is!&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He overworks himself.&rdquo; But there was no denying
      that his fine-drawn, keen red face, and his whole, long-limbed, lank
      person had an air of breeding and distinction. And Mrs. Gould relented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wondered what you felt,&rdquo; she murmured, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the last few days, as it happened, Charles Gould had been kept too
      busy thinking twice before he spoke to have paid much attention to the
      state of his feelings. But theirs was a successful match, and he had no
      difficulty in finding his answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The best of my feelings are in your keeping, my dear,&rdquo; he said, lightly;
      and there was so much truth in that obscure phrase that he experienced
      towards her at the moment a great increase of gratitude and tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, however, did not seem to find this answer in the least
      obscure. She brightened up delicately; already he had changed his tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there are facts. The worth of the mine&mdash;as a mine&mdash;is
      beyond doubt. It shall make us very wealthy. The mere working of it is a
      matter of technical knowledge, which I have&mdash;which ten thousand other
      men in the world have. But its safety, its continued existence as an
      enterprise, giving a return to men&mdash;to strangers, comparative
      strangers&mdash;who invest money in it, is left altogether in my hands. I
      have inspired confidence in a man of wealth and position. You seem to
      think this perfectly natural&mdash;do you? Well, I don&rsquo;t know. I don&rsquo;t
      know why I have; but it is a fact. This fact makes everything possible,
      because without it I would never have thought of disregarding my father&rsquo;s
      wishes. I would never have disposed of the Concession as a speculator
      disposes of a valuable right to a company&mdash;for cash and shares, to
      grow rich eventually if possible, but at any rate to put some money at
      once in his pocket. No. Even if it had been feasible&mdash;which I doubt&mdash;I
      would not have done so. Poor father did not understand. He was afraid I
      would hang on to the ruinous thing, waiting for just some such chance, and
      waste my life miserably. That was the true sense of his prohibition, which
      we have deliberately set aside.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were walking up and down the corredor. Her head just reached to his
      shoulder. His arm, extended downwards, was about her waist. His spurs
      jingled slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had not seen me for ten years. He did not know me. He parted from me
      for my sake, and he would never let me come back. He was always talking in
      his letters of leaving Costaguana, of abandoning everything and making his
      escape. But he was too valuable a prey. They would have thrown him into
      one of their prisons at the first suspicion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His spurred feet clinked slowly. He was bending over his wife as they
      walked. The big parrot, turning its head askew, followed their pacing
      figures with a round, unblinking eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was a lonely man. Ever since I was ten years old he used to talk to me
      as if I had been grown up. When I was in Europe he wrote to me every
      month. Ten, twelve pages every month of my life for ten years. And, after
      all, he did not know me! Just think of it&mdash;ten whole years away; the
      years I was growing up into a man. He could not know me. Do you think he
      could?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould shook her head negatively; which was just what her husband had
      expected from the strength of the argument. But she shook her head
      negatively only because she thought that no one could know her Charles&mdash;really
      know him for what he was but herself. The thing was obvious. It could be
      felt. It required no argument. And poor Mr. Gould, senior, who had died
      too soon to ever hear of their engagement, remained too shadowy a figure
      for her to be credited with knowledge of any sort whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he did not understand. In my view this mine could never have been a
      thing to sell. Never! After all his misery I simply could not have touched
      it for money alone,&rdquo; Charles Gould pursued: and she pressed her head to
      his shoulder approvingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two young people remembered the life which had ended wretchedly just
      when their own lives had come together in that splendour of hopeful love,
      which to the most sensible minds appears like a triumph of good over all
      the evils of the earth. A vague idea of rehabilitation had entered the
      plan of their life. That it was so vague as to elude the support of
      argument made it only the stronger. It had presented itself to them at the
      instant when the woman&rsquo;s instinct of devotion and the man&rsquo;s instinct of
      activity receive from the strongest of illusions their most powerful
      impulse. The very prohibition imposed the necessity of success. It was as
      if they had been morally bound to make good their vigorous view of life
      against the unnatural error of weariness and despair. If the idea of
      wealth was present to them it was only in so far as it was bound with that
      other success. Mrs. Gould, an orphan from early childhood and without
      fortune, brought up in an atmosphere of intellectual interests, had never
      considered the aspects of great wealth. They were too remote, and she had
      not learned that they were desirable. On the other hand, she had not known
      anything of absolute want. Even the very poverty of her aunt, the
      Marchesa, had nothing intolerable to a refined mind; it seemed in accord
      with a great grief: it had the austerity of a sacrifice offered to a noble
      ideal. Thus even the most legitimate touch of materialism was wanting in
      Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s character. The dead man of whom she thought with tenderness
      (because he was Charley&rsquo;s father) and with some impatience (because he had
      been weak), must be put completely in the wrong. Nothing else would do to
      keep their prosperity without a stain on its only real, on its immaterial
      side!
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, on his part, had been obliged to keep the idea of wealth
      well to the fore; but he brought it forward as a means, not as an end.
      Unless the mine was good business it could not be touched. He had to
      insist on that aspect of the enterprise. It was his lever to move men who
      had capital. And Charles Gould believed in the mine. He knew everything
      that could be known of it. His faith in the mine was contagious, though it
      was not served by a great eloquence; but business men are frequently as
      sanguine and imaginative as lovers. They are affected by a personality
      much oftener than people would suppose; and Charles Gould, in his unshaken
      assurance, was absolutely convincing. Besides, it was a matter of common
      knowledge to the men to whom he addressed himself that mining in
      Costaguana was a game that could be made considerably more than worth the
      candle. The men of affairs knew that very well. The real difficulty in
      touching it was elsewhere. Against that there was an implication of calm
      and implacable resolution in Charles Gould&rsquo;s very voice. Men of affairs
      venture sometimes on acts that the common judgment of the world would
      pronounce absurd; they make their decisions on apparently impulsive and
      human grounds. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; had said the considerable personage to whom
      Charles Gould on his way out through San Francisco had lucidly exposed his
      point of view. &ldquo;Let us suppose that the mining affairs of Sulaco are taken
      in hand. There would then be in it: first, the house of Holroyd, which is
      all right; then, Mr. Charles Gould, a citizen of Costaguana, who is also
      all right; and, lastly, the Government of the Republic. So far this
      resembles the first start of the Atacama nitrate fields, where there was a
      financing house, a gentleman of the name of Edwards, and&mdash;a
      Government; or, rather, two Governments&mdash;two South American
      Governments. And you know what came of it. War came of it; devastating and
      prolonged war came of it, Mr. Gould. However, here we possess the
      advantage of having only one South American Government hanging around for
      plunder out of the deal. It is an advantage; but then there are degrees of
      badness, and that Government is the Costaguana Government.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus spoke the considerable personage, the millionaire endower of churches
      on a scale befitting the greatness of his native land&mdash;the same to
      whom the doctors used the language of horrid and veiled menaces. He was a
      big-limbed, deliberate man, whose quiet burliness lent to an ample
      silk-faced frock-coat a superfine dignity. His hair was iron grey, his
      eyebrows were still black, and his massive profile was the profile of a
      Caesar&rsquo;s head on an old Roman coin. But his parentage was German and
      Scotch and English, with remote strains of Danish and French blood, giving
      him the temperament of a Puritan and an insatiable imagination of
      conquest. He was completely unbending to his visitor, because of the warm
      introduction the visitor had brought from Europe, and because of an
      irrational liking for earnestness and determination wherever met, to
      whatever end directed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Costaguana Government shall play its hand for all it&rsquo;s worth&mdash;and
      don&rsquo;t you forget it, Mr. Gould. Now, what is Costaguana? It is the
      bottomless pit of 10 per cent. loans and other fool investments. European
      capital has been flung into it with both hands for years. Not ours,
      though. We in this country know just about enough to keep indoors when it
      rains. We can sit and watch. Of course, some day we shall step in. We are
      bound to. But there&rsquo;s no hurry. Time itself has got to wait on the
      greatest country in the whole of God&rsquo;s Universe. We shall be giving the
      word for everything: industry, trade, law, journalism, art, politics, and
      religion, from Cape Horn clear over to Smith&rsquo;s Sound, and beyond, too, if
      anything worth taking hold of turns up at the North Pole. And then we
      shall have the leisure to take in hand the outlying islands and continents
      of the earth. We shall run the world&rsquo;s business whether the world likes it
      or not. The world can&rsquo;t help it&mdash;and neither can we, I guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By this he meant to express his faith in destiny in words suitable to his
      intelligence, which was unskilled in the presentation of general ideas.
      His intelligence was nourished on facts; and Charles Gould, whose
      imagination had been permanently affected by the one great fact of a
      silver mine, had no objection to this theory of the world&rsquo;s future. If it
      had seemed distasteful for a moment it was because the sudden statement of
      such vast eventualities dwarfed almost to nothingness the actual matter in
      hand. He and his plans and all the mineral wealth of the Occidental
      Province appeared suddenly robbed of every vestige of magnitude. The
      sensation was disagreeable; but Charles Gould was not dull. Already he
      felt that he was producing a favourable impression; the consciousness of
      that flattering fact helped him to a vague smile, which his big
      interlocutor took for a smile of discreet and admiring assent. He smiled
      quietly, too; and immediately Charles Gould, with that mental agility
      mankind will display in defence of a cherished hope, reflected that the
      very apparent insignificance of his aim would help him to success. His
      personality and his mine would be taken up because it was a matter of no
      great consequence, one way or another, to a man who referred his action to
      such a prodigious destiny. And Charles Gould was not humiliated by this
      consideration, because the thing remained as big as ever for him. Nobody
      else&rsquo;s vast conceptions of destiny could diminish the aspect of his desire
      for the redemption of the San Tome mine. In comparison to the correctness
      of his aim, definite in space and absolutely attainable within a limited
      time, the other man appeared for an instant as a dreamy idealist of no
      importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great man, massive and benignant, had been looking at him
      thoughtfully; when he broke the short silence it was to remark that
      concessions flew about thick in the air of Costaguana. Any simple soul
      that just yearned to be taken in could bring down a concession at the
      first shot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our consuls get their mouths stopped with them,&rdquo; he continued, with a
      twinkle of genial scorn in his eyes. But in a moment he became grave. &ldquo;A
      conscientious, upright man, that cares nothing for boodle, and keeps clear
      of their intrigues, conspiracies, and factions, soon gets his passports.
      See that, Mr. Gould? Persona non grata. That&rsquo;s the reason our Government
      is never properly informed. On the other hand, Europe must be kept out of
      this continent, and for proper interference on our part the time is not
      yet ripe, I dare say. But we here&mdash;we are not this country&rsquo;s
      Government, neither are we simple souls. Your affair is all right. The
      main question for us is whether the second partner, and that&rsquo;s you, is the
      right sort to hold his own against the third and unwelcome partner, which
      is one or another of the high and mighty robber gangs that run the
      Costaguana Government. What do you think, Mr. Gould, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bent forward to look steadily into the unflinching eyes of Charles
      Gould, who, remembering the large box full of his father&rsquo;s letters, put
      the accumulated scorn and bitterness of many years into the tone of his
      answer&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As far as the knowledge of these men and their methods and their politics
      is concerned, I can answer for myself. I have been fed on that sort of
      knowledge since I was a boy. I am not likely to fall into mistakes from
      excess of optimism.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not likely, eh? That&rsquo;s all right. Tact and a stiff upper lip is what
      you&rsquo;ll want; and you could bluff a little on the strength of your backing.
      Not too much, though. We will go with you as long as the thing runs
      straight. But we won&rsquo;t be drawn into any large trouble. This is the
      experiment which I am willing to make. There is some risk, and we will
      take it; but if you can&rsquo;t keep up your end, we will stand our loss, of
      course, and then&mdash;we&rsquo;ll let the thing go. This mine can wait; it has
      been shut up before, as you know. You must understand that under no
      circumstances will we consent to throw good money after bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus the great personage had spoken then, in his own private office, in a
      great city where other men (very considerable in the eyes of a vain
      populace) waited with alacrity upon a wave of his hand. And rather more
      than a year later, during his unexpected appearance in Sulaco, he had
      emphasized his uncompromising attitude with a freedom of sincerity
      permitted to his wealth and influence. He did this with the less reserve,
      perhaps, because the inspection of what had been done, and more still the
      way in which successive steps had been taken, had impressed him with the
      conviction that Charles Gould was perfectly capable of keeping up his end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This young fellow,&rdquo; he thought to himself, &ldquo;may yet become a power in the
      land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This thought flattered him, for hitherto the only account of this young
      man he could give to his intimates was&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother-in-law met him in one of these one-horse old German towns,
      near some mines, and sent him on to me with a letter. He&rsquo;s one of the
      Costaguana Goulds, pure-bred Englishmen, but all born in the country. His
      uncle went into politics, was the last Provincial President of Sulaco, and
      got shot after a battle. His father was a prominent business man in Sta.
      Marta, tried to keep clear of their politics, and died ruined after a lot
      of revolutions. And that&rsquo;s your Costaguana in a nutshell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Of course, he was too great a man to be questioned as to his motives, even
      by his intimates. The outside world was at liberty to wonder respectfully
      at the hidden meaning of his actions. He was so great a man that his
      lavish patronage of the &ldquo;purer forms of Christianity&rdquo; (which in its naive
      form of church-building amused Mrs. Gould) was looked upon by his
      fellow-citizens as the manifestation of a pious and humble spirit. But in
      his own circles of the financial world the taking up of such a thing as
      the San Tome mine was regarded with respect, indeed, but rather as a
      subject for discreet jocularity. It was a great man&rsquo;s caprice. In the
      great Holroyd building (an enormous pile of iron, glass, and blocks of
      stone at the corner of two streets, cobwebbed aloft by the radiation of
      telegraph wires) the heads of principal departments exchanged humorous
      glances, which meant that they were not let into the secrets of the San
      Tome business. The Costaguana mail (it was never large&mdash;one fairly
      heavy envelope) was taken unopened straight into the great man&rsquo;s room, and
      no instructions dealing with it had ever been issued thence. The office
      whispered that he answered personally&mdash;and not by dictation either,
      but actually writing in his own hand, with pen and ink, and, it was to be
      supposed, taking a copy in his own private press copy-book, inaccessible
      to profane eyes. Some scornful young men, insignificant pieces of minor
      machinery in that eleven-storey-high workshop of great affairs, expressed
      frankly their private opinion that the great chief had done at last
      something silly, and was ashamed of his folly; others, elderly and
      insignificant, but full of romantic reverence for the business that had
      devoured their best years, used to mutter darkly and knowingly that this
      was a portentous sign; that the Holroyd connection meant by-and-by to get
      hold of the whole Republic of Costaguana, lock, stock, and barrel. But, in
      fact, the hobby theory was the right one. It interested the great man to
      attend personally to the San Tome mine; it interested him so much that he
      allowed this hobby to give a direction to the first complete holiday he
      had taken for quite a startling number of years. He was not running a
      great enterprise there; no mere railway board or industrial corporation.
      He was running a man! A success would have pleased him very much on
      refreshingly novel grounds; but, on the other side of the same feeling, it
      was incumbent upon him to cast it off utterly at the first sign of
      failure. A man may be thrown off. The papers had unfortunately trumpeted
      all over the land his journey to Costaguana. If he was pleased at the way
      Charles Gould was going on, he infused an added grimness into his
      assurances of support. Even at the very last interview, half an hour or so
      before he rolled out of the patio, hat in hand, behind Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s white
      mules, he had said in Charles&rsquo;s room&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You go ahead in your own way, and I shall know how to help you as long as
      you hold your own. But you may rest assured that in a given case we shall
      know how to drop you in time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this Charles Gould&rsquo;s only answer had been: &ldquo;You may begin sending out
      the machinery as soon as you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the great man had liked this imperturbable assurance. The secret of it
      was that to Charles Gould&rsquo;s mind these uncompromising terms were
      agreeable. Like this the mine preserved its identity, with which he had
      endowed it as a boy; and it remained dependent on himself alone. It was a
      serious affair, and he, too, took it grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he said to his wife, alluding to this last conversation with
      the departed guest, while they walked slowly up and down the corredor,
      followed by the irritated eye of the parrot&mdash;&ldquo;of course, a man of
      that sort can take up a thing or drop it when he likes. He will suffer
      from no sense of defeat. He may have to give in, or he may have to die
      to-morrow, but the great silver and iron interests will survive, and some
      day will get hold of Costaguana along with the rest of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had stopped near the cage. The parrot, catching the sound of a word
      belonging to his vocabulary, was moved to interfere. Parrots are very
      human.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Viva Costaguana!&rdquo; he shrieked, with intense self-assertion, and,
      instantly ruffling up his feathers, assumed an air of puffed-up somnolence
      behind the glittering wires.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you believe that, Charley?&rdquo; Mrs. Gould asked. &ldquo;This seems to me
      most awful materialism, and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, it&rsquo;s nothing to me,&rdquo; interrupted her husband, in a reasonable
      tone. &ldquo;I make use of what I see. What&rsquo;s it to me whether his talk is the
      voice of destiny or simply a bit of clap-trap eloquence? There&rsquo;s a good
      deal of eloquence of one sort or another produced in both Americas. The
      air of the New World seems favourable to the art of declamation. Have you
      forgotten how dear Avellanos can hold forth for hours here&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, but that&rsquo;s different,&rdquo; protested Mrs. Gould, almost shocked. The
      allusion was not to the point. Don Jose was a dear good man, who talked
      very well, and was enthusiastic about the greatness of the San Tome mine.
      &ldquo;How can you compare them, Charles?&rdquo; she exclaimed, reproachfully. &ldquo;He has
      suffered&mdash;and yet he hopes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The working competence of men&mdash;which she never questioned&mdash;was
      very surprising to Mrs. Gould, because upon so many obvious issues they
      showed themselves strangely muddle-headed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, with a careworn calmness which secured for him at once his
      wife&rsquo;s anxious sympathy, assured her that he was not comparing. He was an
      American himself, after all, and perhaps he could understand both kinds of
      eloquence&mdash;&ldquo;if it were worth while to try,&rdquo; he added, grimly. But he
      had breathed the air of England longer than any of his people had done for
      three generations, and really he begged to be excused. His poor father
      could be eloquent, too. And he asked his wife whether she remembered a
      passage in one of his father&rsquo;s last letters where Mr. Gould had expressed
      the conviction that &ldquo;God looked wrathfully at these countries, or else He
      would let some ray of hope fall through a rift in the appalling darkness
      of intrigue, bloodshed, and crime that hung over the Queen of Continents.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould had not forgotten. &ldquo;You read it to me, Charley,&rdquo; she murmured.
      &ldquo;It was a striking pronouncement. How deeply your father must have felt
      its terrible sadness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did not like to be robbed. It exasperated him,&rdquo; said Charles Gould.
      &ldquo;But the image will serve well enough. What is wanted here is law, good
      faith, order, security. Any one can declaim about these things, but I pin
      my faith to material interests. Only let the material interests once get a
      firm footing, and they are bound to impose the conditions on which alone
      they can continue to exist. That&rsquo;s how your money-making is justified here
      in the face of lawlessness and disorder. It is justified because the
      security which it demands must be shared with an oppressed people. A
      better justice will come afterwards. That&rsquo;s your ray of hope.&rdquo; His arm
      pressed her slight form closer to his side for a moment. &ldquo;And who knows
      whether in that sense even the San Tome mine may not become that little
      rift in the darkness which poor father despaired of ever seeing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She glanced up at him with admiration. He was competent; he had given a
      vast shape to the vagueness of her unselfish ambitions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charley,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you are splendidly disobedient.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He left her suddenly in the corredor to go and get his hat, a soft, grey
      sombrero, an article of national costume which combined unexpectedly well
      with his English get-up. He came back, a riding-whip under his arm,
      buttoning up a dogskin glove; his face reflected the resolute nature of
      his thoughts. His wife had waited for him at the head of the stairs, and
      before he gave her the parting kiss he finished the conversation&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What should be perfectly clear to us,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is the fact that there
      is no going back. Where could we begin life afresh? We are in now for all
      that there is in us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bent over her upturned face very tenderly and a little remorsefully.
      Charles Gould was competent because he had no illusions. The Gould
      Concession had to fight for life with such weapons as could be found at
      once in the mire of a corruption that was so universal as almost to lose
      its significance. He was prepared to stoop for his weapons. For a moment
      he felt as if the silver mine, which had killed his father, had decoyed
      him further than he meant to go; and with the roundabout logic of
      emotions, he felt that the worthiness of his life was bound up with
      success. There was no going back.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould was too intelligently sympathetic not to share that feeling. It
      made life exciting, and she was too much of a woman not to like
      excitement. But it frightened her, too, a little; and when Don Jose
      Avellanos, rocking in the American chair, would go so far as to say,
      &ldquo;Even, my dear Carlos, if you had failed; even if some untoward event were
      yet to destroy your work&mdash;which God forbid!&mdash;you would have
      deserved well of your country,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould would look up from the
      tea-table profoundly at her unmoved husband stirring the spoon in the cup
      as though he had not heard a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not that Don Jose anticipated anything of the sort. He could not praise
      enough dear Carlos&rsquo;s tact and courage. His English, rock-like quality of
      character was his best safeguard, Don Jose affirmed; and, turning to Mrs.
      Gould, &ldquo;As to you, Emilia, my soul&rdquo;&mdash;he would address her with the
      familiarity of his age and old friendship&mdash;&ldquo;you are as true a patriot
      as though you had been born in our midst.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This might have been less or more than the truth. Mrs. Gould, accompanying
      her husband all over the province in the search for labour, had seen the
      land with a deeper glance than a trueborn Costaguanera could have done. In
      her travel-worn riding habit, her face powdered white like a plaster cast,
      with a further protection of a small silk mask during the heat of the day,
      she rode on a well-shaped, light-footed pony in the centre of a little
      cavalcade. Two mozos de campo, picturesque in great hats, with spurred
      bare heels, in white embroidered calzoneras, leather jackets and striped
      ponchos, rode ahead with carbines across their shoulders, swaying in
      unison to the pace of the horses. A tropilla of pack mules brought up the
      rear in charge of a thin brown muleteer, sitting his long-eared beast very
      near the tail, legs thrust far forward, the wide brim of his hat set far
      back, making a sort of halo for his head. An old Costaguana officer, a
      retired senior major of humble origin, but patronized by the first
      families on account of his Blanco opinions, had been recommended by Don
      Jose for commissary and organizer of that expedition. The points of his
      grey moustache hung far below his chin, and, riding on Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s left
      hand, he looked about with kindly eyes, pointing out the features of the
      country, telling the names of the little pueblos and of the estates, of
      the smooth-walled haciendas like long fortresses crowning the knolls above
      the level of the Sulaco Valley. It unrolled itself, with green young
      crops, plains, woodland, and gleams of water, park-like, from the blue
      vapour of the distant sierra to an immense quivering horizon of grass and
      sky, where big white clouds seemed to fall slowly into the darkness of
      their own shadows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Men ploughed with wooden ploughs and yoked oxen, small on a boundless
      expanse, as if attacking immensity itself. The mounted figures of vaqueros
      galloped in the distance, and the great herds fed with all their horned
      heads one way, in one single wavering line as far as eye could reach
      across the broad potreros. A spreading cotton-wool tree shaded a thatched
      ranche by the road; the trudging files of burdened Indians taking off
      their hats, would lift sad, mute eyes to the cavalcade raising the dust of
      the crumbling camino real made by the hands of their enslaved forefathers.
      And Mrs. Gould, with each day&rsquo;s journey, seemed to come nearer to the soul
      of the land in the tremendous disclosure of this interior unaffected by
      the slight European veneer of the coast towns, a great land of plain and
      mountain and people, suffering and mute, waiting for the future in a
      pathetic immobility of patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew its sights and its hospitality, dispensed with a sort of
      slumbrous dignity in those great houses presenting long, blind walls and
      heavy portals to the wind-swept pastures. She was given the head of the
      tables, where masters and dependants sat in a simple and patriarchal
      state. The ladies of the house would talk softly in the moonlight under
      the orange trees of the courtyards, impressing upon her the sweetness of
      their voices and the something mysterious in the quietude of their lives.
      In the morning the gentlemen, well mounted in braided sombreros and
      embroidered riding suits, with much silver on the trappings of their
      horses, would ride forth to escort the departing guests before committing
      them, with grave good-byes, to the care of God at the boundary pillars of
      their estates. In all these households she could hear stories of political
      outrage; friends, relatives, ruined, imprisoned, killed in the battles of
      senseless civil wars, barbarously executed in ferocious proscriptions, as
      though the government of the country had been a struggle of lust between
      bands of absurd devils let loose upon the land with sabres and uniforms
      and grandiloquent phrases. And on all the lips she found a weary desire
      for peace, the dread of officialdom with its nightmarish parody of
      administration without law, without security, and without justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She bore a whole two months of wandering very well; she had that power of
      resistance to fatigue which one discovers here and there in some quite
      frail-looking women with surprise&mdash;like a state of possession by a
      remarkably stubborn spirit. Don Pepe&mdash;the old Costaguana major&mdash;after
      much display of solicitude for the delicate lady, had ended by conferring
      upon her the name of the &ldquo;Never-tired Senora.&rdquo; Mrs. Gould was indeed
      becoming a Costaguanera. Having acquired in Southern Europe a knowledge of
      true peasantry, she was able to appreciate the great worth of the people.
      She saw the man under the silent, sad-eyed beast of burden. She saw them
      on the road carrying loads, lonely figures upon the plain, toiling under
      great straw hats, with their white clothing flapping about their limbs in
      the wind; she remembered the villages by some group of Indian women at the
      fountain impressed upon her memory, by the face of some young Indian girl
      with a melancholy and sensual profile, raising an earthenware vessel of
      cool water at the door of a dark hut with a wooden porch cumbered with
      great brown jars. The solid wooden wheels of an ox-cart, halted with its
      shafts in the dust, showed the strokes of the axe; and a party of charcoal
      carriers, with each man&rsquo;s load resting above his head on the top of the
      low mud wall, slept stretched in a row within the strip of shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heavy stonework of bridges and churches left by the conquerors
      proclaimed the disregard of human labour, the tribute-labour of vanished
      nations. The power of king and church was gone, but at the sight of some
      heavy ruinous pile overtopping from a knoll the low mud walls of a
      village, Don Pepe would interrupt the tale of his campaigns to exclaim&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Costaguana! Before, it was everything for the Padres, nothing for
      the people; and now it is everything for those great politicos in Sta.
      Marta, for negroes and thieves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles talked with the alcaldes, with the fiscales, with the principal
      people in towns, and with the caballeros on the estates. The commandantes
      of the districts offered him escorts&mdash;for he could show an
      authorization from the Sulaco political chief of the day. How much the
      document had cost him in gold twenty-dollar pieces was a secret between
      himself, a great man in the United States (who condescended to answer the
      Sulaco mail with his own hand), and a great man of another sort, with a
      dark olive complexion and shifty eyes, inhabiting then the Palace of the
      Intendencia in Sulaco, and who piqued himself on his culture and
      Europeanism generally in a rather French style because he had lived in
      Europe for some years&mdash;in exile, he said. However, it was pretty well
      known that just before this exile he had incautiously gambled away all the
      cash in the Custom House of a small port where a friend in power had
      procured for him the post of subcollector. That youthful indiscretion had,
      amongst other inconveniences, obliged him to earn his living for a time as
      a cafe waiter in Madrid; but his talents must have been great, after all,
      since they had enabled him to retrieve his political fortunes so
      splendidly. Charles Gould, exposing his business with an imperturbable
      steadiness, called him Excellency.
    </p>
    <p>
      The provincial Excellency assumed a weary superiority, tilting his chair
      far back near an open window in the true Costaguana manner. The military
      band happened to be braying operatic selections on the plaza just then,
      and twice he raised his hand imperatively for silence in order to listen
      to a favourite passage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exquisite, delicious!&rdquo; he murmured; while Charles Gould waited, standing
      by with inscrutable patience. &ldquo;Lucia, Lucia di Lammermoor! I am passionate
      for music. It transports me. Ha! the divine&mdash;ha!&mdash;Mozart. Si!
      divine . . . What is it you were saying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Of course, rumours had reached him already of the newcomer&rsquo;s intentions.
      Besides, he had received an official warning from Sta. Marta. His manner
      was intended simply to conceal his curiosity and impress his visitor. But
      after he had locked up something valuable in the drawer of a large
      writing-desk in a distant part of the room, he became very affable, and
      walked back to his chair smartly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you intend to build villages and assemble a population near the mine,
      you shall require a decree of the Minister of the Interior for that,&rdquo; he
      suggested in a business-like manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already sent a memorial,&rdquo; said Charles Gould, steadily, &ldquo;and I
      reckon now confidently upon your Excellency&rsquo;s favourable conclusions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Excellency was a man of many moods. With the receipt of the money a
      great mellowness had descended upon his simple soul. Unexpectedly he
      fetched a deep sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Don Carlos! What we want is advanced men like you in the province.
      The lethargy&mdash;the lethargy of these aristocrats! The want of public
      spirit! The absence of all enterprise! I, with my profound studies in
      Europe, you understand&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With one hand thrust into his swelling bosom, he rose and fell on his
      toes, and for ten minutes, almost without drawing breath, went on hurling
      himself intellectually to the assault of Charles Gould&rsquo;s polite silence;
      and when, stopping abruptly, he fell back into his chair, it was as though
      he had been beaten off from a fortress. To save his dignity he hastened to
      dismiss this silent man with a solemn inclination of the head and the
      words, pronounced with moody, fatigued condescension&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may depend upon my enlightened goodwill as long as your conduct as a
      good citizen deserves it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took up a paper fan and began to cool himself with a consequential air,
      while Charles Gould bowed and withdrew. Then he dropped the fan at once,
      and stared with an appearance of wonder and perplexity at the closed door
      for quite a long time. At last he shrugged his shoulders as if to assure
      himself of his disdain. Cold, dull. No intellectuality. Red hair. A true
      Englishman. He despised him.
    </p>
    <p>
      His face darkened. What meant this unimpressed and frigid behaviour? He
      was the first of the successive politicians sent out from the capital to
      rule the Occidental Province whom the manner of Charles Gould in official
      intercourse was to strike as offensively independent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould assumed that if the appearance of listening to deplorable
      balderdash must form part of the price he had to pay for being left
      unmolested, the obligation of uttering balderdash personally was by no
      means included in the bargain. He drew the line there. To these provincial
      autocrats, before whom the peaceable population of all classes had been
      accustomed to tremble, the reserve of that English-looking engineer caused
      an uneasiness which swung to and fro between cringing and truculence.
      Gradually all of them discovered that, no matter what party was in power,
      that man remained in most effective touch with the higher authorities in
      Sta. Marta.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a fact, and it accounted perfectly for the Goulds being by no
      means so wealthy as the engineer-in-chief on the new railway could
      legitimately suppose. Following the advice of Don Jose Avellanos, who was
      a man of good counsel (though rendered timid by his horrible experiences
      of Guzman Bento&rsquo;s time), Charles Gould had kept clear of the capital; but
      in the current gossip of the foreign residents there he was known (with a
      good deal of seriousness underlying the irony) by the nickname of &ldquo;King of
      Sulaco.&rdquo; An advocate of the Costaguana Bar, a man of reputed ability and
      good character, member of the distinguished Moraga family possessing
      extensive estates in the Sulaco Valley, was pointed out to strangers, with
      a shade of mystery and respect, as the agent of the San Tome mine&mdash;&ldquo;political,
      you know.&rdquo; He was tall, black-whiskered, and discreet. It was known that
      he had easy access to ministers, and that the numerous Costaguana generals
      were always anxious to dine at his house. Presidents granted him audience
      with facility. He corresponded actively with his maternal uncle, Don Jose
      Avellanos; but his letters&mdash;unless those expressing formally his
      dutiful affection&mdash;were seldom entrusted to the Costaguana Post
      Office. There the envelopes are opened, indiscriminately, with the
      frankness of a brazen and childish impudence characteristic of some
      Spanish-American Governments. But it must be noted that at about the time
      of the re-opening of the San Tome mine the muleteer who had been employed
      by Charles Gould in his preliminary travels on the Campo added his small
      train of animals to the thin stream of traffic carried over the mountain
      passes between the Sta. Marta upland and the Valley of Sulaco. There are
      no travellers by that arduous and unsafe route unless under very
      exceptional circumstances, and the state of inland trade did not visibly
      require additional transport facilities; but the man seemed to find his
      account in it. A few packages were always found for him whenever he took
      the road. Very brown and wooden, in goatskin breeches with the hair
      outside, he sat near the tail of his own smart mule, his great hat turned
      against the sun, an expression of blissful vacancy on his long face,
      humming day after day a love-song in a plaintive key, or, without a change
      of expression, letting out a yell at his small tropilla in front. A round
      little guitar hung high up on his back; and there was a place scooped out
      artistically in the wood of one of his pack-saddles where a tightly rolled
      piece of paper could be slipped in, the wooden plug replaced, and the
      coarse canvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco it was his practice to smoke
      and doze all day long (as though he had no care in the world) on a stone
      bench outside the doorway of the Casa Gould and facing the windows of the
      Avellanos house. Years and years ago his mother had been chief
      laundry-woman in that family&mdash;very accomplished in the matter of
      clear-starching. He himself had been born on one of their haciendas. His
      name was Bonifacio, and Don Jose, crossing the street about five o&rsquo;clock
      to call on Dona Emilia, always acknowledged his humble salute by some
      movement of hand or head. The porters of both houses conversed lazily with
      him in tones of grave intimacy. His evenings he devoted to gambling and to
      calls in a spirit of generous festivity upon the peyne d&rsquo;oro girls in the
      more remote side-streets of the town. But he, too, was a discreet man.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHT
    </h2>
    <p>
      Those of us whom business or curiosity took to Sulaco in these years
      before the first advent of the railway can remember the steadying effect
      of the San Tome mine upon the life of that remote province. The outward
      appearances had not changed then as they have changed since, as I am told,
      with cable cars running along the streets of the Constitution, and
      carriage roads far into the country, to Rincon and other villages, where
      the foreign merchants and the Ricos generally have their modern villas,
      and a vast railway goods yard by the harbour, which has a quay-side, a
      long range of warehouses, and quite serious, organized labour troubles of
      its own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody had ever heard of labour troubles then. The Cargadores of the port
      formed, indeed, an unruly brotherhood of all sorts of scum, with a patron
      saint of their own. They went on strike regularly (every bull-fight day),
      a form of trouble that even Nostromo at the height of his prestige could
      never cope with efficiently; but the morning after each fiesta, before the
      Indian market-women had opened their mat parasols on the plaza, when the
      snows of Higuerota gleamed pale over the town on a yet black sky, the
      appearance of a phantom-like horseman mounted on a silver-grey mare solved
      the problem of labour without fail. His steed paced the lanes of the slums
      and the weed-grown enclosures within the old ramparts, between the black,
      lightless cluster of huts, like cow-byres, like dog-kennels. The horseman
      hammered with the butt of a heavy revolver at the doors of low pulperias,
      of obscene lean-to sheds sloping against the tumble-down piece of a noble
      wall, at the wooden sides of dwellings so flimsy that the sound of snores
      and sleepy mutters within could be heard in the pauses of the thundering
      clatter of his blows. He called out men&rsquo;s names menacingly from the
      saddle, once, twice. The drowsy answers&mdash;grumpy, conciliating,
      savage, jocular, or deprecating&mdash;came out into the silent darkness in
      which the horseman sat still, and presently a dark figure would flit out
      coughing in the still air. Sometimes a low-toned woman cried through the
      window-hole softly, &ldquo;He&rsquo;s coming directly, senor,&rdquo; and the horseman waited
      silent on a motionless horse. But if perchance he had to dismount, then,
      after a while, from the door of that hovel or of that pulperia, with a
      ferocious scuffle and stifled imprecations, a cargador would fly out head
      first and hands abroad, to sprawl under the forelegs of the silver-grey
      mare, who only pricked forward her sharp little ears. She was used to that
      work; and the man, picking himself up, would walk away hastily from
      Nostromo&rsquo;s revolver, reeling a little along the street and snarling low
      curses. At sunrise Captain Mitchell, coming out anxiously in his night
      attire on to the wooden balcony running the whole length of the O.S.N.
      Company&rsquo;s lonely building by the shore, would see the lighters already
      under way, figures moving busily about the cargo cranes, perhaps hear the
      invaluable Nostromo, now dismounted and in the checked shirt and red sash
      of a Mediterranean sailor, bawling orders from the end of the jetty in a
      stentorian voice. A fellow in a thousand!
    </p>
    <p>
      The material apparatus of perfected civilization which obliterates the
      individuality of old towns under the stereotyped conveniences of modern
      life had not intruded as yet; but over the worn-out antiquity of Sulaco,
      so characteristic with its stuccoed houses and barred windows, with the
      great yellowy-white walls of abandoned convents behind the rows of sombre
      green cypresses, that fact&mdash;very modern in its spirit&mdash;the San
      Tome mine had already thrown its subtle influence. It had altered, too,
      the outward character of the crowds on feast days on the plaza before the
      open portal of the cathedral, by the number of white ponchos with a green
      stripe affected as holiday wear by the San Tome miners. They had also
      adopted white hats with green cord and braid&mdash;articles of good
      quality, which could be obtained in the storehouse of the administration
      for very little money. A peaceable Cholo wearing these colours (unusual in
      Costaguana) was somehow very seldom beaten to within an inch of his life
      on a charge of disrespect to the town police; neither ran he much risk of
      being suddenly lassoed on the road by a recruiting party of lanceros&mdash;a
      method of voluntary enlistment looked upon as almost legal in the
      Republic. Whole villages were known to have volunteered for the army in
      that way; but, as Don Pepe would say with a hopeless shrug to Mrs. Gould,
      &ldquo;What would you! Poor people! Pobrecitos! Pobrecitos! But the State must
      have its soldiers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus professionally spoke Don Pepe, the fighter, with pendent moustaches,
      a nut-brown, lean face, and a clean run of a cast-iron jaw, suggesting the
      type of a cattle-herd horseman from the great Llanos of the South. &ldquo;If you
      will listen to an old officer of Paez, senores,&rdquo; was the exordium of all
      his speeches in the Aristocratic Club of Sulaco, where he was admitted on
      account of his past services to the extinct cause of Federation. The club,
      dating from the days of the proclamation of Costaguana&rsquo;s independence,
      boasted many names of liberators amongst its first founders. Suppressed
      arbitrarily innumerable times by various Governments, with memories of
      proscriptions and of at least one wholesale massacre of its members, sadly
      assembled for a banquet by the order of a zealous military commandante
      (their bodies were afterwards stripped naked and flung into the plaza out
      of the windows by the lowest scum of the populace), it was again
      flourishing, at that period, peacefully. It extended to strangers the
      large hospitality of the cool, big rooms of its historic quarters in the
      front part of a house, once the residence of a high official of the Holy
      Office. The two wings, shut up, crumbled behind the nailed doors, and what
      may be described as a grove of young orange trees grown in the unpaved
      patio concealed the utter ruin of the back part facing the gate. You
      turned in from the street, as if entering a secluded orchard, where you
      came upon the foot of a disjointed staircase, guarded by a moss-stained
      effigy of some saintly bishop, mitred and staffed, and bearing the
      indignity of a broken nose meekly, with his fine stone hands crossed on
      his breast. The chocolate-coloured faces of servants with mops of black
      hair peeped at you from above; the click of billiard balls came to your
      ears, and ascending the steps, you would perhaps see in the first sala,
      very stiff upon a straight-backed chair, in a good light, Don Pepe moving
      his long moustaches as he spelt his way, at arm&rsquo;s length, through an old
      Sta. Marta newspaper. His horse&mdash;a stony-hearted but persevering
      black brute with a hammer head&mdash;you would have seen in the street
      dozing motionless under an immense saddle, with its nose almost touching
      the curbstone of the sidewalk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe, when &ldquo;down from the mountain,&rdquo; as the phrase, often heard in
      Sulaco, went, could also be seen in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould. He
      sat with modest assurance at some distance from the tea-table. With his
      knees close together, and a kindly twinkle of drollery in his deep-set
      eyes, he would throw his small and ironic pleasantries into the current of
      conversation. There was in that man a sort of sane, humorous shrewdness,
      and a vein of genuine humanity so often found in simple old soldiers of
      proved courage who have seen much desperate service. Of course he knew
      nothing whatever of mining, but his employment was of a special kind. He
      was in charge of the whole population in the territory of the mine, which
      extended from the head of the gorge to where the cart track from the foot
      of the mountain enters the plain, crossing a stream over a little wooden
      bridge painted green&mdash;green, the colour of hope, being also the
      colour of the mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was reported in Sulaco that up there &ldquo;at the mountain&rdquo; Don Pepe walked
      about precipitous paths, girt with a great sword and in a shabby uniform
      with tarnished bullion epaulettes of a senior major. Most miners being
      Indians, with big wild eyes, addressed him as Taita (father), as these
      barefooted people of Costaguana will address anybody who wears shoes; but
      it was Basilio, Mr. Gould&rsquo;s own mozo and the head servant of the Casa,
      who, in all good faith and from a sense of propriety, announced him once
      in the solemn words, &ldquo;El Senor Gobernador has arrived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose Avellanos, then in the drawing-room, was delighted beyond measure
      at the aptness of the title, with which he greeted the old major
      banteringly as soon as the latter&rsquo;s soldierly figure appeared in the
      doorway. Don Pepe only smiled in his long moustaches, as much as to say,
      &ldquo;You might have found a worse name for an old soldier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And El Senor Gobernador he had remained, with his small jokes upon his
      function and upon his domain, where he affirmed with humorous exaggeration
      to Mrs. Gould&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No two stones could come together anywhere without the Gobernador hearing
      the click, senora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he would tap his ear with the tip of his forefinger knowingly. Even
      when the number of the miners alone rose to over six hundred he seemed to
      know each of them individually, all the innumerable Joses, Manuels,
      Ignacios, from the villages <i>primero&mdash;segundo&mdash;or tercero</i>
      (there were three mining villages) under his government. He could
      distinguish them not only by their flat, joyless faces, which to Mrs.
      Gould looked all alike, as if run into the same ancestral mould of
      suffering and patience, but apparently also by the infinitely graduated
      shades of reddish-brown, of blackish-brown, of coppery-brown backs, as the
      two shifts, stripped to linen drawers and leather skull-caps, mingled
      together with a confusion of naked limbs, of shouldered picks, swinging
      lamps, in a great shuffle of sandalled feet on the open plateau before the
      entrance of the main tunnel. It was a time of pause. The Indian boys
      leaned idly against the long line of little cradle wagons standing empty;
      the screeners and ore-breakers squatted on their heels smoking long
      cigars; the great wooden shoots slanting over the edge of the tunnel
      plateau were silent; and only the ceaseless, violent rush of water in the
      open flumes could be heard, murmuring fiercely, with the splash and rumble
      of revolving turbine-wheels, and the thudding march of the stamps pounding
      to powder the treasure rock on the plateau below. The heads of gangs,
      distinguished by brass medals hanging on their bare breasts, marshalled
      their squads; and at last the mountain would swallow one-half of the
      silent crowd, while the other half would move off in long files down the
      zigzag paths leading to the bottom of the gorge. It was deep; and, far
      below, a thread of vegetation winding between the blazing rock faces
      resembled a slender green cord, in which three lumpy knots of banana
      patches, palm-leaf roots, and shady trees marked the Village One, Village
      Two, Village Three, housing the miners of the Gould Concession.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whole families had been moving from the first towards the spot in the
      Higuerota range, whence the rumour of work and safety had spread over the
      pastoral Campo, forcing its way also, even as the waters of a high flood,
      into the nooks and crannies of the distant blue walls of the Sierras.
      Father first, in a pointed straw hat, then the mother with the bigger
      children, generally also a diminutive donkey, all under burdens, except
      the leader himself, or perhaps some grown girl, the pride of the family,
      stepping barefooted and straight as an arrow, with braids of raven hair, a
      thick, haughty profile, and no load to carry but the small guitar of the
      country and a pair of soft leather sandals tied together on her back. At
      the sight of such parties strung out on the cross trails between the
      pastures, or camped by the side of the royal road, travellers on horseback
      would remark to each other&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More people going to the San Tome mine. We shall see others to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And spurring on in the dusk they would discuss the great news of the
      province, the news of the San Tome mine. A rich Englishman was going to
      work it&mdash;and perhaps not an Englishman, Quien sabe! A foreigner with
      much money. Oh, yes, it had begun. A party of men who had been to Sulaco
      with a herd of black bulls for the next corrida had reported that from the
      porch of the posada in Rincon, only a short league from the town, the
      lights on the mountain were visible, twinkling above the trees. And there
      was a woman seen riding a horse sideways, not in the chair seat, but upon
      a sort of saddle, and a man&rsquo;s hat on her head. She walked about, too, on
      foot up the mountain paths. A woman engineer, it seemed she was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an absurdity! Impossible, senor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Si! Si! Una Americana del Norte</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well! if your worship is informed. <i>Una Americana</i>; it need be
      something of that sort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And they would laugh a little with astonishment and scorn, keeping a wary
      eye on the shadows of the road, for one is liable to meet bad men when
      travelling late on the Campo.
    </p>
    <p>
      And it was not only the men that Don Pepe knew so well, but he seemed
      able, with one attentive, thoughtful glance, to classify each woman, girl,
      or growing youth of his domain. It was only the small fry that puzzled him
      sometimes. He and the padre could be seen frequently side by side,
      meditative and gazing across the street of a village at a lot of sedate
      brown children, trying to sort them out, as it were, in low, consulting
      tones, or else they would together put searching questions as to the
      parentage of some small, staid urchin met wandering, naked and grave,
      along the road with a cigar in his baby mouth, and perhaps his mother&rsquo;s
      rosary, purloined for purposes of ornamentation, hanging in a loop of
      beads low down on his rotund little stomach. The spiritual and temporal
      pastors of the mine flock were very good friends. With Dr. Monygham, the
      medical pastor, who had accepted the charge from Mrs. Gould, and lived in
      the hospital building, they were on not so intimate terms. But no one
      could be on intimate terms with El Senor Doctor, who, with his twisted
      shoulders, drooping head, sardonic mouth, and side-long bitter glance, was
      mysterious and uncanny. The other two authorities worked in harmony.
      Father Roman, dried-up, small, alert, wrinkled, with big round eyes, a
      sharp chin, and a great snuff-taker, was an old campaigner, too; he had
      shriven many simple souls on the battlefields of the Republic, kneeling by
      the dying on hillsides, in the long grass, in the gloom of the forests, to
      hear the last confession with the smell of gunpowder smoke in his
      nostrils, the rattle of muskets, the hum and spatter of bullets in his
      ears. And where was the harm if, at the presbytery, they had a game with a
      pack of greasy cards in the early evening, before Don Pepe went his last
      rounds to see that all the watchmen of the mine&mdash;a body organized by
      himself&mdash;were at their posts? For that last duty before he slept Don
      Pepe did actually gird his old sword on the verandah of an unmistakable
      American white frame house, which Father Roman called the presbytery. Near
      by, a long, low, dark building, steeple-roofed, like a vast barn with a
      wooden cross over the gable, was the miners&rsquo; chapel. There Father Roman
      said Mass every day before a sombre altar-piece representing the
      Resurrection, the grey slab of the tombstone balanced on one corner, a
      figure soaring upwards, long-limbed and livid, in an oval of pallid light,
      and a helmeted brown legionary smitten down, right across the bituminous
      foreground. &ldquo;This picture, my children, <i>muy linda e maravillosa</i>,&rdquo;
       Father Roman would say to some of his flock, &ldquo;which you behold here
      through the munificence of the wife of our Senor Administrador, has been
      painted in Europe, a country of saints and miracles, and much greater than
      our Costaguana.&rdquo; And he would take a pinch of snuff with unction. But when
      once an inquisitive spirit desired to know in what direction this Europe
      was situated, whether up or down the coast, Father Roman, to conceal his
      perplexity, became very reserved and severe. &ldquo;No doubt it is extremely far
      away. But ignorant sinners like you of the San Tome mine should think
      earnestly of everlasting punishment instead of inquiring into the
      magnitude of the earth, with its countries and populations altogether
      beyond your understanding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a &ldquo;Good-night, Padre,&rdquo; &ldquo;Good-night, Don Pepe,&rdquo; the Gobernador would
      go off, holding up his sabre against his side, his body bent forward, with
      a long, plodding stride in the dark. The jocularity proper to an innocent
      card game for a few cigars or a bundle of yerba was replaced at once by
      the stern duty mood of an officer setting out to visit the outposts of an
      encamped army. One loud blast of the whistle that hung from his neck
      provoked instantly a great shrilling of responding whistles, mingled with
      the barking of dogs, that would calm down slowly at last, away up at the
      head of the gorge; and in the stillness two serenos, on guard by the
      bridge, would appear walking noiselessly towards him. On one side of the
      road a long frame building&mdash;the store&mdash;would be closed and
      barricaded from end to end; facing it another white frame house, still
      longer, and with a verandah&mdash;the hospital&mdash;would have lights in
      the two windows of Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s quarters. Even the delicate foliage of a
      clump of pepper trees did not stir, so breathless would be the darkness
      warmed by the radiation of the over-heated rocks. Don Pepe would stand
      still for a moment with the two motionless serenos before him, and,
      abruptly, high up on the sheer face of the mountain, dotted with single
      torches, like drops of fire fallen from the two great blazing clusters of
      lights above, the ore shoots would begin to rattle. The great clattering,
      shuffling noise, gathering speed and weight, would be caught up by the
      walls of the gorge, and sent upon the plain in a growl of thunder. The
      pasadero in Rincon swore that on calm nights, by listening intently, he
      could catch the sound in his doorway as of a storm in the mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Charles Gould&rsquo;s fancy it seemed that the sound must reach the uttermost
      limits of the province. Riding at night towards the mine, it would meet
      him at the edge of a little wood just beyond Rincon. There was no
      mistaking the growling mutter of the mountain pouring its stream of
      treasure under the stamps; and it came to his heart with the peculiar
      force of a proclamation thundered forth over the land and the
      marvellousness of an accomplished fact fulfilling an audacious desire. He
      had heard this very sound in his imagination on that far-off evening when
      his wife and himself, after a tortuous ride through a strip of forest, had
      reined in their horses near the stream, and had gazed for the first time
      upon the jungle-grown solitude of the gorge. The head of a palm rose here
      and there. In a high ravine round the corner of the San Tome mountain
      (which is square like a blockhouse) the thread of a slender waterfall
      flashed bright and glassy through the dark green of the heavy fronds of
      tree-ferns. Don Pepe, in attendance, rode up, and, stretching his arm up
      the gorge, had declared with mock solemnity, &ldquo;Behold the very paradise of
      snakes, senora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then they had wheeled their horses and ridden back to sleep that night
      at Rincon. The alcalde&mdash;an old, skinny Moreno, a sergeant of Guzman
      Bento&rsquo;s time&mdash;had cleared respectfully out of his house with his
      three pretty daughters, to make room for the foreign senora and their
      worships the Caballeros. All he asked Charles Gould (whom he took for a
      mysterious and official person) to do for him was to remind the supreme
      Government&mdash;El Gobierno supreme&mdash;of a pension (amounting to
      about a dollar a month) to which he believed himself entitled. It had been
      promised to him, he affirmed, straightening his bent back martially, &ldquo;many
      years ago, for my valour in the wars with the wild Indios when a young
      man, senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The waterfall existed no longer. The tree-ferns that had luxuriated in its
      spray had died around the dried-up pool, and the high ravine was only a
      big trench half filled up with the refuse of excavations and tailings. The
      torrent, dammed up above, sent its water rushing along the open flumes of
      scooped tree trunks striding on trestle-legs to the turbines working the
      stamps on the lower plateau&mdash;the mesa grande of the San Tome
      mountain. Only the memory of the waterfall, with its amazing fernery, like
      a hanging garden above the rocks of the gorge, was preserved in Mrs.
      Gould&rsquo;s water-colour sketch; she had made it hastily one day from a
      cleared patch in the bushes, sitting in the shade of a roof of straw
      erected for her on three rough poles under Don Pepe&rsquo;s direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould had seen it all from the beginning: the clearing of the
      wilderness, the making of the road, the cutting of new paths up the cliff
      face of San Tome. For weeks together she had lived on the spot with her
      husband; and she was so little in Sulaco during that year that the
      appearance of the Gould carriage on the Alameda would cause a social
      excitement. From the heavy family coaches full of stately senoras and
      black-eyed senoritas rolling solemnly in the shaded alley white hands were
      waved towards her with animation in a flutter of greetings. Dona Emilia
      was &ldquo;down from the mountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But not for long. Dona Emilia would be gone &ldquo;up to the mountain&rdquo; in a day
      or two, and her sleek carriage mules would have an easy time of it for
      another long spell. She had watched the erection of the first frame-house
      put up on the lower mesa for an office and Don Pepe&rsquo;s quarters; she heard
      with a thrill of thankful emotion the first wagon load of ore rattle down
      the then only shoot; she had stood by her husband&rsquo;s side perfectly silent,
      and gone cold all over with excitement at the instant when the first
      battery of only fifteen stamps was put in motion for the first time. On
      the occasion when the fires under the first set of retorts in their shed
      had glowed far into the night she did not retire to rest on the rough
      cadre set up for her in the as yet bare frame-house till she had seen the
      first spongy lump of silver yielded to the hazards of the world by the
      dark depths of the Gould Concession; she had laid her unmercenary hands,
      with an eagerness that made them tremble, upon the first silver ingot
      turned out still warm from the mould; and by her imaginative estimate of
      its power she endowed that lump of metal with a justificative conception,
      as though it were not a mere fact, but something far-reaching and
      impalpable, like the true expression of an emotion or the emergence of a
      principle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe, extremely interested, too, looked over her shoulder with a smile
      that, making longitudinal folds on his face, caused it to resemble a
      leathern mask with a benignantly diabolic expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would not the muchachos of Hernandez like to get hold of this
      insignificant object, that looks, por Dios, very much like a piece of
      tin?&rdquo; he remarked, jocularly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hernandez, the robber, had been an inoffensive, small ranchero, kidnapped
      with circumstances of peculiar atrocity from his home during one of the
      civil wars, and forced to serve in the army. There his conduct as soldier
      was exemplary, till, watching his chance, he killed his colonel, and
      managed to get clear away. With a band of deserters, who chose him for
      their chief, he had taken refuge beyond the wild and waterless Bolson de
      Tonoro. The haciendas paid him blackmail in cattle and horses;
      extraordinary stories were told of his powers and of his wonderful escapes
      from capture. He used to ride, single-handed, into the villages and the
      little towns on the Campo, driving a pack mule before him, with two
      revolvers in his belt, go straight to the shop or store, select what he
      wanted, and ride away unopposed because of the terror his exploits and his
      audacity inspired. Poor country people he usually left alone; the upper
      class were often stopped on the roads and robbed; but any unlucky official
      that fell into his hands was sure to get a severe flogging. The army
      officers did not like his name to be mentioned in their presence. His
      followers, mounted on stolen horses, laughed at the pursuit of the regular
      cavalry sent to hunt them down, and whom they took pleasure to ambush most
      scientifically in the broken ground of their own fastness. Expeditions had
      been fitted out; a price had been put upon his head; even attempts had
      been made, treacherously of course, to open negotiations with him, without
      in the slightest way affecting the even tenor of his career. At last, in
      true Costaguana fashion, the Fiscal of Tonoro, who was ambitious of the
      glory of having reduced the famous Hernandez, offered him a sum of money
      and a safe conduct out of the country for the betrayal of his band. But
      Hernandez evidently was not of the stuff of which the distinguished
      military politicians and conspirators of Costaguana are made. This clever
      but common device (which frequently works like a charm in putting down
      revolutions) failed with the chief of vulgar Salteadores. It promised well
      for the Fiscal at first, but ended very badly for the squadron of lanceros
      posted (by the Fiscal&rsquo;s directions) in a fold of the ground into which
      Hernandez had promised to lead his unsuspecting followers They came,
      indeed, at the appointed time, but creeping on their hands and knees
      through the bush, and only let their presence be known by a general
      discharge of firearms, which emptied many saddles. The troopers who
      escaped came riding very hard into Tonoro. It is said that their
      commanding officer (who, being better mounted, rode far ahead of the rest)
      afterwards got into a state of despairing intoxication and beat the
      ambitious Fiscal severely with the flat of his sabre in the presence of
      his wife and daughters, for bringing this disgrace upon the National Army.
      The highest civil official of Tonoro, falling to the ground in a swoon,
      was further kicked all over the body and rowelled with sharp spurs about
      the neck and face because of the great sensitiveness of his military
      colleague. This gossip of the inland Campo, so characteristic of the
      rulers of the country with its story of oppression, inefficiency, fatuous
      methods, treachery, and savage brutality, was perfectly known to Mrs.
      Gould. That it should be accepted with no indignant comment by people of
      intelligence, refinement, and character as something inherent in the
      nature of things was one of the symptoms of degradation that had the power
      to exasperate her almost to the verge of despair. Still looking at the
      ingot of silver, she shook her head at Don Pepe&rsquo;s remark&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had not been for the lawless tyranny of your Government, Don Pepe,
      many an outlaw now with Hernandez would be living peaceably and happy by
      the honest work of his hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; cried Don Pepe, with enthusiasm, &ldquo;it is true! It is as if God
      had given you the power to look into the very breasts of people. You have
      seen them working round you, Dona Emilia&mdash;meek as lambs, patient like
      their own burros, brave like lions. I have led them to the very muzzles of
      guns&mdash;I, who stand here before you, senora&mdash;in the time of Paez,
      who was full of generosity, and in courage only approached by the uncle of
      Don Carlos here, as far as I know. No wonder there are bandits in the
      Campo when there are none but thieves, swindlers, and sanguinary macaques
      to rule us in Sta. Marta. However, all the same, a bandit is a bandit, and
      we shall have a dozen good straight Winchesters to ride with the silver
      down to Sulaco.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s ride with the first silver escort to Sulaco was the closing
      episode of what she called &ldquo;my camp life&rdquo; before she had settled in her
      town-house permanently, as was proper and even necessary for the wife of
      the administrator of such an important institution as the San Tome mine.
      For the San Tome mine was to become an institution, a rallying point for
      everything in the province that needed order and stability to live.
      Security seemed to flow upon this land from the mountain-gorge. The
      authorities of Sulaco had learned that the San Tome mine could make it
      worth their while to leave things and people alone. This was the nearest
      approach to the rule of common-sense and justice Charles Gould felt it
      possible to secure at first. In fact, the mine, with its organization, its
      population growing fiercely attached to their position of privileged
      safety, with its armoury, with its Don Pepe, with its armed body of
      serenos (where, it was said, many an outlaw and deserter&mdash;and even
      some members of Hernandez&rsquo;s band&mdash;had found a place), the mine was a
      power in the land. As a certain prominent man in Sta. Marta had exclaimed
      with a hollow laugh, once, when discussing the line of action taken by the
      Sulaco authorities at a time of political crisis&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You call these men Government officials? They? Never! They are officials
      of the mine&mdash;officials of the Concession&mdash;I tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prominent man (who was then a person in power, with a lemon-coloured
      face and a very short and curly, not to say woolly, head of hair) went so
      far in his temporary discontent as to shake his yellow fist under the nose
      of his interlocutor, and shriek&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! All! Silence! All! I tell you! The political Gefe, the chief of the
      police, the chief of the customs, the general, all, all, are the officials
      of that Gould.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon an intrepid but low and argumentative murmur would flow on for a
      space in the ministerial cabinet, and the prominent man&rsquo;s passion would
      end in a cynical shrug of the shoulders. After all, he seemed to say, what
      did it matter as long as the minister himself was not forgotten during his
      brief day of authority? But all the same, the unofficial agent of the San
      Tome mine, working for a good cause, had his moments of anxiety, which
      were reflected in his letters to Don Jose Avellanos, his maternal uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No sanguinary macaque from Sta. Marta shall set foot on that part of
      Costaguana which lies beyond the San Tome bridge,&rdquo; Don Pepe used to assure
      Mrs. Gould. &ldquo;Except, of course, as an honoured guest&mdash;for our Senor
      Administrador is a deep politico.&rdquo; But to Charles Gould, in his own room,
      the old Major would remark with a grim and soldierly cheeriness, &ldquo;We are
      all playing our heads at this game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose Avellanos would mutter &ldquo;Imperium in imperio, Emilia, my soul,&rdquo;
       with an air of profound self-satisfaction which, somehow, in a curious
      way, seemed to contain a queer admixture of bodily discomfort. But that,
      perhaps, could only be visible to the initiated. And for the initiated it
      was a wonderful place, this drawing-room of the Casa Gould, with its
      momentary glimpses of the master&mdash;El Senor Administrador&mdash;older,
      harder, mysteriously silent, with the lines deepened on his English,
      ruddy, out-of-doors complexion; flitting on his thin cavalryman&rsquo;s legs
      across the doorways, either just &ldquo;back from the mountain&rdquo; or with jingling
      spurs and riding-whip under his arm, on the point of starting &ldquo;for the
      mountain.&rdquo; Then Don Pepe, modestly martial in his chair, the llanero who
      seemed somehow to have found his martial jocularity, his knowledge of the
      world, and his manner perfect for his station, in the midst of savage
      armed contests with his kind; Avellanos, polished and familiar, the
      diplomatist with his loquacity covering much caution and wisdom in
      delicate advice, with his manuscript of a historical work on Costaguana,
      entitled &ldquo;Fifty Years of Misrule,&rdquo; which, at present, he thought it was
      not prudent (even if it were possible) &ldquo;to give to the world&rdquo;; these
      three, and also Dona Emilia amongst them, gracious, small, and fairy-like,
      before the glittering tea-set, with one common master-thought in their
      heads, with one common feeling of a tense situation, with one ever-present
      aim to preserve the inviolable character of the mine at every cost. And
      there was also to be seen Captain Mitchell, a little apart, near one of
      the long windows, with an air of old-fashioned neat old bachelorhood about
      him, slightly pompous, in a white waistcoat, a little disregarded and
      unconscious of it; utterly in the dark, and imagining himself to be in the
      thick of things. The good man, having spent a clear thirty years of his
      life on the high seas before getting what he called a &ldquo;shore billet,&rdquo; was
      astonished at the importance of transactions (other than relating to
      shipping) which take place on dry land. Almost every event out of the
      usual daily course &ldquo;marked an epoch&rdquo; for him or else was &ldquo;history&rdquo;; unless
      with his pomposity struggling with a discomfited droop of his rubicund,
      rather handsome face, set off by snow-white close hair and short whiskers,
      he would mutter&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that! That, sir, was a mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The reception of the first consignment of San Tome silver for shipment to
      San Francisco in one of the O.S.N. Co.&lsquo;s mail-boats had, of course,
      &ldquo;marked an epoch&rdquo; for Captain Mitchell. The ingots packed in boxes of
      stiff ox-hide with plaited handles, small enough to be carried easily by
      two men, were brought down by the serenos of the mine walking in careful
      couples along the half-mile or so of steep, zigzag paths to the foot of
      the mountain. There they would be loaded into a string of two-wheeled
      carts, resembling roomy coffers with a door at the back, and harnessed
      tandem with two mules each, waiting under the guard of armed and mounted
      serenos. Don Pepe padlocked each door in succession, and at the signal of
      his whistle the string of carts would move off, closely surrounded by the
      clank of spur and carbine, with jolts and cracking of whips, with a sudden
      deep rumble over the boundary bridge (&ldquo;into the land of thieves and
      sanguinary macaques,&rdquo; Don Pepe defined that crossing); hats bobbing in the
      first light of the dawn, on the heads of cloaked figures; Winchesters on
      hip; bridle hands protruding lean and brown from under the falling folds
      of the ponchos. The convoy skirting a little wood, along the mine trail,
      between the mud huts and low walls of Rincon, increased its pace on the
      camino real, mules urged to speed, escort galloping, Don Carlos riding
      alone ahead of a dust storm affording a vague vision of long ears of
      mules, of fluttering little green and white flags stuck upon each cart; of
      raised arms in a mob of sombreros with the white gleam of ranging eyes;
      and Don Pepe, hardly visible in the rear of that rattling dust trail, with
      a stiff seat and impassive face, rising and falling rhythmically on an
      ewe-necked silver-bitted black brute with a hammer head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sleepy people in the little clusters of huts, in the small ranches
      near the road, recognized by the headlong sound the charge of the San Tome
      silver escort towards the crumbling wall of the city on the Campo side.
      They came to the doors to see it dash by over ruts and stones, with a
      clatter and clank and cracking of whips, with the reckless rush and
      precise driving of a field battery hurrying into action, and the solitary
      English figure of the Senor Administrador riding far ahead in the lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the fenced roadside paddocks loose horses galloped wildly for a while;
      the heavy cattle stood up breast deep in the grass, lowing mutteringly at
      the flying noise; a meek Indian villager would glance back once and hasten
      to shove his loaded little donkey bodily against a wall, out of the way of
      the San Tome silver escort going to the sea; a small knot of chilly
      leperos under the Stone Horse of the Alameda would mutter: &ldquo;Caramba!&rdquo; on
      seeing it take a wide curve at a gallop and dart into the empty Street of
      the Constitution; for it was considered the correct thing, the only proper
      style by the mule-drivers of the San Tome mine to go through the waking
      town from end to end without a check in the speed as if chased by a devil.
    </p>
    <p>
      The early sunshine glowed on the delicate primrose, pale pink, pale blue
      fronts of the big houses with all their gates shut yet, and no face behind
      the iron bars of the windows. In the whole sunlit range of empty balconies
      along the street only one white figure would be visible high up above the
      clear pavement&mdash;the wife of the Senor Administrador&mdash;leaning
      over to see the escort go by to the harbour, a mass of heavy, fair hair
      twisted up negligently on her little head, and a lot of lace about the
      neck of her muslin wrapper. With a smile to her husband&rsquo;s single, quick,
      upward glance, she would watch the whole thing stream past below her feet
      with an orderly uproar, till she answered by a friendly sign the salute of
      the galloping Don Pepe, the stiff, deferential inclination with a sweep of
      the hat below the knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The string of padlocked carts lengthened, the size of the escort grew
      bigger as the years went on. Every three months an increasing stream of
      treasure swept through the streets of Sulaco on its way to the strong room
      in the O.S.N. Co.&lsquo;s building by the harbour, there to await shipment for
      the North. Increasing in volume, and of immense value also; for, as
      Charles Gould told his wife once with some exultation, there had never
      been seen anything in the world to approach the vein of the Gould
      Concession. For them both, each passing of the escort under the balconies
      of the Casa Gould was like another victory gained in the conquest of peace
      for Sulaco.
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt the initial action of Charles Gould had been helped at the
      beginning by a period of comparative peace which occurred just about that
      time; and also by the general softening of manners as compared with the
      epoch of civil wars whence had emerged the iron tyranny of Guzman Bento of
      fearful memory. In the contests that broke out at the end of his rule
      (which had kept peace in the country for a whole fifteen years) there was
      more fatuous imbecility, plenty of cruelty and suffering still, but much
      less of the old-time fierce and blindly ferocious political fanaticism. It
      was all more vile, more base, more contemptible, and infinitely more
      manageable in the very outspoken cynicism of motives. It was more clearly
      a brazen-faced scramble for a constantly diminishing quantity of booty;
      since all enterprise had been stupidly killed in the land. Thus it came to
      pass that the province of Sulaco, once the field of cruel party
      vengeances, had become in a way one of the considerable prizes of
      political career. The great of the earth (in Sta. Marta) reserved the
      posts in the old Occidental State to those nearest and dearest to them:
      nephews, brothers, husbands of favourite sisters, bosom friends, trusty
      supporters&mdash;or prominent supporters of whom perhaps they were afraid.
      It was the blessed province of great opportunities and of largest
      salaries; for the San Tome mine had its own unofficial pay list, whose
      items and amounts, fixed in consultation by Charles Gould and Senor
      Avellanos, were known to a prominent business man in the United States,
      who for twenty minutes or so in every month gave his undivided attention
      to Sulaco affairs. At the same time the material interests of all sorts,
      backed up by the influence of the San Tome mine, were quietly gathering
      substance in that part of the Republic. If, for instance, the Sulaco
      Collectorship was generally understood, in the political world of the
      capital, to open the way to the Ministry of Finance, and so on for every
      official post, then, on the other hand, the despondent business circles of
      the Republic had come to consider the Occidental Province as the promised
      land of safety, especially if a man managed to get on good terms with the
      administration of the mine. &ldquo;Charles Gould; excellent fellow! Absolutely
      necessary to make sure of him before taking a single step. Get an
      introduction to him from Moraga if you can&mdash;the agent of the King of
      Sulaco, don&rsquo;t you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No wonder, then, that Sir John, coming from Europe to smooth the path for
      his railway, had been meeting the name (and even the nickname) of Charles
      Gould at every turn in Costaguana. The agent of the San Tome
      Administration in Sta. Marta (a polished, well-informed gentleman, Sir
      John thought him) had certainly helped so greatly in bringing about the
      presidential tour that he began to think that there was something in the
      faint whispers hinting at the immense occult influence of the Gould
      Concession. What was currently whispered was this&mdash;that the San Tome
      Administration had, in part, at least, financed the last revolution, which
      had brought into a five-year dictatorship Don Vincente Ribiera, a man of
      culture and of unblemished character, invested with a mandate of reform by
      the best elements of the State. Serious, well-informed men seemed to
      believe the fact, to hope for better things, for the establishment of
      legality, of good faith and order in public life. So much the better,
      then, thought Sir John. He worked always on a great scale; there was a
      loan to the State, and a project for systematic colonization of the
      Occidental Province, involved in one vast scheme with the construction of
      the National Central Railway. Good faith, order, honesty, peace, were
      badly wanted for this great development of material interests. Anybody on
      the side of these things, and especially if able to help, had an
      importance in Sir John&rsquo;s eyes. He had not been disappointed in the &ldquo;King
      of Sulaco.&rdquo; The local difficulties had fallen away, as the
      engineer-in-chief had foretold they would, before Charles Gould&rsquo;s
      mediation. Sir John had been extremely feted in Sulaco, next to the
      President-Dictator, a fact which might have accounted for the evident
      ill-humour General Montero displayed at lunch given on board the Juno just
      before she was to sail, taking away from Sulaco the President-Dictator and
      the distinguished foreign guests in his train.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Excellentissimo (&ldquo;the hope of honest men,&rdquo; as Don Jose had addressed
      him in a public speech delivered in the name of the Provincial Assembly of
      Sulaco) sat at the head of the long table; Captain Mitchell, positively
      stony-eyed and purple in the face with the solemnity of this &ldquo;historical
      event,&rdquo; occupied the foot as the representative of the O.S.N. Company in
      Sulaco, the hosts of that informal function, with the captain of the ship
      and some minor officials from the shore around him. Those cheery, swarthy
      little gentlemen cast jovial side-glances at the bottles of champagne
      beginning to pop behind the guests&rsquo; backs in the hands of the ship&rsquo;s
      stewards. The amber wine creamed up to the rims of the glasses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould had his place next to a foreign envoy, who, in a listless
      undertone, had been talking to him fitfully of hunting and shooting. The
      well-nourished, pale face, with an eyeglass and drooping yellow moustache,
      made the Senor Administrador appear by contrast twice as sunbaked, more
      flaming red, a hundred times more intensely and silently alive. Don Jose
      Avellanos touched elbows with the other foreign diplomat, a dark man with
      a quiet, watchful, self-confident demeanour, and a touch of reserve. All
      etiquette being laid aside on the occasion, General Montero was the only
      one there in full uniform, so stiff with embroideries in front that his
      broad chest seemed protected by a cuirass of gold. Sir John at the
      beginning had got away from high places for the sake of sitting near Mrs.
      Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great financier was trying to express to her his grateful sense of her
      hospitality and of his obligation to her husband&rsquo;s &ldquo;enormous influence in
      this part of the country,&rdquo; when she interrupted him by a low &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; The
      President was going to make an informal pronouncement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Excellentissimo was on his legs. He said only a few words, evidently
      deeply felt, and meant perhaps mostly for Avellanos&mdash;his old friend&mdash;as
      to the necessity of unremitting effort to secure the lasting welfare of
      the country emerging after this last struggle, he hoped, into a period of
      peace and material prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, listening to the mellow, slightly mournful voice, looking at
      this rotund, dark, spectacled face, at the short body, obese to the point
      of infirmity, thought that this man of delicate and melancholy mind,
      physically almost a cripple, coming out of his retirement into a dangerous
      strife at the call of his fellows, had the right to speak with the
      authority of his self-sacrifice. And yet she was made uneasy. He was more
      pathetic than promising, this first civilian Chief of the State Costaguana
      had ever known, pronouncing, glass in hand, his simple watchwords of
      honesty, peace, respect for law, political good faith abroad and at home&mdash;the
      safeguards of national honour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat down. During the respectful, appreciative buzz of voices that
      followed the speech, General Montero raised a pair of heavy, drooping
      eyelids and rolled his eyes with a sort of uneasy dullness from face to
      face. The military backwoods hero of the party, though secretly impressed
      by the sudden novelties and splendours of his position (he had never been
      on board a ship before, and had hardly ever seen the sea except from a
      distance), understood by a sort of instinct the advantage his surly,
      unpolished attitude of a savage fighter gave him amongst all these refined
      Blanco aristocrats. But why was it that nobody was looking at him? he
      wondered to himself angrily. He was able to spell out the print of
      newspapers, and knew that he had performed the &ldquo;greatest military exploit
      of modern times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband wanted the railway,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould said to Sir John in the
      general murmur of resumed conversations. &ldquo;All this brings nearer the sort
      of future we desire for the country, which has waited for it in sorrow
      long enough, God knows. But I will confess that the other day, during my
      afternoon drive when I suddenly saw an Indian boy ride out of a wood with
      the red flag of a surveying party in his hand, I felt something of a
      shock. The future means change&mdash;an utter change. And yet even here
      there are simple and picturesque things that one would like to preserve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir John listened, smiling. But it was his turn now to hush Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;General Montero is going to speak,&rdquo; he whispered, and almost immediately
      added, in comic alarm, &ldquo;Heavens! he&rsquo;s going to propose my own health, I
      believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      General Montero had risen with a jingle of steel scabbard and a ripple of
      glitter on his gold-embroidered breast; a heavy sword-hilt appeared at his
      side above the edge of the table. In this gorgeous uniform, with his bull
      neck, his hooked nose flattened on the tip upon a blue-black, dyed
      moustache, he looked like a disguised and sinister vaquero. The drone of
      his voice had a strangely rasping, soulless ring. He floundered, lowering,
      through a few vague sentences; then suddenly raising his big head and his
      voice together, burst out harshly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The honour of the country is in the hands of the army. I assure you I
      shall be faithful to it.&rdquo; He hesitated till his roaming eyes met Sir
      John&rsquo;s face upon which he fixed a lurid, sleepy glance; and the figure of
      the lately negotiated loan came into his mind. He lifted his glass. &ldquo;I
      drink to the health of the man who brings us a million and a half of
      pounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He tossed off his champagne, and sat down heavily with a half-surprised,
      half-bullying look all round the faces in the profound, as if appalled,
      silence which succeeded the felicitous toast. Sir John did not move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I am called upon to rise,&rdquo; he murmured to Mrs. Gould. &ldquo;That
      sort of thing speaks for itself.&rdquo; But Don Jose Avellanos came to the
      rescue with a short oration, in which he alluded pointedly to England&rsquo;s
      goodwill towards Costaguana&mdash;&ldquo;a goodwill,&rdquo; he continued,
      significantly, &ldquo;of which I, having been in my time accredited to the Court
      of St. James, am able to speak with some knowledge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Only then Sir John thought fit to respond, which he did gracefully in bad
      French, punctuated by bursts of applause and the &ldquo;Hear! Hears!&rdquo; of Captain
      Mitchell, who was able to understand a word now and then. Directly he had
      done, the financier of railways turned to Mrs. Gould&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were good enough to say that you intended to ask me for something,&rdquo;
       he reminded her, gallantly. &ldquo;What is it? Be assured that any request from
      you would be considered in the light of a favour to myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She thanked him by a gracious smile. Everybody was rising from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go on deck,&rdquo; she proposed, &ldquo;where I&rsquo;ll be able to point out to you
      the very object of my request.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An enormous national flag of Costaguana, diagonal red and yellow, with two
      green palm trees in the middle, floated lazily at the mainmast head of the
      Juno. A multitude of fireworks being let off in their thousands at the
      water&rsquo;s edge in honour of the President kept up a mysterious crepitating
      noise half round the harbour. Now and then a lot of rockets, swishing
      upwards invisibly, detonated overhead with only a puff of smoke in the
      bright sky. Crowds of people could be seen between the town gate and the
      harbour, under the bunches of multicoloured flags fluttering on tall
      poles. Faint bursts of military music would be heard suddenly, and the
      remote sound of shouting. A knot of ragged negroes at the end of the wharf
      kept on loading and firing a small iron cannon time after time. A greyish
      haze of dust hung thin and motionless against the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Vincente Ribiera made a few steps under the deck-awning, leaning on
      the arm of Senor Avellanos; a wide circle was formed round him, where the
      mirthless smile of his dark lips and the sightless glitter of his
      spectacles could be seen turning amiably from side to side. The informal
      function arranged on purpose on board the Juno to give the
      President-Dictator an opportunity to meet intimately some of his most
      notable adherents in Sulaco was drawing to an end. On one side, General
      Montero, his bald head covered now by a plumed cocked hat, remained
      motionless on a skylight seat, a pair of big gauntleted hands folded on
      the hilt of the sabre standing upright between his legs. The white plume,
      the coppery tint of his broad face, the blue-black of the moustaches under
      the curved beak, the mass of gold on sleeves and breast, the high shining
      boots with enormous spurs, the working nostrils, the imbecile and
      domineering stare of the glorious victor of Rio Seco had in them something
      ominous and incredible; the exaggeration of a cruel caricature, the
      fatuity of solemn masquerading, the atrocious grotesqueness of some
      military idol of Aztec conception and European bedecking, awaiting the
      homage of worshippers. Don Jose approached diplomatically this weird and
      inscrutable portent, and Mrs. Gould turned her fascinated eyes away at
      last.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles, coming up to take leave of Sir John, heard him say, as he bent
      over his wife&rsquo;s hand, &ldquo;Certainly. Of course, my dear Mrs. Gould, for a
      protege of yours! Not the slightest difficulty. Consider it done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Going ashore in the same boat with the Goulds, Don Jose Avellanos was very
      silent. Even in the Gould carriage he did not open his lips for a long
      time. The mules trotted slowly away from the wharf between the extended
      hands of the beggars, who for that day seemed to have abandoned in a body
      the portals of churches. Charles Gould sat on the back seat and looked
      away upon the plain. A multitude of booths made of green boughs, of
      rushes, of odd pieces of plank eked out with bits of canvas had been
      erected all over it for the sale of cana, of dulces, of fruit, of cigars.
      Over little heaps of glowing charcoal Indian women, squatting on mats,
      cooked food in black earthen pots, and boiled the water for the mate
      gourds, which they offered in soft, caressing voices to the country
      people. A racecourse had been staked out for the vaqueros; and away to the
      left, from where the crowd was massed thickly about a huge temporary
      erection, like a circus tent of wood with a conical grass roof, came the
      resonant twanging of harp strings, the sharp ping of guitars, with the
      grave drumming throb of an Indian gombo pulsating steadily through the
      shrill choruses of the dancers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould said presently&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this piece of land belongs now to the Railway Company. There will be
      no more popular feasts held here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould was rather sorry to think so. She took this opportunity to
      mention how she had just obtained from Sir John the promise that the house
      occupied by Giorgio Viola should not be interfered with. She declared she
      could never understand why the survey engineers ever talked of demolishing
      that old building. It was not in the way of the projected harbour branch
      of the line in the least.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped the carriage before the door to reassure at once the old
      Genoese, who came out bare-headed and stood by the carriage step. She
      talked to him in Italian, of course, and he thanked her with calm dignity.
      An old Garibaldino was grateful to her from the bottom of his heart for
      keeping the roof over the heads of his wife and children. He was too old
      to wander any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it for ever, signora?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For as long as you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bene. Then the place must be named, It was not worth while before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled ruggedly, with a running together of wrinkles at the corners of
      his eyes. &ldquo;I shall set about the painting of the name to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is it going to be, Giorgio?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Albergo d&rsquo;Italia Una,&rdquo; said the old Garibaldino, looking away for a
      moment. &ldquo;More in memory of those who have died,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;than for the
      country stolen from us soldiers of liberty by the craft of that accursed
      Piedmontese race of kings and ministers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould smiled slightly, and, bending over a little, began to inquire
      about his wife and children. He had sent them into town on that day. The
      padrona was better in health; many thanks to the signora for inquiring.
    </p>
    <p>
      People were passing in twos and threes, in whole parties of men and women
      attended by trotting children. A horseman mounted on a silver-grey mare
      drew rein quietly in the shade of the house after taking off his hat to
      the party in the carriage, who returned smiles and familiar nods. Old
      Viola, evidently very pleased with the news he had just heard, interrupted
      himself for a moment to tell him rapidly that the house was secured, by
      the kindness of the English signora, for as long as he liked to keep it.
      The other listened attentively, but made no response.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the carriage moved on he took off his hat again, a grey sombrero with
      a silver cord and tassels. The bright colours of a Mexican serape twisted
      on the cantle, the enormous silver buttons on the embroidered leather
      jacket, the row of tiny silver buttons down the seam of the trousers, the
      snowy linen, a silk sash with embroidered ends, the silver plates on
      headstall and saddle, proclaimed the unapproachable style of the famous
      Capataz de Cargadores&mdash;a Mediterranean sailor&mdash;got up with more
      finished splendour than any well-to-do young ranchero of the Campo had
      ever displayed on a high holiday.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a great thing for me,&rdquo; murmured old Giorgio, still thinking of the
      house, for now he had grown weary of change. &ldquo;The signora just said a word
      to the Englishman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old Englishman who has enough money to pay for a railway? He is going
      off in an hour,&rdquo; remarked Nostromo, carelessly. &ldquo;<i>Buon viaggio</i>,
      then. I&rsquo;ve guarded his bones all the way from the Entrada pass down to the
      plain and into Sulaco, as though he had been my own father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Giorgio only moved his head sideways absently. Nostromo pointed after
      the Goulds&rsquo; carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in the old town wall
      that was like a wall of matted jungle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have sat alone at night with my revolver in the Company&rsquo;s warehouse
      time and again by the side of that other Englishman&rsquo;s heap of silver,
      guarding it as though it had been my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Viola seemed lost in thought. &ldquo;It is a great thing for me,&rdquo; he repeated
      again, as if to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is,&rdquo; agreed the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, calmly. &ldquo;Listen,
      Vecchio&mdash;go in and bring me, out a cigar, but don&rsquo;t look for it in my
      room. There&rsquo;s nothing there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Viola stepped into the cafe and came out directly, still absorbed in his
      idea, and tendered him a cigar, mumbling thoughtfully in his moustache,
      &ldquo;Children growing up&mdash;and girls, too! Girls!&rdquo; He sighed and fell
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, only one?&rdquo; remarked Nostromo, looking down with a sort of comic
      inquisitiveness at the unconscious old man. &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; he added, with
      lofty negligence; &ldquo;one is enough till another is wanted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lit it and let the match drop from his passive fingers. Giorgio Viola
      looked up, and said abruptly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son would have been just such a fine young man as you, Gian&rsquo; Battista,
      if he had lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? Your son? But you are right, padrone. If he had been like me he
      would have been a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned his horse slowly, and paced on between the booths, checking the
      mare almost to a standstill now and then for children, for the groups of
      people from the distant Campo, who stared after him with admiration. The
      Company&rsquo;s lightermen saluted him from afar; and the greatly envied Capataz
      de Cargadores advanced, amongst murmurs of recognition and obsequious
      greetings, towards the huge circus-like erection. The throng thickened;
      the guitars tinkled louder; other horsemen sat motionless, smoking calmly
      above the heads of the crowd; it eddied and pushed before the doors of the
      high-roofed building, whence issued a shuffle and thumping of feet in time
      to the dance music vibrating and shrieking with a racking rhythm, overhung
      by the tremendous, sustained, hollow roar of the gombo. The barbarous and
      imposing noise of the big drum, that can madden a crowd, and that even
      Europeans cannot hear without a strange emotion, seemed to draw Nostromo
      on to its source, while a man, wrapped up in a faded, torn poncho, walked
      by his stirrup, and, buffeted right and left, begged &ldquo;his worship&rdquo;
       insistently for employment on the wharf. He whined, offering the Senor
      Capataz half his daily pay for the privilege of being admitted to the
      swaggering fraternity of Cargadores; the other half would be enough for
      him, he protested. But Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s right-hand man&mdash;&ldquo;invaluable
      for our work&mdash;a perfectly incorruptible fellow&rdquo;&mdash;after looking
      down critically at the ragged mozo, shook his head without a word in the
      uproar going on around.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up. From
      the doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming
      with sweat, trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes
      and parted lips, against the wall of the structure, where the harps and
      guitars played on with mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder. Hundreds
      of hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, and then all at once would
      sink low, chanting in unison the refrain of a love song, with a dying
      fall. A red flower, flung with a good aim from somewhere in the crowd,
      struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his head.
      When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him had parted
      to make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a small golden
      comb, who was walking towards him in the open space.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the blue
      woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on the hips
      and tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of her walk. She
      came straight on and laid her hand on the mare&rsquo;s neck with a timid,
      coquettish look upwards out of the corner of her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Querido</i>,&rdquo; she murmured, caressingly, &ldquo;why do you pretend not to
      see me when I pass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I don&rsquo;t love thee any more,&rdquo; said Nostromo, deliberately, after a
      moment of reflective silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hand on the mare&rsquo;s neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head before
      all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the terrible,
      the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Is it
      true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. &ldquo;It was a lie. I love thee
      as much as ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that true?&rdquo; she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True on the life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna that
      stands in thy room.&rdquo; And the Capataz laughed a little in response to the
      grins of the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pouted&mdash;very pretty&mdash;a little uneasy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I will not ask for that. I can see love in your eyes.&rdquo; She laid her
      hand on his knee. &ldquo;Why are you trembling like this? From love?&rdquo; she
      continued, while the cavernous thundering of the gombo went on without a
      pause. &ldquo;But if you love her as much as that, you must give your Paquita a
      gold-mounted rosary of beads for the neck of her Madonna.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Nostromo, looking into her uplifted, begging eyes, which
      suddenly turned stony with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No? Then what else will your worship give me on the day of the fiesta?&rdquo;
       she asked, angrily; &ldquo;so as not to shame me before all these people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no shame for thee in getting nothing from thy lover for once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True! The shame is your worship&rsquo;s&mdash;my poor lover&rsquo;s,&rdquo; she flared up,
      sarcastically.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laughs were heard at her anger, at her retort. What an audacious spitfire
      she was! The people aware of this scene were calling out urgently to
      others in the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare narrowed
      slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl went off a pace or two, confronting the mocking curiosity of the
      eyes, then flung back to the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged face turned
      up to Nostromo with a pair of blazing eyes. He bent low to her in the
      saddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Juan,&rdquo; she hissed, &ldquo;I could stab thee to the heart!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public in
      his amours, flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering lips.
      A murmur went round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A knife!&rdquo; he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday
      attire, bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo&rsquo;s hand and bounded back into
      the ranks, very proud of himself. Nostromo had not even looked at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand on my foot,&rdquo; he commanded the girl, who, suddenly subdued, rose
      lightly, and when he had her up, encircling her waist, her face near to
      his, he pressed the knife into her little hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You shall have
      your present; and so that everyone should know who is your lover to-day,
      you may cut all the silver buttons off my coat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were shouts of laughter and applause at this witty freak, while the
      girl passed the keen blade, and the impassive rider jingled in his palm
      the increasing hoard of silver buttons. He eased her to the ground with
      both her hands full. After whispering for a while with a very strenuous
      face, she walked away, staring haughtily, and vanished into the crowd.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circle had broken up, and the lordly Capataz de Cargadores, the
      indispensable man, the tried and trusty Nostromo, the Mediterranean sailor
      come ashore casually to try his luck in Costaguana, rode slowly towards
      the harbour. The Juno was just then swinging round; and even as Nostromo
      reined up again to look on, a flag ran up on the improvised flagstaff
      erected in an ancient and dismantled little fort at the harbour entrance.
      Half a battery of field guns had been hurried over there from the Sulaco
      barracks for the purpose of firing the regulation salutes for the
      President-Dictator and the War Minister. As the mail-boat headed through
      the pass, the badly timed reports announced the end of Don Vincente
      Ribiera&rsquo;s first official visit to Sulaco, and for Captain Mitchell the end
      of another &ldquo;historic occasion.&rdquo; Next time when the &ldquo;Hope of honest men&rdquo;
       was to come that way, a year and a half later, it was unofficially, over
      the mountain tracks, fleeing after a defeat on a lame mule, to be only
      just saved by Nostromo from an ignominious death at the hands of a mob. It
      was a very different event, of which Captain Mitchell used to say&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was history&mdash;history, sir! And that fellow of mine, Nostromo, you
      know, was right in it. Absolutely making history, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But this event, creditable to Nostromo, was to lead immediately to
      another, which could not be classed either as &ldquo;history&rdquo; or as &ldquo;a mistake&rdquo;
       in Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s phraseology. He had another word for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir&rdquo; he used to say afterwards, &ldquo;that was no mistake. It was a fatality.
      A misfortune, pure and simple, sir. And that poor fellow of mine was right
      in it&mdash;right in the middle of it! A fatality, if ever there was one&mdash;and
      to my mind he has never been the same man since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PART SECOND THE ISABELS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ONE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Through good and evil report in the varying fortune of that struggle which
      Don Jose had characterized in the phrase, &ldquo;the fate of national honesty
      trembles in the balance,&rdquo; the Gould Concession, &ldquo;Imperium in Imperio,&rdquo; had
      gone on working; the square mountain had gone on pouring its treasure down
      the wooden shoots to the unresting batteries of stamps; the lights of San
      Tome had twinkled night after night upon the great, limitless shadow of
      the Campo; every three months the silver escort had gone down to the sea
      as if neither the war nor its consequences could ever affect the ancient
      Occidental State secluded beyond its high barrier of the Cordillera. All
      the fighting took place on the other side of that mighty wall of serrated
      peaks lorded over by the white dome of Higuerota and as yet unbreached by
      the railway, of which only the first part, the easy Campo part from Sulaco
      to the Ivie Valley at the foot of the pass, had been laid. Neither did the
      telegraph line cross the mountains yet; its poles, like slender beacons on
      the plain, penetrated into the forest fringe of the foot-hills cut by the
      deep avenue of the track; and its wire ended abruptly in the construction
      camp at a white deal table supporting a Morse apparatus, in a long hut of
      planks with a corrugated iron roof overshadowed by gigantic cedar trees&mdash;the
      quarters of the engineer in charge of the advance section.
    </p>
    <p>
      The harbour was busy, too, with the traffic in railway material, and with
      the movements of troops along the coast. The O.S.N. Company found much
      occupation for its fleet. Costaguana had no navy, and, apart from a few
      coastguard cutters, there were no national ships except a couple of old
      merchant steamers used as transports.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell, feeling more and more in the thick of history, found
      time for an hour or so during an afternoon in the drawing-room of the Casa
      Gould, where, with a strange ignorance of the real forces at work around
      him, he professed himself delighted to get away from the strain of
      affairs. He did not know what he would have done without his invaluable
      Nostromo, he declared. Those confounded Costaguana politics gave him more
      work&mdash;he confided to Mrs. Gould&mdash;than he had bargained for.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose Avellanos had displayed in the service of the endangered Ribiera
      Government an organizing activity and an eloquence of which the echoes
      reached even Europe. For, after the new loan to the Ribiera Government,
      Europe had become interested in Costaguana. The Sala of the Provincial
      Assembly (in the Municipal Buildings of Sulaco), with its portraits of the
      Liberators on the walls and an old flag of Cortez preserved in a glass
      case above the President&rsquo;s chair, had heard all these speeches&mdash;the
      early one containing the impassioned declaration &ldquo;Militarism is the
      enemy,&rdquo; the famous one of the &ldquo;trembling balance&rdquo; delivered on the
      occasion of the vote for the raising of a second Sulaco regiment in the
      defence of the reforming Government; and when the provinces again
      displayed their old flags (proscribed in Guzman Bento&rsquo;s time) there was
      another of those great orations, when Don Jose greeted these old emblems
      of the war of Independence, brought out again in the name of new Ideals.
      The old idea of Federalism had disappeared. For his part he did not wish
      to revive old political doctrines. They were perishable. They died. But
      the doctrine of political rectitude was immortal. The second Sulaco
      regiment, to whom he was presenting this flag, was going to show its
      valour in a contest for order, peace, progress; for the establishment of
      national self-respect without which&mdash;he declared with energy&mdash;&ldquo;we
      are a reproach and a byword amongst the powers of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose Avellanos loved his country. He had served it lavishly with his
      fortune during his diplomatic career, and the later story of his captivity
      and barbarous ill-usage under Guzman Bento was well known to his
      listeners. It was a wonder that he had not been a victim of the ferocious
      and summary executions which marked the course of that tyranny; for Guzman
      had ruled the country with the sombre imbecility of political fanaticism.
      The power of Supreme Government had become in his dull mind an object of
      strange worship, as if it were some sort of cruel deity. It was incarnated
      in himself, and his adversaries, the Federalists, were the supreme
      sinners, objects of hate, abhorrence, and fear, as heretics would be to a
      convinced Inquisitor. For years he had carried about at the tail of the
      Army of Pacification, all over the country, a captive band of such
      atrocious criminals, who considered themselves most unfortunate at not
      having been summarily executed. It was a diminishing company of nearly
      naked skeletons, loaded with irons, covered with dirt, with vermin, with
      raw wounds, all men of position, of education, of wealth, who had learned
      to fight amongst themselves for scraps of rotten beef thrown to them by
      soldiers, or to beg a negro cook for a drink of muddy water in pitiful
      accents. Don Jose Avellanos, clanking his chains amongst the others,
      seemed only to exist in order to prove how much hunger, pain, degradation,
      and cruel torture a human body can stand without parting with the last
      spark of life. Sometimes interrogatories, backed by some primitive method
      of torture, were administered to them by a commission of officers hastily
      assembled in a hut of sticks and branches, and made pitiless by the fear
      for their own lives. A lucky one or two of that spectral company of
      prisoners would perhaps be led tottering behind a bush to be shot by a
      file of soldiers. Always an army chaplain&mdash;some unshaven, dirty man,
      girt with a sword and with a tiny cross embroidered in white cotton on the
      left breast of a lieutenant&rsquo;s uniform&mdash;would follow, cigarette in the
      corner of the mouth, wooden stool in hand, to hear the confession and give
      absolution; for the Citizen Saviour of the Country (Guzman Bento was
      called thus officially in petitions) was not averse from the exercise of
      rational clemency. The irregular report of the firing squad would be
      heard, followed sometimes by a single finishing shot; a little bluish
      cloud of smoke would float up above the green bushes, and the Army of
      Pacification would move on over the savannas, through the forests,
      crossing rivers, invading rural pueblos, devastating the haciendas of the
      horrid aristocrats, occupying the inland towns in the fulfilment of its
      patriotic mission, and leaving behind a united land wherein the evil taint
      of Federalism could no longer be detected in the smoke of burning houses
      and the smell of spilt blood. Don Jose Avellanos had survived that time.
      Perhaps, when contemptuously signifying to him his release, the Citizen
      Saviour of the Country might have thought this benighted aristocrat too
      broken in health and spirit and fortune to be any longer dangerous. Or,
      perhaps, it may have been a simple caprice. Guzman Bento, usually full of
      fanciful fears and brooding suspicions, had sudden accesses of
      unreasonable self-confidence when he perceived himself elevated on a
      pinnacle of power and safety beyond the reach of mere mortal plotters. At
      such times he would impulsively command the celebration of a solemn Mass
      of thanksgiving, which would be sung in great pomp in the cathedral of
      Sta. Marta by the trembling, subservient Archbishop of his creation. He
      heard it sitting in a gilt armchair placed before the high altar,
      surrounded by the civil and military heads of his Government. The
      unofficial world of Sta. Marta would crowd into the cathedral, for it was
      not quite safe for anybody of mark to stay away from these manifestations
      of presidential piety. Having thus acknowledged the only power he was at
      all disposed to recognize as above himself, he would scatter acts of
      political grace in a sardonic wantonness of clemency. There was no other
      way left now to enjoy his power but by seeing his crushed adversaries
      crawl impotently into the light of day out of the dark, noisome cells of
      the Collegio. Their harmlessness fed his insatiable vanity, and they could
      always be got hold of again. It was the rule for all the women of their
      families to present thanks afterwards in a special audience. The
      incarnation of that strange god, El Gobierno Supremo, received them
      standing, cocked hat on head, and exhorted them in a menacing mutter to
      show their gratitude by bringing up their children in fidelity to the
      democratic form of government, &ldquo;which I have established for the happiness
      of our country.&rdquo; His front teeth having been knocked out in some accident
      of his former herdsman&rsquo;s life, his utterance was spluttering and
      indistinct. He had been working for Costaguana alone in the midst of
      treachery and opposition. Let it cease now lest he should become weary of
      forgiving!
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose Avellanos had known this forgiveness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was broken in health and fortune deplorably enough to present a truly
      gratifying spectacle to the supreme chief of democratic institutions. He
      retired to Sulaco. His wife had an estate in that province, and she nursed
      him back to life out of the house of death and captivity. When she died,
      their daughter, an only child, was old enough to devote herself to &ldquo;poor
      papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Avellanos, born in Europe and educated partly in England, was a tall,
      grave girl, with a self-possessed manner, a wide, white forehead, a wealth
      of rich brown hair, and blue eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other young ladies of Sulaco stood in awe of her character and
      accomplishments. She was reputed to be terribly learned and serious. As to
      pride, it was well known that all the Corbelans were proud, and her mother
      was a Corbelan. Don Jose Avellanos depended very much upon the devotion of
      his beloved Antonia. He accepted it in the benighted way of men, who,
      though made in God&rsquo;s image, are like stone idols without sense before the
      smoke of certain burnt offerings. He was ruined in every way, but a man
      possessed of passion is not a bankrupt in life. Don Jose Avellanos desired
      passionately for his country: peace, prosperity, and (as the end of the
      preface to &ldquo;Fifty Years of Misrule&rdquo; has it) &ldquo;an honourable place in the
      comity of civilized nations.&rdquo; In this last phrase the Minister
      Plenipotentiary, cruelly humiliated by the bad faith of his Government
      towards the foreign bondholders, stands disclosed in the patriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fatuous turmoil of greedy factions succeeding the tyranny of Guzman
      Bento seemed to bring his desire to the very door of opportunity. He was
      too old to descend personally into the centre of the arena at Sta. Marta.
      But the men who acted there sought his advice at every step. He himself
      thought that he could be most useful at a distance, in Sulaco. His name,
      his connections, his former position, his experience commanded the respect
      of his class. The discovery that this man, living in dignified poverty in
      the Corbelan town residence (opposite the Casa Gould), could dispose of
      material means towards the support of the cause increased his influence.
      It was his open letter of appeal that decided the candidature of Don
      Vincente Ribiera for the Presidency. Another of these informal State
      papers drawn up by Don Jose (this time in the shape of an address from the
      Province) induced that scrupulous constitutionalist to accept the
      extraordinary powers conferred upon him for five years by an overwhelming
      vote of congress in Sta. Marta. It was a specific mandate to establish the
      prosperity of the people on the basis of firm peace at home, and to redeem
      the national credit by the satisfaction of all just claims abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the afternoon the news of that vote had reached Sulaco by the usual
      roundabout postal way through Cayta, and up the coast by steamer. Don
      Jose, who had been waiting for the mail in the Goulds&rsquo; drawing-room, got
      out of the rocking-chair, letting his hat fall off his knees. He rubbed
      his silvery, short hair with both hands, speechless with the excess of
      joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Emilia, my soul,&rdquo; he had burst out, &ldquo;let me embrace you! Let me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell, had he been there, would no doubt have made an apt
      remark about the dawn of a new era; but if Don Jose thought something of
      the kind, his eloquence failed him on this occasion. The inspirer of that
      revival of the Blanco party tottered where he stood. Mrs. Gould moved
      forward quickly and, as she offered her cheek with a smile to her old
      friend, managed very cleverly to give him the support of her arm he really
      needed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose had recovered himself at once, but for a time he could do no more
      than murmur, &ldquo;Oh, you two patriots! Oh, you two patriots!&rdquo;&mdash;looking
      from one to the other. Vague plans of another historical work, wherein all
      the devotions to the regeneration of the country he loved would be
      enshrined for the reverent worship of posterity, flitted through his mind.
      The historian who had enough elevation of soul to write of Guzman Bento:
      &ldquo;Yet this monster, imbrued in the blood of his countrymen, must not be
      held unreservedly to the execration of future years. It appears to be true
      that he, too, loved his country. He had given it twelve years of peace;
      and, absolute master of lives and fortunes as he was, he died poor. His
      worst fault, perhaps, was not his ferocity, but his ignorance;&rdquo; the man
      who could write thus of a cruel persecutor (the passage occurs in his
      &ldquo;History of Misrule&rdquo;) felt at the foreshadowing of success an almost
      boundless affection for his two helpers, for these two young people from
      over the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as years ago, calmly, from the conviction of practical necessity,
      stronger than any abstract political doctrine, Henry Gould had drawn the
      sword, so now, the times being changed, Charles Gould had flung the silver
      of the San Tome into the fray. The Inglez of Sulaco, the &ldquo;Costaguana
      Englishman&rdquo; of the third generation, was as far from being a political
      intriguer as his uncle from a revolutionary swashbuckler. Springing from
      the instinctive uprightness of their natures their action was reasoned.
      They saw an opportunity and used the weapon to hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould&rsquo;s position&mdash;a commanding position in the background of
      that attempt to retrieve the peace and the credit of the Republic&mdash;was
      very clear. At the beginning he had had to accommodate himself to existing
      circumstances of corruption so naively brazen as to disarm the hate of a
      man courageous enough not to be afraid of its irresponsible potency to
      ruin everything it touched. It seemed to him too contemptible for hot
      anger even. He made use of it with a cold, fearless scorn, manifested
      rather than concealed by the forms of stony courtesy which did away with
      much of the ignominy of the situation. At bottom, perhaps, he suffered
      from it, for he was not a man of cowardly illusions, but he refused to
      discuss the ethical view with his wife. He trusted that, though a little
      disenchanted, she would be intelligent enough to understand that his
      character safeguarded the enterprise of their lives as much or more than
      his policy. The extraordinary development of the mine had put a great
      power into his hands. To feel that prosperity always at the mercy of
      unintelligent greed had grown irksome to him. To Mrs. Gould it was
      humiliating. At any rate, it was dangerous. In the confidential
      communications passing between Charles Gould, the King of Sulaco, and the
      head of the silver and steel interests far away in California, the
      conviction was growing that any attempt made by men of education and
      integrity ought to be discreetly supported. &ldquo;You may tell your friend
      Avellanos that I think so,&rdquo; Mr. Holroyd had written at the proper moment
      from his inviolable sanctuary within the eleven-storey high factory of
      great affairs. And shortly afterwards, with a credit opened by the Third
      Southern Bank (located next door but one to the Holroyd Building), the
      Ribierist party in Costaguana took a practical shape under the eye of the
      administrator of the San Tome mine. And Don Jose, the hereditary friend of
      the Gould family, could say: &ldquo;Perhaps, my dear Carlos, I shall not have
      believed in vain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWO
    </h2>
    <p>
      After another armed struggle, decided by Montero&rsquo;s victory of Rio Seco,
      had been added to the tale of civil wars, the &ldquo;honest men,&rdquo; as Don Jose
      called them, could breathe freely for the first time in half a century.
      The Five-Year-Mandate law became the basis of that regeneration, the
      passionate desire and hope for which had been like the elixir of
      everlasting youth for Don Jose Avellanos.
    </p>
    <p>
      And when it was suddenly&mdash;and not quite unexpectedly&mdash;endangered
      by that &ldquo;brute Montero,&rdquo; it was a passionate indignation that gave him a
      new lease of life, as it were. Already, at the time of the
      President-Dictator&rsquo;s visit to Sulaco, Moraga had sounded a note of warning
      from Sta. Marta about the War Minister. Montero and his brother made the
      subject of an earnest talk between the Dictator-President and the
      Nestor-inspirer of the party. But Don Vincente, a doctor of philosophy
      from the Cordova University, seemed to have an exaggerated respect for
      military ability, whose mysteriousness&mdash;since it appeared to be
      altogether independent of intellect&mdash;imposed upon his imagination.
      The victor of Rio Seco was a popular hero. His services were so recent
      that the President-Dictator quailed before the obvious charge of political
      ingratitude. Great regenerating transactions were being initiated&mdash;the
      fresh loan, a new railway line, a vast colonization scheme. Anything that
      could unsettle the public opinion in the capital was to be avoided. Don
      Jose bowed to these arguments and tried to dismiss from his mind the
      gold-laced portent in boots, and with a sabre, made meaningless now at
      last, he hoped, in the new order of things.
    </p>
    <p>
      Less than six months after the President-Dictator&rsquo;s visit, Sulaco learned
      with stupefaction of the military revolt in the name of national honour.
      The Minister of War, in a barrack-square allocution to the officers of the
      artillery regiment he had been inspecting, had declared the national
      honour sold to foreigners. The Dictator, by his weak compliance with the
      demands of the European powers&mdash;for the settlement of long
      outstanding money claims&mdash;had showed himself unfit to rule. A letter
      from Moraga explained afterwards that the initiative, and even the very
      text, of the incendiary allocution came, in reality, from the other
      Montero, the ex-guerillero, the <i>Commandante de Plaza</i>. The energetic
      treatment of Dr. Monygham, sent for in haste &ldquo;to the mountain,&rdquo; who came
      galloping three leagues in the dark, saved Don Jose from a dangerous
      attack of jaundice.
    </p>
    <p>
      After getting over the shock, Don Jose refused to let himself be
      prostrated. Indeed, better news succeeded at first. The revolt in the
      capital had been suppressed after a night of fighting in the streets.
      Unfortunately, both the Monteros had been able to make their escape south,
      to their native province of Entre-Montes. The hero of the forest march,
      the victor of Rio Seco, had been received with frenzied acclamations in
      Nicoya, the provincial capital. The troops in garrison there had gone to
      him in a body. The brothers were organizing an army, gathering
      malcontents, sending emissaries primed with patriotic lies to the people,
      and with promises of plunder to the wild llaneros. Even a Monterist press
      had come into existence, speaking oracularly of the secret promises of
      support given by &ldquo;our great sister Republic of the North&rdquo; against the
      sinister land-grabbing designs of European powers, cursing in every issue
      the &ldquo;miserable Ribiera,&rdquo; who had plotted to deliver his country, bound
      hand and foot, for a prey to foreign speculators.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sulaco, pastoral and sleepy, with its opulent Campo and the rich silver
      mine, heard the din of arms fitfully in its fortunate isolation. It was
      nevertheless in the very forefront of the defence with men and money; but
      the very rumours reached it circuitously&mdash;from abroad even, so much
      was it cut off from the rest of the Republic, not only by natural
      obstacles, but also by the vicissitudes of the war. The Monteristos were
      besieging Cayta, an important postal link. The overland couriers ceased to
      come across the mountains, and no muleteer would consent to risk the
      journey at last; even Bonifacio on one occasion failed to return from Sta.
      Marta, either not daring to start, or perhaps captured by the parties of
      the enemy raiding the country between the Cordillera and the capital.
      Monterist publications, however, found their way into the province,
      mysteriously enough; and also Monterist emissaries preaching death to
      aristocrats in the villages and towns of the Campo. Very early, at the
      beginning of the trouble, Hernandez, the bandit, had proposed (through the
      agency of an old priest of a village in the wilds) to deliver two of them
      to the Ribierist authorities in Tonoro. They had come to offer him a free
      pardon and the rank of colonel from General Montero in consideration of
      joining the rebel army with his mounted band. No notice was taken at the
      time of the proposal. It was joined, as an evidence of good faith, to a
      petition praying the Sulaco Assembly for permission to enlist, with all
      his followers, in the forces being then raised in Sulaco for the defence
      of the Five-Year Mandate of regeneration. The petition, like everything
      else, had found its way into Don Jose&rsquo;s hands. He had showed to Mrs. Gould
      these pages of dirty-greyish rough paper (perhaps looted in some village
      store), covered with the crabbed, illiterate handwriting of the old padre,
      carried off from his hut by the side of a mud-walled church to be the
      secretary of the dreaded Salteador. They had both bent in the lamplight of
      the Gould drawing-room over the document containing the fierce and yet
      humble appeal of the man against the blind and stupid barbarity turning an
      honest ranchero into a bandit. A postscript of the priest stated that, but
      for being deprived of his liberty for ten days, he had been treated with
      humanity and the respect due to his sacred calling. He had been, it
      appears, confessing and absolving the chief and most of the band, and he
      guaranteed the sincerity of their good disposition. He had distributed
      heavy penances, no doubt in the way of litanies and fasts; but he argued
      shrewdly that it would be difficult for them to make their peace with God
      durably till they had made peace with men.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never before, perhaps, had Hernandez&rsquo;s head been in less jeopardy than
      when he petitioned humbly for permission to buy a pardon for himself and
      his gang of deserters by armed service. He could range afar from the waste
      lands protecting his fastness, unchecked, because there were no troops
      left in the whole province. The usual garrison of Sulaco had gone south to
      the war, with its brass band playing the Bolivar march on the bridge of
      one of the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s steamers. The great family coaches drawn up
      along the shore of the harbour were made to rock on the high leathern
      springs by the enthusiasm of the senoras and the senoritas standing up to
      wave their lace handkerchiefs, as lighter after lighter packed full of
      troops left the end of the jetty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo directed the embarkation, under the superintendendence of Captain
      Mitchell, red-faced in the sun, conspicuous in a white waistcoat,
      representing the allied and anxious goodwill of all the material interests
      of civilization. General Barrios, who commanded the troops, assured Don
      Jose on parting that in three weeks he would have Montero in a wooden cage
      drawn by three pair of oxen ready for a tour through all the towns of the
      Republic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then, senora,&rdquo; he continued, baring his curly iron-grey head to Mrs.
      Gould in her landau&mdash;&ldquo;and then, senora, we shall convert our swords
      into plough-shares and grow rich. Even I, myself, as soon as this little
      business is settled, shall open a fundacion on some land I have on the
      llanos and try to make a little money in peace and quietness. Senora, you
      know, all Costaguana knows&mdash;what do I say?&mdash;this whole South
      American continent knows, that Pablo Barrios has had his fill of military
      glory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould was not present at the anxious and patriotic send-off. It
      was not his part to see the soldiers embark. It was neither his part, nor
      his inclination, nor his policy. His part, his inclination, and his policy
      were united in one endeavour to keep unchecked the flow of treasure he had
      started single-handed from the re-opened scar in the flank of the
      mountain. As the mine developed he had trained for himself some native
      help. There were foremen, artificers and clerks, with Don Pepe for the
      gobernador of the mining population. For the rest his shoulders alone
      sustained the whole weight of the &ldquo;Imperium in Imperio,&rdquo; the great Gould
      Concession whose mere shadow had been enough to crush the life out of his
      father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould had no silver mine to look after. In the general life of the
      Gould Concession she was represented by her two lieutenants, the doctor
      and the priest, but she fed her woman&rsquo;s love of excitement on events whose
      significance was purified to her by the fire of her imaginative purpose.
      On that day she had brought the Avellanos, father and daughter, down to
      the harbour with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amongst his other activities of that stirring time, Don Jose had become
      the chairman of a Patriotic Committee which had armed a great proportion
      of troops in the Sulaco command with an improved model of a military
      rifle. It had been just discarded for something still more deadly by one
      of the great European powers. How much of the market-price for second-hand
      weapons was covered by the voluntary contributions of the principal
      families, and how much came from those funds Don Jose was understood to
      command abroad, remained a secret which he alone could have disclosed; but
      the Ricos, as the populace called them, had contributed under the pressure
      of their Nestor&rsquo;s eloquence. Some of the more enthusiastic ladies had been
      moved to bring offerings of jewels into the hands of the man who was the
      life and soul of the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were moments when both his life and his soul seemed overtaxed by so
      many years of undiscouraged belief in regeneration. He appeared almost
      inanimate, sitting rigidly by the side of Mrs. Gould in the landau, with
      his fine, old, clean-shaven face of a uniform tint as if modelled in
      yellow wax, shaded by a soft felt hat, the dark eyes looking out fixedly.
      Antonia, the beautiful Antonia, as Miss Avellanos was called in Sulaco,
      leaned back, facing them; and her full figure, the grave oval of her face
      with full red lips, made her look more mature than Mrs. Gould, with her
      mobile expression and small, erect person under a slightly swaying
      sunshade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whenever possible Antonia attended her father; her recognized devotion
      weakened the shocking effect of her scorn for the rigid conventions
      regulating the life of Spanish-American girlhood. And, in truth, she was
      no longer girlish. It was said that she often wrote State papers from her
      father&rsquo;s dictation, and was allowed to read all the books in his library.
      At the receptions&mdash;where the situation was saved by the presence of a
      very decrepit old lady (a relation of the Corbelans), quite deaf and
      motionless in an armchair&mdash;Antonia could hold her own in a discussion
      with two or three men at a time. Obviously she was not the girl to be
      content with peeping through a barred window at a cloaked figure of a
      lover ensconced in a doorway opposite&mdash;which is the correct form of
      Costaguana courtship. It was generally believed that with her foreign
      upbringing and foreign ideas the learned and proud Antonia would never
      marry&mdash;unless, indeed, she married a foreigner from Europe or North
      America, now that Sulaco seemed on the point of being invaded by all the
      world.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THREE
    </h2>
    <p>
      When General Barrios stopped to address Mrs. Gould, Antonia raised
      negligently her hand holding an open fan, as if to shade from the sun her
      head, wrapped in a light lace shawl. The clear gleam of her blue eyes
      gliding behind the black fringe of eyelashes paused for a moment upon her
      father, then travelled further to the figure of a young man of thirty at
      most, of medium height, rather thick-set, wearing a light overcoat.
      Bearing down with the open palm of his hand upon the knob of a flexible
      cane, he had been looking on from a distance; but directly he saw himself
      noticed, he approached quietly and put his elbow over the door of the
      landau.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the big bow of his cravat, the
      style of his clothing, from the round hat to the varnished shoes,
      suggested an idea of French elegance; but otherwise he was the very type
      of a fair Spanish creole. The fluffy moustache and the short, curly,
      golden beard did not conceal his lips, rosy, fresh, almost pouting in
      expression. His full, round face was of that warm, healthy creole white
      which is never tanned by its native sunshine. Martin Decoud was seldom
      exposed to the Costaguana sun under which he was born. His people had been
      long settled in Paris, where he had studied law, had dabbled in
      literature, had hoped now and then in moments of exaltation to become a
      poet like that other foreigner of Spanish blood, Jose Maria Heredia. In
      other moments he had, to pass the time, condescended to write articles on
      European affairs for the Semenario, the principal newspaper in Sta. Marta,
      which printed them under the heading &ldquo;From our special correspondent,&rdquo;
       though the authorship was an open secret. Everybody in Costaguana, where
      the tale of compatriots in Europe is jealously kept, knew that it was &ldquo;the
      son Decoud,&rdquo; a talented young man, supposed to be moving in the higher
      spheres of Society. As a matter of fact, he was an idle boulevardier, in
      touch with some smart journalists, made free of a few newspaper offices,
      and welcomed in the pleasure haunts of pressmen. This life, whose dreary
      superficiality is covered by the glitter of universal blague, like the
      stupid clowning of a harlequin by the spangles of a motley costume,
      induced in him a Frenchified&mdash;but most un-French&mdash;cosmopolitanism,
      in reality a mere barren indifferentism posing as intellectual
      superiority. Of his own country he used to say to his French associates:
      &ldquo;Imagine an atmosphere of opera-bouffe in which all the comic business of
      stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc., all their farcical stealing,
      intriguing, and stabbing is done in dead earnest. It is screamingly funny,
      the blood flows all the time, and the actors believe themselves to be
      influencing the fate of the universe. Of course, government in general,
      any government anywhere, is a thing of exquisite comicality to a
      discerning mind; but really we Spanish-Americans do overstep the bounds.
      No man of ordinary intelligence can take part in the intrigues of une
      farce macabre. However, these Ribierists, of whom we hear so much just
      now, are really trying in their own comical way to make the country
      habitable, and even to pay some of its debts. My friends, you had better
      write up Senor Ribiera all you can in kindness to your own bondholders.
      Really, if what I am told in my letters is true, there is some chance for
      them at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he would explain with railing verve what Don Vincente Ribiera stood
      for&mdash;a mournful little man oppressed by his own good intentions, the
      significance of battles won, who Montero was (<i>un grotesque vaniteux et
      feroce</i>), and the manner of the new loan connected with railway
      development, and the colonization of vast tracts of land in one great
      financial scheme.
    </p>
    <p>
      And his French friends would remark that evidently this little fellow <i>Decoud
      connaissait la question a fond</i>. An important Parisian review asked him
      for an article on the situation. It was composed in a serious tone and in
      a spirit of levity. Afterwards he asked one of his intimates&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you read my thing about the regeneration of Costaguana&mdash;<i>une
      bonne blague, hein</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He imagined himself Parisian to the tips of his fingers. But far from
      being that he was in danger of remaining a sort of nondescript dilettante
      all his life. He had pushed the habit of universal raillery to a point
      where it blinded him to the genuine impulses of his own nature. To be
      suddenly selected for the executive member of the patriotic small-arms
      committee of Sulaco seemed to him the height of the unexpected, one of
      those fantastic moves of which only his &ldquo;dear countrymen&rdquo; were capable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s like a tile falling on my head. I&mdash;I&mdash;executive member!
      It&rsquo;s the first I hear of it! What do I know of military rifles? <i>C&rsquo;est
      funambulesque!</i>&rdquo; he had exclaimed to his favourite sister; for the
      Decoud family&mdash;except the old father and mother&mdash;used the French
      language amongst themselves. &ldquo;And you should see the explanatory and
      confidential letter! Eight pages of it&mdash;no less!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This letter, in Antonia&rsquo;s handwriting, was signed by Don Jose, who
      appealed to the &ldquo;young and gifted Costaguanero&rdquo; on public grounds, and
      privately opened his heart to his talented god-son, a man of wealth and
      leisure, with wide relations, and by his parentage and bringing-up worthy
      of all confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which means,&rdquo; Martin commented, cynically, to his sister, &ldquo;that I am not
      likely to misappropriate the funds, or go blabbing to our <i>Charge
      d&rsquo;Affaires</i> here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole thing was being carried out behind the back of the War Minister,
      Montero, a mistrusted member of the Ribiera Government, but difficult to
      get rid of at once. He was not to know anything of it till the troops
      under Barrios&rsquo;s command had the new rifle in their hands. The
      President-Dictator, whose position was very difficult, was alone in the
      secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How funny!&rdquo; commented Martin&rsquo;s sister and confidante; to which the
      brother, with an air of best Parisian blague, had retorted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s immense! The idea of that Chief of the State engaged, with the help
      of private citizens, in digging a mine under his own indispensable War
      Minister. No! We are unapproachable!&rdquo; And he laughed immoderately.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterwards his sister was surprised at the earnestness and ability he
      displayed in carrying out his mission, which circumstances made delicate,
      and his want of special knowledge rendered difficult. She had never seen
      Martin take so much trouble about anything in his whole life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It amuses me,&rdquo; he had explained, briefly. &ldquo;I am beset by a lot of
      swindlers trying to sell all sorts of gaspipe weapons. They are charming;
      they invite me to expensive luncheons; I keep up their hopes; it&rsquo;s
      extremely entertaining. Meanwhile, the real affair is being carried
      through in quite another quarter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the business was concluded he declared suddenly his intention of
      seeing the precious consignment delivered safely in Sulaco. The whole
      burlesque business, he thought, was worth following up to the end. He
      mumbled his excuses, tugging at his golden beard, before the acute young
      lady who (after the first wide stare of astonishment) looked at him with
      narrowed eyes, and pronounced slowly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you want to see Antonia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What Antonia?&rdquo; asked the Costaguana boulevardier, in a vexed and
      disdainful tone. He shrugged his shoulders, and spun round on his heel.
      His sister called out after him joyously&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Antonia you used to know when she wore her hair in two plaits down
      her back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had known her some eight years since, shortly before the Avellanos had
      left Europe for good, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully austere, and
      of a character already so formed that she ventured to treat slightingly
      his pose of disabused wisdom. On one occasion, as though she had lost all
      patience, she flew out at him about the aimlessness of his life and the
      levity of his opinions. He was twenty then, an only son, spoiled by his
      adoring family. This attack disconcerted him so greatly that he had
      faltered in his affectation of amused superiority before that
      insignificant chit of a school-girl. But the impression left was so strong
      that ever since all the girl friends of his sisters recalled to him
      Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance, or by the great force of
      contrast. It was, he told himself, like a ridiculous fatality. And, of
      course, in the news the Decouds received regularly from Costaguana, the
      name of their friends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequently&mdash;the
      arrest and the abominable treatment of the ex-Minister, the dangers and
      hardships endured by the family, its withdrawal in poverty to Sulaco, the
      death of the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Monterist pronunciamento had taken place before Martin Decoud reached
      Costaguana. He came out in a roundabout way, through Magellan&rsquo;s Straits by
      the main line and the West Coast Service of the O.S.N. Company. His
      precious consignment arrived just in time to convert the first feelings of
      consternation into a mood of hope and resolution. Publicly he was made
      much of by the <i>familias principales</i>. Privately Don Jose, still
      shaken and weak, embraced him with tears in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have come out yourself! No less could be expected from a Decoud.
      Alas! our worst fears have been realized,&rdquo; he moaned, affectionately. And
      again he hugged his god-son. This was indeed the time for men of intellect
      and conscience to rally round the endangered cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was then that Martin Decoud, the adopted child of Western Europe, felt
      the absolute change of atmosphere. He submitted to being embraced and
      talked to without a word. He was moved in spite of himself by that note of
      passion and sorrow unknown on the more refined stage of European politics.
      But when the tall Antonia, advancing with her light step in the dimness of
      the big bare Sala of the Avellanos house, offered him her hand (in her
      emancipated way), and murmured, &ldquo;I am glad to see you here, Don Martin,&rdquo;
       he felt how impossible it would be to tell these two people that he had
      intended to go away by the next month&rsquo;s packet. Don Jose, meantime,
      continued his praises. Every accession added to public confidence, and,
      besides, what an example to the young men at home from the brilliant
      defender of the country&rsquo;s regeneration, the worthy expounder of the
      party&rsquo;s political faith before the world! Everybody had read the
      magnificent article in the famous Parisian Review. The world was now
      informed: and the author&rsquo;s appearance at this moment was like a public act
      of faith. Young Decoud felt overcome by a feeling of impatient confusion.
      His plan had been to return by way of the United States through
      California, visit Yellowstone Park, see Chicago, Niagara, have a look at
      Canada, perhaps make a short stay in New York, a longer one in Newport,
      use his letters of introduction. The pressure of Antonia&rsquo;s hand was so
      frank, the tone of her voice was so unexpectedly unchanged in its
      approving warmth, that all he found to say after his low bow was&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am inexpressibly grateful for your welcome; but why need a man be
      thanked for returning to his native country? I am sure Dona Antonia does
      not think so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not, senor,&rdquo; she said, with that perfectly calm openness of
      manner which characterized all her utterances. &ldquo;But when he returns, as
      you return, one may be glad&mdash;for the sake of both.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martin Decoud said nothing of his plans. He not only never breathed a word
      of them to any one, but only a fortnight later asked the mistress of the
      Casa Gould (where he had of course obtained admission at once), leaning
      forward in his chair with an air of well-bred familiarity, whether she
      could not detect in him that day a marked change&mdash;an air, he
      explained, of more excellent gravity. At this Mrs. Gould turned her face
      full towards him with the silent inquiry of slightly widened eyes and the
      merest ghost of a smile, an habitual movement with her, which was very
      fascinating to men by something subtly devoted, finely self-forgetful in
      its lively readiness of attention. Because, Decoud continued
      imperturbably, he felt no longer an idle cumberer of the earth. She was,
      he assured her, actually beholding at that moment the Journalist of
      Sulaco. At once Mrs. Gould glanced towards Antonia, posed upright in the
      corner of a high, straight-backed Spanish sofa, a large black fan waving
      slowly against the curves of her fine figure, the tips of crossed feet
      peeping from under the hem of the black skirt. Decoud&rsquo;s eyes also remained
      fixed there, while in an undertone he added that Miss Avellanos was quite
      aware of his new and unexpected vocation, which in Costaguana was
      generally the speciality of half-educated negroes and wholly penniless
      lawyers. Then, confronting with a sort of urbane effrontery Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s
      gaze, now turned sympathetically upon himself, he breathed out the words,
      &ldquo;<i>Pro Patria!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What had happened was that he had all at once yielded to Don Jose&rsquo;s
      pressing entreaties to take the direction of a newspaper that would &ldquo;voice
      the aspirations of the province.&rdquo; It had been Don Jose&rsquo;s old and cherished
      idea. The necessary plant (on a modest scale) and a large consignment of
      paper had been received from America some time before; the right man alone
      was wanted. Even Senor Moraga in Sta. Marta had not been able to find one,
      and the matter was now becoming pressing; some organ was absolutely needed
      to counteract the effect of the lies disseminated by the Monterist press:
      the atrocious calumnies, the appeals to the people calling upon them to
      rise with their knives in their hands and put an end once for all to the
      Blancos, to these Gothic remnants, to these sinister mummies, these
      impotent paraliticos, who plotted with foreigners for the surrender of the
      lands and the slavery of the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clamour of this Negro Liberalism frightened Senor Avellanos. A
      newspaper was the only remedy. And now that the right man had been found
      in Decoud, great black letters appeared painted between the windows above
      the arcaded ground floor of a house on the Plaza. It was next to Anzani&rsquo;s
      great emporium of boots, silks, ironware, muslins, wooden toys, tiny
      silver arms, legs, heads, hearts (for ex-voto offerings), rosaries,
      champagne, women&rsquo;s hats, patent medicines, even a few dusty books in paper
      covers and mostly in the French language. The big black letters formed the
      words, &ldquo;Offices of the Porvenir.&rdquo; From these offices a single folded sheet
      of Martin&rsquo;s journalism issued three times a week; and the sleek yellow
      Anzani prowling in a suit of ample black and carpet slippers, before the
      many doors of his establishment, greeted by a deep, side-long inclination
      of his body the Journalist of Sulaco going to and fro on the business of
      his august calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOUR
    </h2>
    <p>
      Perhaps it was in the exercise of his calling that he had come to see the
      troops depart. The Porvenir of the day after next would no doubt relate
      the event, but its editor, leaning his side against the landau, seemed to
      look at nothing. The front rank of the company of infantry drawn up three
      deep across the shore end of the jetty when pressed too close would bring
      their bayonets to the charge ferociously, with an awful rattle; and then
      the crowd of spectators swayed back bodily, even under the noses of the
      big white mules. Notwithstanding the great multitude there was only a low,
      muttering noise; the dust hung in a brown haze, in which the horsemen,
      wedged in the throng here and there, towered from the hips upwards, gazing
      all one way over the heads. Almost every one of them had mounted a friend,
      who steadied himself with both hands grasping his shoulders from behind;
      and the rims of their hats touching, made like one disc sustaining the
      cones of two pointed crowns with a double face underneath. A hoarse mozo
      would bawl out something to an acquaintance in the ranks, or a woman would
      shriek suddenly the word Adios! followed by the Christian name of a man.
    </p>
    <p>
      General Barrios, in a shabby blue tunic and white peg-top trousers falling
      upon strange red boots, kept his head uncovered and stooped slightly,
      propping himself up with a thick stick. No! He had earned enough military
      glory to satiate any man, he insisted to Mrs. Gould, trying at the same
      time to put an air of gallantry into his attitude. A few jetty hairs hung
      sparsely from his upper lip, he had a salient nose, a thin, long jaw, and
      a black silk patch over one eye. His other eye, small and deep-set,
      twinkled erratically in all directions, aimlessly affable. The few
      European spectators, all men, who had naturally drifted into the
      neighbourhood of the Gould carriage, betrayed by the solemnity of their
      faces their impression that the general must have had too much punch
      (Swedish punch, imported in bottles by Anzani) at the Amarilla Club before
      he had started with his Staff on a furious ride to the harbour. But Mrs.
      Gould bent forward, self-possessed, and declared her conviction that still
      more glory awaited the general in the near future.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora!&rdquo; he remonstrated, with great feeling, &ldquo;in the name of God,
      reflect! How can there be any glory for a man like me in overcoming that
      bald-headed embustero with the dyed moustaches?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pablo Ignacio Barrios, son of a village alcalde, general of division,
      commanding in chief the Occidental Military district, did not frequent the
      higher society of the town. He preferred the unceremonious gatherings of
      men where he could tell jaguar-hunt stories, boast of his powers with the
      lasso, with which he could perform extremely difficult feats of the sort
      &ldquo;no married man should attempt,&rdquo; as the saying goes amongst the llaneros;
      relate tales of extraordinary night rides, encounters with wild bulls,
      struggles with crocodiles, adventures in the great forests, crossings of
      swollen rivers. And it was not mere boastfulness that prompted the
      general&rsquo;s reminiscences, but a genuine love of that wild life which he had
      led in his young days before he turned his back for ever on the thatched
      roof of the parental tolderia in the woods. Wandering away as far as
      Mexico he had fought against the French by the side (as he said) of
      Juarez, and was the only military man of Costaguana who had ever
      encountered European troops in the field. That fact shed a great lustre
      upon his name till it became eclipsed by the rising star of Montero. All
      his life he had been an inveterate gambler. He alluded himself quite
      openly to the current story how once, during some campaign (when in
      command of a brigade), he had gambled away his horses, pistols, and
      accoutrements, to the very epaulettes, playing monte with his colonels the
      night before the battle. Finally, he had sent under escort his sword (a
      presentation sword, with a gold hilt) to the town in the rear of his
      position to be immediately pledged for five hundred pesetas with a sleepy
      and frightened shop-keeper. By daybreak he had lost the last of that
      money, too, when his only remark, as he rose calmly, was, &ldquo;Now let us go
      and fight to the death.&rdquo; From that time he had become aware that a general
      could lead his troops into battle very well with a simple stick in his
      hand. &ldquo;It has been my custom ever since,&rdquo; he would say.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was always overwhelmed with debts; even during the periods of splendour
      in his varied fortunes of a Costaguana general, when he held high military
      commands, his gold-laced uniforms were almost always in pawn with some
      tradesman. And at last, to avoid the incessant difficulties of costume
      caused by the anxious lenders, he had assumed a disdain of military
      trappings, an eccentric fashion of shabby old tunics, which had become
      like a second nature. But the faction Barrios joined needed to fear no
      political betrayal. He was too much of a real soldier for the ignoble
      traffic of buying and selling victories. A member of the foreign
      diplomatic body in Sta. Marta had once passed a judgment upon him:
      &ldquo;Barrios is a man of perfect honesty and even of some talent for war, <i>mais
      il manque de tenue</i>.&rdquo; After the triumph of the Ribierists he had
      obtained the reputedly lucrative Occidental command, mainly through the
      exertions of his creditors (the Sta. Marta shopkeepers, all great
      politicians), who moved heaven and earth in his interest publicly, and
      privately besieged Senor Moraga, the influential agent of the San Tome
      mine, with the exaggerated lamentations that if the general were passed
      over, &ldquo;We shall all be ruined.&rdquo; An incidental but favourable mention of
      his name in Mr. Gould senior&rsquo;s long correspondence with his son had
      something to do with his appointment, too; but most of all undoubtedly his
      established political honesty. No one questioned the personal bravery of
      the Tiger-killer, as the populace called him. He was, however, said to be
      unlucky in the field&mdash;but this was to be the beginning of an era of
      peace. The soldiers liked him for his humane temper, which was like a
      strange and precious flower unexpectedly blooming on the hotbed of corrupt
      revolutions; and when he rode slowly through the streets during some
      military display, the contemptuous good humour of his solitary eye roaming
      over the crowds extorted the acclamations of the populace. The women of
      that class especially seemed positively fascinated by the long drooping
      nose, the peaked chin, the heavy lower lip, the black silk eyepatch and
      band slanting rakishly over the forehead. His high rank always procured an
      audience of Caballeros for his sporting stories, which he detailed very
      well with a simple, grave enjoyment. As to the society of ladies, it was
      irksome by the restraints it imposed without any equivalent, as far as he
      could see. He had not, perhaps, spoken three times on the whole to Mrs.
      Gould since he had taken up his high command; but he had observed her
      frequently riding with the Senor Administrador, and had pronounced that
      there was more sense in her little bridle-hand than in all the female
      heads in Sulaco. His impulse had been to be very civil on parting to a
      woman who did not wobble in the saddle, and happened to be the wife of a
      personality very important to a man always short of money. He even pushed
      his attentions so far as to desire the aide-de-camp at his side (a
      thick-set, short captain with a Tartar physiognomy) to bring along a
      corporal with a file of men in front of the carriage, lest the crowd in
      its backward surges should &ldquo;incommode the mules of the senora.&rdquo; Then,
      turning to the small knot of silent Europeans looking on within earshot,
      he raised his voice protectingly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senores, have no apprehension. Go on quietly making your Ferro Carril&mdash;your
      railways, your telegraphs. Your&mdash;There&rsquo;s enough wealth in Costaguana
      to pay for everything&mdash;or else you would not be here. Ha! ha! Don&rsquo;t
      mind this little picardia of my friend Montero. In a little while you
      shall behold his dyed moustaches through the bars of a strong wooden cage.
      Si, senores! Fear nothing, develop the country, work, work!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The little group of engineers received this exhortation without a word,
      and after waving his hand at them loftily, he addressed himself again to
      Mrs. Gould&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what Don Jose says we must do. Be enterprising! Work! Grow rich!
      To put Montero in a cage is my work; and when that insignificant piece of
      business is done, then, as Don Jose wishes us, we shall grow rich, one and
      all, like so many Englishmen, because it is money that saves a country,
      and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But a young officer in a very new uniform, hurrying up from the direction
      of the jetty, interrupted his interpretation of Senor Avellanos&rsquo;s ideals.
      The general made a movement of impatience; the other went on talking to
      him insistently, with an air of respect. The horses of the Staff had been
      embarked, the steamer&rsquo;s gig was awaiting the general at the boat steps;
      and Barrios, after a fierce stare of his one eye, began to take leave. Don
      Jose roused himself for an appropriate phrase pronounced mechanically. The
      terrible strain of hope and fear was telling on him, and he seemed to
      husband the last sparks of his fire for those oratorical efforts of which
      even the distant Europe was to hear. Antonia, her red lips firmly closed,
      averted her head behind the raised fan; and young Decoud, though he felt
      the girl&rsquo;s eyes upon him, gazed away persistently, hooked on his elbow,
      with a scornful and complete detachment. Mrs. Gould heroically concealed
      her dismay at the appearance of men and events so remote from her racial
      conventions, dismay too deep to be uttered in words even to her husband.
      She understood his voiceless reserve better now. Their confidential
      intercourse fell, not in moments of privacy, but precisely in public, when
      the quick meeting of their glances would comment upon some fresh turn of
      events. She had gone to his school of uncompromising silence, the only one
      possible, since so much that seemed shocking, weird, and grotesque in the
      working out of their purposes had to be accepted as normal in this
      country. Decidedly, the stately Antonia looked more mature and infinitely
      calm; but she would never have known how to reconcile the sudden sinkings
      of her heart with an amiable mobility of expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould smiled a good-bye at Barrios, nodded round to the Europeans
      (who raised their hats simultaneously) with an engaging invitation, &ldquo;I
      hope to see you all presently, at home&rdquo;; then said nervously to Decoud,
      &ldquo;Get in, Don Martin,&rdquo; and heard him mutter to himself in French, as he
      opened the carriage door, &ldquo;<i>Le sort en est jete</i>.&rdquo; She heard him with
      a sort of exasperation. Nobody ought to have known better than himself
      that the first cast of dice had been already thrown long ago in a most
      desperate game. Distant acclamations, words of command yelled out, and a
      roll of drums on the jetty greeted the departing general. Something like a
      slight faintness came over her, and she looked blankly at Antonia&rsquo;s still
      face, wondering what would happen to Charley if that absurd man failed. &ldquo;A
      la casa, Ignacio,&rdquo; she cried at the motionless broad back of the coachman,
      who gathered the reins without haste, mumbling to himself under his
      breath, &ldquo;Si, la casa. Si, si nina.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft track, the shadows fell long
      on the dusty little plain interspersed with dark bushes, mounds of
      turned-up earth, low wooden buildings with iron roofs of the Railway
      Company; the sparse row of telegraph poles strode obliquely clear of the
      town, bearing a single, almost invisible wire far into the great campo&mdash;like
      a slender, vibrating feeler of that progress waiting outside for a moment
      of peace to enter and twine itself about the weary heart of the land.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cafe window of the Albergo d&rsquo;ltalia Una was full of sunburnt,
      whiskered faces of railway men. But at the other end of the house, the end
      of the Signori Inglesi, old Giorgio, at the door with one of his girls on
      each side, bared his bushy head, as white as the snows of Higuerota. Mrs.
      Gould stopped the carriage. She seldom failed to speak to her protege;
      moreover, the excitement, the heat, and the dust had made her thirsty. She
      asked for a glass of water. Giorgio sent the children indoors for it, and
      approached with pleasure expressed in his whole rugged countenance. It was
      not often that he had occasion to see his benefactress, who was also an
      Englishwoman&mdash;another title to his regard. He offered some excuses
      for his wife. It was a bad day with her; her oppressions&mdash;he tapped
      his own broad chest. She could not move from her chair that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud, ensconced in the corner of his seat, observed gloomily Mrs.
      Gould&rsquo;s old revolutionist, then, offhand&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and what do you think of it all, Garibaldino?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Old Giorgio, looking at him with some curiosity, said civilly that the
      troops had marched very well. One-eyed Barrios and his officers had done
      wonders with the recruits in a short time. Those Indios, only caught the
      other day, had gone swinging past in double quick time, like bersaglieri;
      they looked well fed, too, and had whole uniforms. &ldquo;Uniforms!&rdquo; he repeated
      with a half-smile of pity. A look of grim retrospect stole over his
      piercing, steady eyes. It had been otherwise in his time when men fought
      against tyranny, in the forests of Brazil, or on the plains of Uruguay,
      starving on half-raw beef without salt, half naked, with often only a
      knife tied to a stick for a weapon. &ldquo;And yet we used to prevail against
      the oppressor,&rdquo; he concluded, proudly.
    </p>
    <p>
      His animation fell; the slight gesture of his hand expressed
      discouragement; but he added that he had asked one of the sergeants to
      show him the new rifle. There was no such weapon in his fighting days; and
      if Barrios could not&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; broke in Don Jose, almost trembling with eagerness. &ldquo;We are
      safe. The good Senor Viola is a man of experience. Extremely deadly&mdash;is
      it not so? You have accomplished your mission admirably, my dear Martin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud, lolling back moodily, contemplated old Viola.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who are you for, really, in your
      heart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Linda had brought out a glass of
      water on a tray, with extreme care; Giselle presented her with a bunch of
      flowers gathered hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the people,&rdquo; declared old Viola, sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are all for the people&mdash;in the end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; muttered old Viola, savagely. &ldquo;And meantime they fight for you.
      Blind. Esclavos!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that moment young Scarfe of the railway staff emerged from the door of
      the part reserved for the Signori Inglesi. He had come down to
      headquarters from somewhere up the line on a light engine, and had had
      just time to get a bath and change his clothes. He was a nice boy, and
      Mrs. Gould welcomed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Gould. I&rsquo;ve just come down.
      Usual luck. Missed everything, of course. This show is just over, and I
      hear there has been a great dance at Don Juste Lopez&rsquo;s last night. Is it
      true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young patricians,&rdquo; Decoud began suddenly in his precise English,
      &ldquo;have indeed been dancing before they started off to the war with the
      Great Pompey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Young Scarfe stared, astounded. &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t met before,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould
      intervened. &ldquo;Mr. Decoud&mdash;Mr. Scarfe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia,&rdquo; protested Don Jose, with nervous
      haste, also in English. &ldquo;You should not jest like this, Martin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Antonia&rsquo;s breast rose and fell with a deeper breath. The young engineer
      was utterly in the dark. &ldquo;Great what?&rdquo; he muttered, vaguely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luckily, Montero is not a Caesar,&rdquo; Decoud continued. &ldquo;Not the two
      Monteros put together would make a decent parody of a Caesar.&rdquo; He crossed
      his arms on his breast, looking at Senor Avellanos, who had returned to
      his immobility. &ldquo;It is only you, Don Jose, who are a genuine old Roman&mdash;vir
      Romanus&mdash;eloquent and inflexible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Since he had heard the name of Montero pronounced, young Scarfe had been
      eager to express his simple feelings. In a loud and youthful tone he hoped
      that this Montero was going to be licked once for all and done with. There
      was no saying what would happen to the railway if the revolution got the
      upper hand. Perhaps it would have to be abandoned. It would not be the
      first railway gone to pot in Costaguana. &ldquo;You know, it&rsquo;s one of their
      so-called national things,&rdquo; he ran on, wrinkling up his nose as if the
      word had a suspicious flavour to his profound experience of South American
      affairs. And, of course, he chatted with animation, it had been such an
      immense piece of luck for him at his age to get appointed on the staff &ldquo;of
      a big thing like that&mdash;don&rsquo;t you know.&rdquo; It would give him the pull
      over a lot of chaps all through life, he asserted. &ldquo;Therefore&mdash;down
      with Montero! Mrs. Gould.&rdquo; His artless grin disappeared slowly before the
      unanimous gravity of the faces turned upon him from the carriage; only
      that &ldquo;old chap,&rdquo; Don Jose, presenting a motionless, waxy profile, stared
      straight on as if deaf. Scarfe did not know the Avellanos very well. They
      did not give balls, and Antonia never appeared at a ground-floor window,
      as some other young ladies used to do attended by elder women, to chat
      with the caballeros on horseback in the Calle. The stares of these creoles
      did not matter much; but what on earth had come to Mrs. Gould? She said,
      &ldquo;Go on, Ignacio,&rdquo; and gave him a slow inclination of the head. He heard a
      short laugh from that round-faced, Frenchified fellow. He coloured up to
      the eyes, and stared at Giorgio Viola, who had fallen back with the
      children, hat in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall want a horse presently,&rdquo; he said with some asperity to the old
      man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, senor. There are plenty of horses,&rdquo; murmured the Garibaldino,
      smoothing absently, with his brown hands, the two heads, one dark with
      bronze glints, the other fair with a coppery ripple, of the two girls by
      his side. The returning stream of sightseers raised a great dust on the
      road. Horsemen noticed the group. &ldquo;Go to your mother,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They are
      growing up as I am growing older, and there is nobody&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at the young engineer and stopped, as if awakened from a dream;
      then, folding his arms on his breast, took up his usual position, leaning
      back in the doorway with an upward glance fastened on the white shoulder
      of Higuerota far away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the carriage Martin Decoud, shifting his position as though he could
      not make himself comfortable, muttered as he swayed towards Antonia, &ldquo;I
      suppose you hate me.&rdquo; Then in a loud voice he began to congratulate Don
      Jose upon all the engineers being convinced Ribierists. The interest of
      all those foreigners was gratifying. &ldquo;You have heard this one. He is an
      enlightened well-wisher. It is pleasant to think that the prosperity of
      Costaguana is of some use to the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is very young,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould remarked, quietly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so very wise for his age,&rdquo; retorted Decoud. &ldquo;But here we have the
      naked truth from the mouth of that child. You are right, Don Jose. The
      natural treasures of Costaguana are of importance to the progressive
      Europe represented by this youth, just as three hundred years ago the
      wealth of our Spanish fathers was a serious object to the rest of Europe&mdash;as
      represented by the bold buccaneers. There is a curse of futility upon our
      character: Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, chivalry and materialism,
      high-sounding sentiments and a supine morality, violent efforts for an
      idea and a sullen acquiescence in every form of corruption. We convulsed a
      continent for our independence only to become the passive prey of a
      democratic parody, the helpless victims of scoundrels and cut-throats, our
      institutions a mockery, our laws a farce&mdash;a Guzman Bento our master!
      And we have sunk so low that when a man like you has awakened our
      conscience, a stupid barbarian of a Montero&mdash;Great Heavens! a
      Montero!&mdash;becomes a deadly danger, and an ignorant, boastful Indio,
      like Barrios, is our defender.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Don Jose, disregarding the general indictment as though he had not
      heard a word of it, took up the defence of Barrios. The man was competent
      enough for his special task in the plan of campaign. It consisted in an
      offensive movement, with Cayta as base, upon the flank of the
      Revolutionist forces advancing from the south against Sta. Marta, which
      was covered by another army with the President-Dictator in its midst. Don
      Jose became quite animated with a great flow of speech, bending forward
      anxiously under the steady eyes of his daughter. Decoud, as if silenced by
      so much ardour, did not make a sound. The bells of the city were striking
      the hour of Oracion when the carriage rolled under the old gateway facing
      the harbour like a shapeless monument of leaves and stones. The rumble of
      wheels under the sonorous arch was traversed by a strange, piercing
      shriek, and Decoud, from his back seat, had a view of the people behind
      the carriage trudging along the road outside, all turning their heads, in
      sombreros and rebozos, to look at a locomotive which rolled quickly out of
      sight behind Giorgio Viola&rsquo;s house, under a white trail of steam that
      seemed to vanish in the breathless, hysterically prolonged scream of
      warlike triumph. And it was all like a fleeting vision, the shrieking
      ghost of a railway engine fleeing across the frame of the archway, behind
      the startled movement of the people streaming back from a military
      spectacle with silent footsteps on the dust of the road. It was a material
      train returning from the Campo to the palisaded yards. The empty cars
      rolled lightly on the single track; there was no rumble of wheels, no
      tremor of the ground. The engine-driver, running past the Casa Viola with
      the salute of an uplifted arm, checked his speed smartly before entering
      the yard; and when the ear-splitting screech of the steam-whistle for the
      brakes had stopped, a series of hard, battering shocks, mingled with the
      clanking of chain-couplings, made a tumult of blows and shaken fetters
      under the vault of the gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Gould carriage was the first to return from the harbour to the empty
      town. On the ancient pavement, laid out in patterns, sunk into ruts and
      holes, the portly Ignacio, mindful of the springs of the Parisian-built
      landau, had pulled up to a walk, and Decoud in his corner contemplated
      moodily the inner aspect of the gate. The squat turreted sides held up
      between them a mass of masonry with bunches of grass growing at the top,
      and a grey, heavily scrolled, armorial shield of stone above the apex of
      the arch with the arms of Spain nearly smoothed out as if in readiness for
      some new device typical of the impending progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      The explosive noise of the railway trucks seemed to augment Decoud&rsquo;s
      irritation. He muttered something to himself, then began to talk aloud in
      curt, angry phrases thrown at the silence of the two women. They did not
      look at him at all; while Don Jose, with his semi-translucent, waxy
      complexion, overshadowed by the soft grey hat, swayed a little to the
      jolts of the carriage by the side of Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This sound puts a new edge on a very old truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud spoke in French, perhaps because of Ignacio on the box above him;
      the old coachman, with his broad back filling a short, silver-braided
      jacket, had a big pair of ears, whose thick rims stood well away from his
      cropped head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, the noise outside the city wall is new, but the principle is old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ruminated his discontent for a while, then began afresh with a sidelong
      glance at Antonia&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but just imagine our forefathers in morions and corselets drawn up
      outside this gate, and a band of adventurers just landed from their ships
      in the harbour there. Thieves, of course. Speculators, too. Their
      expeditions, each one, were the speculations of grave and reverend persons
      in England. That is history, as that absurd sailor Mitchell is always
      saying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mitchell&rsquo;s arrangements for the embarkation of the troops were
      excellent!&rdquo; exclaimed Don Jose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That!&mdash;that! oh, that&rsquo;s really the work of that Genoese seaman! But
      to return to my noises; there used to be in the old days the sound of
      trumpets outside that gate. War trumpets! I&rsquo;m sure they were trumpets. I
      have read somewhere that Drake, who was the greatest of these men, used to
      dine alone in his cabin on board ship to the sound of trumpets. In those
      days this town was full of wealth. Those men came to take it. Now the
      whole land is like a treasure-house, and all these people are breaking
      into it, whilst we are cutting each other&rsquo;s throats. The only thing that
      keeps them out is mutual jealousy. But they&rsquo;ll come to an agreement some
      day&mdash;and by the time we&rsquo;ve settled our quarrels and become decent and
      honourable, there&rsquo;ll be nothing left for us. It has always been the same.
      We are a wonderful people, but it has always been our fate to be&rdquo;&mdash;he
      did not say &ldquo;robbed,&rdquo; but added, after a pause&mdash;&ldquo;exploited!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould said, &ldquo;Oh, this is unjust!&rdquo; And Antonia interjected, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      answer him, Emilia. He is attacking me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You surely do not think I was attacking Don Carlos!&rdquo; Decoud answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then the carriage stopped before the door of the Casa Gould. The young
      man offered his hand to the ladies. They went in first together; Don Jose
      walked by the side of Decoud, and the gouty old porter tottered after them
      with some light wraps on his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose slipped his hand under the arm of the journalist of Sulaco.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Porvenir must have a long and confident article upon Barrios and the
      irresistibleness of his army of Cayta! The moral effect should be kept up
      in the country. We must cable encouraging extracts to Europe and the
      United States to maintain a favourable impression abroad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud muttered, &ldquo;Oh, yes, we must comfort our friends, the speculators.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The long open gallery was in shadow, with its screen of plants in vases
      along the balustrade, holding out motionless blossoms, and all the glass
      doors of the reception-rooms thrown open. A jingle of spurs died out at
      the further end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Basilio, standing aside against the wall, said in a soft tone to the
      passing ladies, &ldquo;The Senor Administrador is just back from the mountain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the great sala, with its groups of ancient Spanish and modern European
      furniture making as if different centres under the high white spread of
      the ceiling, the silver and porcelain of the tea-service gleamed among a
      cluster of dwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady&rsquo;s boudoir, putting in a note
      of feminine and intimate delicacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose in his rocking-chair placed his hat on his lap, and Decoud walked
      up and down the whole length of the room, passing between tables loaded
      with knick-knacks and almost disappearing behind the high backs of
      leathern sofas. He was thinking of the angry face of Antonia; he was
      confident that he would make his peace with her. He had not stayed in
      Sulaco to quarrel with Antonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martin Decoud was angry with himself. All he saw and heard going on around
      him exasperated the preconceived views of his European civilization. To
      contemplate revolutions from the distance of the Parisian Boulevards was
      quite another matter. Here on the spot it was not possible to dismiss
      their tragic comedy with the expression, &ldquo;<i>Quelle farce!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The reality of the political action, such as it was, seemed closer, and
      acquired poignancy by Antonia&rsquo;s belief in the cause. Its crudeness hurt
      his feelings. He was surprised at his own sensitiveness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than I would have believed
      possible,&rdquo; he thought to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      His disdain grew like a reaction of his scepticism against the action into
      which he was forced by his infatuation for Antonia. He soothed himself by
      saying he was not a patriot, but a lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gould sank low before the little
      tea-table. Antonia took up her usual place at the reception hour&mdash;the
      corner of a leathern couch, with a rigid grace in her pose and a fan in
      her hand. Decoud, swerving from the straight line of his march, came to
      lean over the high back of her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a long time he talked into her ear from behind, softly, with a half
      smile and an air of apologetic familiarity. Her fan lay half grasped on
      her knees. She never looked at him. His rapid utterance grew more and more
      insistent and caressing. At last he ventured a slight laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, really. You must forgive me. One must be serious sometimes.&rdquo; He
      paused. She turned her head a little; her blue eyes glided slowly towards
      him, slightly upwards, mollified and questioning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t think I am serious when I call Montero a gran&rsquo; bestia every
      second day in the Porvenir? That is not a serious occupation. No
      occupation is serious, not even when a bullet through the heart is the
      penalty of failure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hand closed firmly on her fan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some reason, you understand, I mean some sense, may creep into thinking;
      some glimpse of truth. I mean some effective truth, for which there is no
      room in politics or journalism. I happen to have said what I thought. And
      you are angry! If you do me the kindness to think a little you will see
      that I spoke like a patriot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She opened her red lips for the first time, not unkindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but you never see the aim. Men must be used as they are. I suppose
      nobody is really disinterested, unless, perhaps, you, Don Martin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid! It&rsquo;s the last thing I should like you to believe of me.&rdquo; He
      spoke lightly, and paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      She began to fan herself with a slow movement without raising her hand.
      After a time he whispered passionately&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Antonia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled, and extended her hand after the English manner towards Charles
      Gould, who was bowing before her; while Decoud, with his elbows spread on
      the back of the sofa, dropped his eyes and murmured, &ldquo;Bonjour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine bent over his wife for a
      moment. They exchanged a few words, of which only the phrase, &ldquo;The
      greatest enthusiasm,&rdquo; pronounced by Mrs. Gould, could be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Decoud began in a murmur. &ldquo;Even he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is sheer calumny,&rdquo; said Antonia, not very severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You just ask him to throw his mine into the melting-pot for the great
      cause,&rdquo; Decoud whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose had raised his voice. He rubbed his hands cheerily. The excellent
      aspect of the troops and the great quantity of new deadly rifles on the
      shoulders of those brave men seemed to fill him with an ecstatic
      confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, very tall and thin before his chair, listened, but nothing
      could be discovered in his face except a kind and deferential attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, Antonia had risen, and, crossing the room, stood looking out of
      one of the three long windows giving on the street. Decoud followed her.
      The window was thrown open, and he leaned against the thickness of the
      wall. The long folds of the damask curtain, falling straight from the
      broad brass cornice, hid him partly from the room. He folded his arms on
      his breast, and looked steadily at Antonia&rsquo;s profile.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people returning from the harbour filled the pavements; the shuffle of
      sandals and a low murmur of voices ascended to the window. Now and then a
      coach rolled slowly along the disjointed roadway of the Calle de la
      Constitucion. There were not many private carriages in Sulaco; at the most
      crowded hour on the Alameda they could be counted with one glance of the
      eye. The great family arks swayed on high leathern springs, full of pretty
      powdered faces in which the eyes looked intensely alive and black. And
      first Don Juste Lopez, the President of the Provincial Assembly, passed
      with his three lovely daughters, solemn in a black frock-coat and stiff
      white tie, as when directing a debate from a high tribune. Though they all
      raised their eyes, Antonia did not make the usual greeting gesture of a
      fluttered hand, and they affected not to see the two young people,
      Costaguaneros with European manners, whose eccentricities were discussed
      behind the barred windows of the first families in Sulaco. And then the
      widowed Senora Gavilaso de Valdes rolled by, handsome and dignified, in a
      great machine in which she used to travel to and from her country house,
      surrounded by an armed retinue in leather suits and big sombreros, with
      carbines at the bows of their saddles. She was a woman of most
      distinguished family, proud, rich, and kind-hearted. Her second son,
      Jaime, had just gone off on the Staff of Barrios. The eldest, a worthless
      fellow of a moody disposition, filled Sulaco with the noise of his
      dissipations, and gambled heavily at the club. The two youngest boys, with
      yellow Ribierist cockades in their caps, sat on the front seat. She, too,
      affected not to see the Senor Decoud talking publicly with Antonia in
      defiance of every convention. And he not even her novio as far as the
      world knew! Though, even in that case, it would have been scandal enough.
      But the dignified old lady, respected and admired by the first families,
      would have been still more shocked if she could have heard the words they
      were exchanging.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you say I lost sight of the aim? I have only one aim in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made an almost imperceptible negative movement of her head, still
      staring across the street at the Avellanos&rsquo;s house, grey, marked with
      decay, and with iron bars like a prison.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it would be so easy of attainment,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;this aim which,
      whether knowingly or not, I have always had in my heart&mdash;ever since
      the day when you snubbed me so horribly once in Paris, you remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A slight smile seemed to move the corner of the lip that was on his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know you were a very terrible person, a sort of Charlotte Corday in a
      schoolgirl&rsquo;s dress; a ferocious patriot. I suppose you would have stuck a
      knife into Guzman Bento?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She interrupted him. &ldquo;You do me too much honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; he said, changing suddenly to a tone of bitter levity, &ldquo;you
      would have sent me to stab him without compunction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Ah, par exemple!</i>&rdquo; she murmured in a shocked tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he argued, mockingly, &ldquo;you do keep me here writing deadly
      nonsense. Deadly to me! It has already killed my self-respect. And you may
      imagine,&rdquo; he continued, his tone passing into light banter, &ldquo;that Montero,
      should he be successful, would get even with me in the only way such a
      brute can get even with a man of intelligence who condescends to call him
      a gran&rsquo; bestia three times a week. It&rsquo;s a sort of intellectual death; but
      there is the other one in the background for a journalist of my ability.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he is successful!&rdquo; said Antonia, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem satisfied to see my life hang on a thread,&rdquo; Decoud replied, with
      a broad smile. &ldquo;And the other Montero, the &lsquo;my trusted brother&rsquo; of the
      proclamations, the guerrillero&mdash;haven&rsquo;t I written that he was taking
      the guests&rsquo; overcoats and changing plates in Paris at our Legation in the
      intervals of spying on our refugees there, in the time of Rojas? He will
      wash out that sacred truth in blood. In my blood! Why do you look annoyed?
      This is simply a bit of the biography of one of our great men. What do you
      think he will do to me? There is a certain convent wall round the corner
      of the Plaza, opposite the door of the Bull Ring. You know? Opposite the
      door with the inscription, <i>Intrada de la Sombra</i>.&rsquo; Appropriate,
      perhaps! That&rsquo;s where the uncle of our host gave up his
      Anglo-South-American soul. And, note, he might have run away. A man who
      has fought with weapons may run away. You might have let me go with
      Barrios if you had cared for me. I would have carried one of those rifles,
      in which Don Jose believes, with the greatest satisfaction, in the ranks
      of poor peons and Indios, that know nothing either of reason or politics.
      The most forlorn hope in the most forlorn army on earth would have been
      safer than that for which you made me stay here. When you make war you may
      retreat, but not when you spend your time in inciting poor ignorant fools
      to kill and to die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His tone remained light, and as if unaware of his presence she stood
      motionless, her hands clasped lightly, the fan hanging down from her
      interlaced fingers. He waited for a while, and then&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall go to the wall,&rdquo; he said, with a sort of jocular desperation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even that declaration did not make her look at him. Her head remained
      still, her eyes fixed upon the house of the Avellanos, whose chipped
      pilasters, broken cornices, the whole degradation of dignity was hidden
      now by the gathering dusk of the street. In her whole figure her lips
      alone moved, forming the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martin, you will make me cry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He remained silent for a minute, startled, as if overwhelmed by a sort of
      awed happiness, with the lines of the mocking smile still stiffened about
      his mouth, and incredulous surprise in his eyes. The value of a sentence
      is in the personality which utters it, for nothing new can be said by man
      or woman; and those were the last words, it seemed to him, that could ever
      have been spoken by Antonia. He had never made it up with her so
      completely in all their intercourse of small encounters; but even before
      she had time to turn towards him, which she did slowly with a rigid grace,
      he had begun to plead&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My sister is only waiting to embrace you. My father is transported with
      joy. I won&rsquo;t say anything of my mother! Our mothers were like sisters.
      There is the mail-boat for the south next week&mdash;let us go. That
      Moraga is a fool! A man like Montero is bribed. It&rsquo;s the practice of the
      country. It&rsquo;s tradition&mdash;it&rsquo;s politics. Read &lsquo;Fifty Years of
      Misrule.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave poor papa alone, Don Martin. He believes&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the greatest tenderness for your father,&rdquo; he began, hurriedly.
      &ldquo;But I love you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this
      business. Perhaps your father did, too; I don&rsquo;t know. Montero was
      bribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan for
      national development. Why didn&rsquo;t the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a
      mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years&rsquo; salary in
      advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The man,&rdquo; she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst,
      &ldquo;was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga
      only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Of course you know. You know everything. You read all
      the correspondence, you write all the papers&mdash;all those State papers
      that are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of
      political purity. Hadn&rsquo;t you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de
      Sulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could have
      been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of
      virtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course,
      their work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the
      thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir John
      what&rsquo;s-his-name that Montero had to be bought off&mdash;he and all his
      Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have been
      bought off with his own stupid weight of gold&mdash;his weight of gold, I
      tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head slightly. &ldquo;It was impossible,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He wanted the whole lot? What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and
      motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the
      wall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones
      of her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if
      waves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her
      reasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her
      away out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All
      this was wrong&mdash;utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes
      the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the
      fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women hovered,
      as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did not want to
      know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he was
      ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation
      of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In
      the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the
      austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention;
      sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he
      advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the
      curtain half hid them from the people in the sala.
    </p>
    <p>
      Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the
      houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the
      evening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of
      unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa
      Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos.
      Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of
      a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by
      the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We Occidentals,&rdquo; said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials
      of Sulaco applied to themselves, &ldquo;have been always distinct and separated.
      As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army
      has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces
      isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios&rsquo;
      movement will be cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it
      reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other seaboard. We have the
      greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purest blood in our great
      families, the most laborious population. The Occidental Province should
      stand alone. The early Federalism was not bad for us. Then came this union
      which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It opened the road to tyranny; and,
      ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a millstone round our necks.
      The Occidental territory is large enough to make any man&rsquo;s country. Look
      at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us, &lsquo;Separate!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, I know it&rsquo;s contrary to the doctrine laid down in the &lsquo;History
      of Fifty Years&rsquo; Misrule.&rsquo; I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense
      seems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much
      with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her
      early convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered
      that possibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions,&rdquo; he said,
      prophetically.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail
      of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving
      themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those
      profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza
      end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women
      cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A
      man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp, showing the
      coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his
      shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour end of the
      Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-grey
      abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores,&rdquo; said Decoud, gently,
      &ldquo;coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of
      Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make
      friends with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, indeed!&rdquo; said Antonia. &ldquo;How did you make friends?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man
      is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know
      remarkable men&mdash;and this man is remarkable in his way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes!&rdquo; said Antonia, thoughtfully. &ldquo;It is known that this Italian has
      a great influence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the
      shining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a
      long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was
      powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an
      invisible face concealed by a great sombrero.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side,
      touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street,
      and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tete-a-tete of
      extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the
      Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be capable&mdash;the poor,
      motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless father, who had
      thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself seemed to feel
      that this was as much as he could expect of having her to himself till&mdash;till
      the revolution was over and he could carry her off to Europe, away from
      the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed even harder to bear
      than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another, the
      lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism,
      irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the
      bitterness of his spirit, &ldquo;America is ungovernable. Those who worked for
      her independence have ploughed the sea.&rdquo; He did not care, he declared
      boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she had
      managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First of
      all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness of
      every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the everlasting
      troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it had been
      the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, of crimes, of
      rapacity, of simple thieving.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to
      drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence
      of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as
      is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out
      defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light in the
      whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the little balcony
      went on after a short pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But we are labouring to change all that,&rdquo; Antonia protested. &ldquo;It is
      exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the
      word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy,
      for suffering. Papa, who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ploughing the sea,&rdquo; interrupted Decoud, looking down.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the
      gate,&rdquo; observed Decoud. &ldquo;He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this
      morning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they
      brought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden
      saints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of steps.
      They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I saw the
      great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing, your
      uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his
      vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the
      time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at an
      open window. Esprit fort&mdash;our Barrios. I expected every moment your
      uncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch
      in the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops
      marched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood
      with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement.
      Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the
      cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has&mdash;you know, like a
      sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over straight at the
      group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the elbow. He walked him
      for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow
      for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation, and gesticulating with
      a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers seemed struck with
      astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates an infidel
      much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an infidel.
      He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting
      the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that
      she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the
      precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him
      softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his
      ironic murmurs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia.
      And perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre
      Corbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him
      consists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing
      else could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the
      wilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He
      would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any
      Government if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould
      think of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody
      can tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his
      mine; of his &lsquo;Imperium in Imperio.&rsquo; As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of her
      schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of every
      sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head now you
      would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a check
      shirt&mdash;what&rsquo;s his name? Monygham&mdash;or else catechising Don Pepe
      or perhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day&mdash;all
      her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don
      Carlos is a sensible man. It&rsquo;s a part of solid English sense not to think
      too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment. These
      people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we have
      political passions&mdash;sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular
      view of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is a
      patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted, and
      I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic illusions.
      I have only the supreme illusion of a lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, &ldquo;That can lead one very far,
      though.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours
      set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard,
      rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in
      twos and threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the
      railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief
      smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young eager faces.
      Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in search of some
      dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don Juste Lopez,
      after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a black creased
      coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The few members of the
      Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around their President to
      discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the rebel
      Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of &ldquo;a justly incensed
      democracy&rdquo; upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend
      their sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people
      could be consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an
      unheard-of audacity of that evil madman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos.
      Don Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of
      his chair, &ldquo;Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank.
      If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as we
      Occidentals&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life
      and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was
      in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness
      inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of
      the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their
      families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossible that
      Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless Indio! The clamour
      continued for some time, everybody else in the room looking towards the
      group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial solemnity as if
      presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had turned round
      at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into the
      room with all the strength of his lungs, &ldquo;Gran&rsquo; bestia!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes
      were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had
      already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the
      quiet street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument,&rdquo;
       he said to Antonia. &ldquo;I have invented this definition, this last word on a
      great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the
      Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great
      things for this harbour&mdash;this active usher-in of the material
      implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell confess over
      and over again that till he got this man he could never tell how long it
      would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress. You have seen him
      pass by after his labours on his famous horse to dazzle the girls in some
      ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! His work is an
      exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in receiving the marks
      of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more
      fortunate? To be feared and admired is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?&rdquo; interrupted Antonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was speaking of a man of that sort,&rdquo; said Decoud, curtly. &ldquo;The heroes
      of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered
      against Antonia&rsquo;s gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered
      from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a
      man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at
      once. He was very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his
      scepticism might have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating
      tenderness in his voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a
      felicity so high that it seemed almost unrealizable on this earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the
      sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the
      snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough
      ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly,
      as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind, full of
      light, noisy with voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls
      of the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope.
      Don Juste&rsquo;s fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated
      discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the
      few Europeans around Charles Gould&mdash;a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a
      discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the representatives of
      those material interests that had got a footing in Sulaco under the
      protecting might of the San Tome mine&mdash;had infused a lot of good
      humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying their
      court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be achieved on the
      shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their various
      undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes
      lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and
      delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province
      for a syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible &ldquo;<i>Monsieur
      l&rsquo;Administrateur</i>&rdquo; returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum
      of conversations. He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic.
      Charles Gould glanced down at him courteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s habit
      to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next
      to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with
      a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway,
      who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture,
      something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle.
      Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her
      head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?&rdquo; she said,
      rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia,&rdquo; he answered, through
      clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The
      humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen
      appreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant
      prejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all
      her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of the
      room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in the
      gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the sala
      checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud had seen
      from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa Gould, had addressed
      no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane accentuated the tallness
      of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown forward; and the
      straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious outline of the
      bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (a
      testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians),
      suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain
      of bandits.
    </p>
    <p>
      He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his
      finger at Martin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He
      had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not
      quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of
      children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special
      sermon on the Plaza,&rdquo; he said, without making the slightest movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What miserable nonsense!&rdquo; Father Corbelan&rsquo;s deep voice resounded all over
      the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. &ldquo;The man is a
      drunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every
      sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a
      blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan&rsquo;s declaration.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate
      the sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with
      which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human
      compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told
      of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had
      baptized whole nations of Indians, living with them like a savage himself.
      It was related that the padre used to ride with his Indians for days, half
      naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too&mdash;who
      knows? That he had wandered clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes
      somewhere near the snow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre
      Corbelan himself was never known to talk. But he made no secret of his
      opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had harder hearts and more
      corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the word of God. His
      injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was damaging the
      Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be made
      titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a
      despoiled Church. The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom
      Captain Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism
      that doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the
      mountains to Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he
      would be frozen to death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year
      a few hardy muleteers&mdash;men inured to exposure&mdash;were known to
      perish in that way. But what would you have? Their Excellencies possibly
      had not realized what a tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were
      beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking
      away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners
      who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the results of the Grand Vicar&rsquo;s zeal. Even from the short
      allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could
      have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged
      Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Gefe
      had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law
      of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an
      easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over
      after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with
      dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low alike. That evening he
      had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had hissed out to him that he
      would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco, anywhere, to
      some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. &ldquo;The one without water
      preferably&mdash;eh, Don Carlos?&rdquo; he had added in a tone between jest and
      earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the
      episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock
      amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had
      taken into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the
      Robber! And this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into
      communication with the most audacious criminal the country had known for
      years. The Sulaco police knew, of course, what was going on. Padre
      Corbelan had got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores,
      the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a message through him.
      Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz
      was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who
      served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and
      only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out
      of town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the
      Italian by the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a
      turbulent body of men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so
      easy to govern Sulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the
      money in the pockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made
      restless by Father Corbelan&rsquo;s discourses. And the first magistrate
      explained to Charles Gould that now the province was stripped of troops
      any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with their boots
      off, as it were.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin
      cigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he
      exchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the
      priest, and whenever Father Corbelan&rsquo;s voice was raised behind him, he
      shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that
      something vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his
      attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to
      the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing
      his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you&mdash;you are a perfect heathen,&rdquo; he said, in a subdued, deep
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man&rsquo;s breast.
      Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his
      head. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well
      used to these passages. &ldquo;But is it perhaps that you have not discovered
      yet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our
      Barrios.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. &ldquo;You believe neither in
      stick nor stone,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor bottle,&rdquo; added Decoud without stirring. &ldquo;Neither does the other of
      your reverence&rsquo;s confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does
      not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your perspicacity.
      But why call me a heathen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True,&rdquo; retorted the priest. &ldquo;You are ten times worse. A miracle could not
      convert you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly do not believe in miracles,&rdquo; said Decoud, quietly. Father
      Corbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sort of Frenchman&mdash;godless&mdash;a materialist,&rdquo; he pronounced
      slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. &ldquo;Neither the son
      of his own country nor of any other,&rdquo; he continued, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scarcely human, in fact,&rdquo; Decoud commented under his breath, his head at
      rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The victim of this faithless age,&rdquo; Father Corbelan resumed in a deep but
      subdued voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But of some use as a journalist.&rdquo; Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a
      more animated tone. &ldquo;Has your worship neglected to read the last number of
      the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general
      policy it continues to call Montero a gran&rsquo; bestia, and stigmatize his
      brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could
      be more effective? In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to
      enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber&mdash;who
      is apparently the protege of the Church&mdash;or at least of the Grand
      Vicar. Nothing could be more sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The priest nodded and turned on the heels of his square-toed shoes with
      big steel buckles. Again, with his hands clasped behind his back, he paced
      to and fro, planting his feet firmly. When he swung about, the skirt of
      his soutane was inflated slightly by the brusqueness of his movements.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great sala had been emptying itself slowly. When the Gefe Politico
      rose to go, most of those still remaining stood up suddenly in sign of
      respect, and Don Jose Avellanos stopped the rocking of his chair. But the
      good-natured First Official made a deprecatory gesture, waved his hand to
      Charles Gould, and went out discreetly.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the comparative peace of the room the screaming &ldquo;Monsieur
      l&rsquo;Administrateur&rdquo; of the frail, hairy Frenchman seemed to acquire a
      preternatural shrillness. The explorer of the Capitalist syndicate was
      still enthusiastic. &ldquo;Ten million dollars&rsquo; worth of copper practically in
      sight, Monsieur l&rsquo;Administrateur. Ten millions in sight! And a railway
      coming&mdash;a railway! They will never believe my report. C&rsquo;est trop
      beau.&rdquo; He fell a prey to a screaming ecstasy, in the midst of sagely
      nodding heads, before Charles Gould&rsquo;s imperturbable calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      And only the priest continued his pacing, flinging round the skirt of his
      soutane at each end of his beat. Decoud murmured to him ironically: &ldquo;Those
      gentlemen talk about their gods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Corbelan stopped short, looked at the journalist of Sulaco fixedly
      for a moment, shrugged his shoulders slightly, and resumed his plodding
      walk of an obstinate traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the Europeans were dropping off from the group around Charles
      Gould till the Administrador of the Great Silver Mine could be seen in his
      whole lank length, from head to foot, left stranded by the ebbing tide of
      his guests on the great square of carpet, as it were a multi-coloured
      shoal of flowers and arabesques under his brown boots. Father Corbelan
      approached the rocking-chair of Don Jose Avellanos.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, brother,&rdquo; he said, with kindly brusqueness and a touch of relieved
      impatience a man may feel at the end of a perfectly useless ceremony. &ldquo;A
      la Casa! A la Casa! This has been all talk. Let us now go and think and
      pray for guidance from Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rolled his black eyes upwards. By the side of the frail diplomatist&mdash;the
      life and soul of the party&mdash;he seemed gigantic, with a gleam of
      fanaticism in the glance. But the voice of the party, or, rather, its
      mouthpiece, the &ldquo;son Decoud&rdquo; from Paris, turned journalist for the sake of
      Antonia&rsquo;s eyes, knew very well that it was not so, that he was only a
      strenuous priest with one idea, feared by the women and execrated by the
      men of the people. Martin Decoud, the dilettante in life, imagined himself
      to derive an artistic pleasure from watching the picturesque extreme of
      wrongheadedness into which an honest, almost sacred, conviction may drive
      a man. &ldquo;It is like madness. It must be&mdash;because it&rsquo;s
      self-destructive,&rdquo; Decoud had said to himself often. It seemed to him that
      every conviction, as soon as it became effective, turned into that form of
      dementia the gods send upon those they wish to destroy. But he enjoyed the
      bitter flavour of that example with the zest of a connoisseur in the art
      of his choice. Those two men got on well together, as if each had felt
      respectively that a masterful conviction, as well as utter scepticism, may
      lead a man very far on the by-paths of political action.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Jose obeyed the touch of the big hairy hand. Decoud followed out the
      brothers-in-law. And there remained only one visitor in the vast empty
      sala, bluishly hazy with tobacco smoke, a heavy-eyed, round-cheeked man,
      with a drooping moustache, a hide merchant from Esmeralda, who had come
      overland to Sulaco, riding with a few peons across the coast range. He was
      very full of his journey, undertaken mostly for the purpose of seeing the
      Senor Administrador of San Tome in relation to some assistance he required
      in his hide-exporting business. He hoped to enlarge it greatly now that
      the country was going to be settled. It was going to be settled, he
      repeated several times, degrading by a strange, anxious whine the sonority
      of the Spanish language, which he pattered rapidly, like some sort of
      cringing jargon. A plain man could carry on his little business now in the
      country, and even think of enlarging it&mdash;with safety. Was it not so?
      He seemed to beg Charles Gould for a confirmatory word, a grunt of assent,
      a simple nod even.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could get nothing. His alarm increased, and in the pauses he would dart
      his eyes here and there; then, loth to give up, he would branch off into
      feeling allusion to the dangers of his journey. The audacious Hernandez,
      leaving his usual haunts, had crossed the Campo of Sulaco, and was known
      to be lurking in the ravines of the coast range. Yesterday, when distant
      only a few hours from Sulaco, the hide merchant and his servants had seen
      three men on the road arrested suspiciously, with their horses&rsquo; heads
      together. Two of these rode off at once and disappeared in a shallow
      quebrada to the left. &ldquo;We stopped,&rdquo; continued the man from Esmeralda, &ldquo;and
      I tried to hide behind a small bush. But none of my mozos would go forward
      to find out what it meant, and the third horseman seemed to be waiting for
      us to come up. It was no use. We had been seen. So we rode slowly on,
      trembling. He let us pass&mdash;a man on a grey horse with his hat down on
      his eyes&mdash;without a word of greeting; but by-and-by we heard him
      galloping after us. We faced about, but that did not seem to intimidate
      him. He rode up at speed, and touching my foot with the toe of his boot,
      asked me for a cigar, with a blood-curdling laugh. He did not seem armed,
      but when he put his hand back to reach for the matches I saw an enormous
      revolver strapped to his waist. I shuddered. He had very fierce whiskers,
      Don Carlos, and as he did not offer to go on we dared not move. At last,
      blowing the smoke of my cigar into the air through his nostrils, he said,
      &lsquo;Senor, it would be perhaps better for you if I rode behind your party.
      You are not very far from Sulaco now. Go you with God.&rsquo; What would you? We
      went on. There was no resisting him. He might have been Hernandez himself;
      though my servant, who has been many times to Sulaco by sea, assured me
      that he had recognized him very well for the Capataz of the Steamship
      Company&rsquo;s Cargadores. Later, that same evening, I saw that very man at the
      corner of the Plaza talking to a girl, a Morenita, who stood by the
      stirrup with her hand on the grey horse&rsquo;s mane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, Senor Hirsch,&rdquo; murmured Charles Gould, &ldquo;that you ran no
      risk on this occasion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That may be, senor, though I tremble yet. A most fierce man&mdash;to look
      at. And what does it mean? A person employed by the Steamship Company
      talking with salteadores&mdash;no less, senor; the other horsemen were
      salteadores&mdash;in a lonely place, and behaving like a robber himself! A
      cigar is nothing, but what was there to prevent him asking me for my
      purse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Senor Hirsch,&rdquo; Charles Gould murmured, letting his glance stray
      away a little vacantly from the round face, with its hooked beak upturned
      towards him in an almost childlike appeal. &ldquo;If it was the Capataz de
      Cargadores you met&mdash;and there is no doubt, is there?&mdash;you were
      perfectly safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. You are very good. A very fierce-looking man, Don Carlos. He
      asked me for a cigar in a most familiar manner. What would have happened
      if I had not had a cigar? I shudder yet. What business had he to be
      talking with robbers in a lonely place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Charles Gould, openly preoccupied now, gave not a sign, made no sound.
      The impenetrability of the embodied Gould Concession had its surface
      shades. To be dumb is merely a fatal affliction; but the King of Sulaco
      had words enough to give him all the mysterious weight of a taciturn
      force. His silences, backed by the power of speech, had as many shades of
      significance as uttered words in the way of assent, of doubt, of negation&mdash;even
      of simple comment. Some seemed to say plainly, &ldquo;Think it over&rdquo;; others
      meant clearly, &ldquo;Go ahead&rdquo;; a simple, low &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; with an affirmative nod,
      at the end of a patient listening half-hour was the equivalent of a verbal
      contract, which men had learned to trust implicitly, since behind it all
      there was the great San Tome mine, the head and front of the material
      interests, so strong that it depended on no man&rsquo;s goodwill in the whole
      length and breadth of the Occidental Province&mdash;that is, on no
      goodwill which it could not buy ten times over. But to the little
      hook-nosed man from Esmeralda, anxious about the export of hides, the
      silence of Charles Gould portended a failure. Evidently this was no time
      for extending a modest man&rsquo;s business. He enveloped in a swift mental
      malediction the whole country, with all its inhabitants, partisans of
      Ribiera and Montero alike; and there were incipient tears in his mute
      anger at the thought of the innumerable ox-hides going to waste upon the
      dreamy expanse of the Campo, with its single palms rising like ships at
      sea within the perfect circle of the horizon, its clumps of heavy timber
      motionless like solid islands of leaves above the running waves of grass.
      There were hides there, rotting, with no profit to anybody&mdash;rotting
      where they had been dropped by men called away to attend the urgent
      necessities of political revolutions. The practical, mercantile soul of
      Senor Hirsch rebelled against all that foolishness, while he was taking a
      respectful but disconcerted leave of the might and majesty of the San Tome
      mine in the person of Charles Gould. He could not restrain a heart-broken
      murmur, wrung out of his very aching heart, as it were.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a great, great foolishness, Don Carlos, all this. The price of
      hides in Hamburg is gone up&mdash;up. Of course the Ribierist Government
      will do away with all that&mdash;when it gets established firmly. Meantime&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, meantime,&rdquo; repeated Charles Gould, inscrutably.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other shrugged his shoulders. But he was not ready to go yet. There
      was a little matter he would like to mention very much if permitted. It
      appeared he had some good friends in Hamburg (he murmured the name of the
      firm) who were very anxious to do business, in dynamite, he explained. A
      contract for dynamite with the San Tome mine, and then, perhaps, later on,
      other mines, which were sure to&mdash;The little man from Esmeralda was
      ready to enlarge, but Charles interrupted him. It seemed as though the
      patience of the Senor Administrador was giving way at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senor Hirsch,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I have enough dynamite stored up at the mountain
      to send it down crashing into the valley&rdquo;&mdash;his voice rose a little&mdash;&ldquo;to
      send half Sulaco into the air if I liked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould smiled at the round, startled eyes of the dealer in hides,
      who was murmuring hastily, &ldquo;Just so. Just so.&rdquo; And now he was going. It
      was impossible to do business in explosives with an Administrador so well
      provided and so discouraging. He had suffered agonies in the saddle and
      had exposed himself to the atrocities of the bandit Hernandez for nothing
      at all. Neither hides nor dynamite&mdash;and the very shoulders of the
      enterprising Israelite expressed dejection. At the door he bowed low to
      the engineer-in-chief. But at the bottom of the stairs in the patio he
      stopped short, with his podgy hand over his lips in an attitude of
      meditative astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he want to keep so much dynamite for?&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;And why
      does he talk like this to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer-in-chief, looking in at the door of the empty sala, whence
      the political tide had ebbed out to the last insignificant drop, nodded
      familiarly to the master of the house, standing motionless like a tall
      beacon amongst the deserted shoals of furniture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night, I am going. Got my bike downstairs. The railway will know
      where to go for dynamite should we get short at any time. We have done
      cutting and chopping for a while now. We shall begin soon to blast our way
      through.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t come to me,&rdquo; said Charles Gould, with perfect serenity. &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t
      have an ounce to spare for anybody. Not an ounce. Not for my own brother,
      if I had a brother, and he were the engineer-in-chief of the most
      promising railway in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; asked the engineer-in-chief, with equanimity. &ldquo;Unkindness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Charles Gould, stolidly. &ldquo;Policy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Radical, I should think,&rdquo; the engineer-in-chief observed from the
      doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that the right name?&rdquo; Charles Gould said, from the middle of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, going to the roots, you know,&rdquo; the engineer explained, with an
      air of enjoyment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; Charles pronounced, slowly. &ldquo;The Gould Concession has struck
      such deep roots in this country, in this province, in that gorge of the
      mountains, that nothing but dynamite shall be allowed to dislodge it from
      there. It&rsquo;s my choice. It&rsquo;s my last card to play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer-in-chief whistled low. &ldquo;A pretty game,&rdquo; he said, with a shade
      of discretion. &ldquo;And have you told Holroyd of that extraordinary trump card
      you hold in your hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Card only when it&rsquo;s played; when it falls at the end of the game. Till
      then you may call it a&mdash;a&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weapon,&rdquo; suggested the railway man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. You may call it rather an argument,&rdquo; corrected Charles Gould, gently.
      &ldquo;And that&rsquo;s how I&rsquo;ve presented it to Mr. Holroyd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what did he say to it?&rdquo; asked the engineer, with undisguised
      interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rdquo;&mdash;Charles Gould spoke after a slight pause&mdash;&ldquo;he said
      something about holding on like grim death and putting our trust in God. I
      should imagine he must have been rather startled. But then&rdquo;&mdash;pursued
      the Administrador of the San Tome mine&mdash;&ldquo;but then, he is very far
      away, you know, and, as they say in this country, God is very high above.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer&rsquo;s appreciative laugh died away down the stairs, where the
      Madonna with the Child on her arm seemed to look after his shaking broad
      back from her shallow niche.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      A profound stillness reigned in the Casa Gould. The master of the house,
      walking along the corredor, opened the door of his room, and saw his wife
      sitting in a big armchair&mdash;his own smoking armchair&mdash;thoughtful,
      contemplating her little shoes. And she did not raise her eyes when he
      walked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tired?&rdquo; asked Charles Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould. Still without looking up, she added with
      feeling, &ldquo;There is an awful sense of unreality about all this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, before the long table strewn with papers, on which lay a
      hunting crop and a pair of spurs, stood looking at his wife: &ldquo;The heat and
      dust must have been awful this afternoon by the waterside,&rdquo; he murmured,
      sympathetically. &ldquo;The glare on the water must have been simply terrible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One could close one&rsquo;s eyes to the glare,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould. &ldquo;But, my dear
      Charley, it is impossible for me to close my eyes to our position; to this
      awful . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her eyes and looked at her husband&rsquo;s face, from which all sign
      of sympathy or any other feeling had disappeared. &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you tell me
      something?&rdquo; she almost wailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you had understood me perfectly from the first,&rdquo; Charles Gould
      said, slowly. &ldquo;I thought we had said all there was to say a long time ago.
      There is nothing to say now. There were things to be done. We have done
      them; we have gone on doing them. There is no going back now. I don&rsquo;t
      suppose that, even from the first, there was really any possible way back.
      And, what&rsquo;s more, we can&rsquo;t even afford to stand still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, if one only knew how far you mean to go,&rdquo; said his wife inwardly
      trembling, but in an almost playful tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any distance, any length, of course,&rdquo; was the answer, in a matter-of-fact
      tone, which caused Mrs. Gould to make another effort to repress a shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood up, smiling graciously, and her little figure seemed to be
      diminished still more by the heavy mass of her hair and the long train of
      her gown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But always to success,&rdquo; she said, persuasively.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, enveloping her in the steely blue glance of his attentive
      eyes, answered without hesitation&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there is no alternative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put an immense assurance into his tone. As to the words, this was all
      that his conscience would allow him to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s smile remained a shade too long upon her lips. She murmured&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will leave you; I&rsquo;ve a slight headache. The heat, the dust, were indeed&mdash;I
      suppose you are going back to the mine before the morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At midnight,&rdquo; said Charles Gould. &ldquo;We are bringing down the silver
      to-morrow. Then I shall take three whole days off in town with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you are going to meet the escort. I shall be on the balcony at five
      o&rsquo;clock to see you pass. Till then, good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould walked rapidly round the table, and, seizing her hands, bent
      down, pressing them both to his lips. Before he straightened himself up
      again to his full height she had disengaged one to smooth his cheek with a
      light touch, as if he were a little boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try to get some rest for a couple of hours,&rdquo; she murmured, with a glance
      at a hammock stretched in a distant part of the room. Her long train
      swished softly after her on the red tiles. At the door she looked back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two big lamps with unpolished glass globes bathed in a soft and abundant
      light the four white walls of the room, with a glass case of arms, the
      brass hilt of Henry Gould&rsquo;s cavalry sabre on its square of velvet, and the
      water-colour sketch of the San Tome gorge. And Mrs. Gould, gazing at the
      last in its black wooden frame, sighed out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, if we had left it alone, Charley!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; Charles Gould said, moodily; &ldquo;it was impossible to leave it alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps it was impossible,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould admitted, slowly. Her lips
      quivered a little, but she smiled with an air of dainty bravado. &ldquo;We have
      disturbed a good many snakes in that Paradise, Charley, haven&rsquo;t we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I remember,&rdquo; said Charles Gould, &ldquo;it was Don Pepe who called the
      gorge the Paradise of snakes. No doubt we have disturbed a great many. But
      remember, my dear, that it is not now as it was when you made that
      sketch.&rdquo; He waved his hand towards the small water-colour hanging alone
      upon the great bare wall. &ldquo;It is no longer a Paradise of snakes. We have
      brought mankind into it, and we cannot turn our backs upon them to go and
      begin a new life elsewhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He confronted his wife with a firm, concentrated gaze, which Mrs. Gould
      returned with a brave assumption of fearlessness before she went out,
      closing the door gently after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      In contrast with the white glaring room the dimly lit corredor had a
      restful mysteriousness of a forest glade, suggested by the stems and the
      leaves of the plants ranged along the balustrade of the open side. In the
      streaks of light falling through the open doors of the reception-rooms,
      the blossoms, white and red and pale lilac, came out vivid with the
      brilliance of flowers in a stream of sunshine; and Mrs. Gould, passing on,
      had the vividness of a figure seen in the clear patches of sun that
      chequer the gloom of open glades in the woods. The stones in the rings
      upon her hand pressed to her forehead glittered in the lamplight abreast
      of the door of the sala.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s there?&rdquo; she asked, in a startled voice. &ldquo;Is that you, Basilio?&rdquo; She
      looked in, and saw Martin Decoud walking about, with an air of having lost
      something, amongst the chairs and tables.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Antonia has forgotten her fan in here,&rdquo; said Decoud, with a strange air
      of distraction; &ldquo;so I entered to see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, even as he said this, he had obviously given up his search, and
      walked straight towards Mrs. Gould, who looked at him with doubtful
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora,&rdquo; he began, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Don Martin?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Gould. And then she added, with a
      slight laugh, &ldquo;I am so nervous to-day,&rdquo; as if to explain the eagerness of
      the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing immediately dangerous,&rdquo; said Decoud, who now could not conceal
      his agitation. &ldquo;Pray don&rsquo;t distress yourself. No, really, you must not
      distress yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, with her candid eyes very wide open, her lips composed into a
      smile, was steadying herself with a little bejewelled hand against the
      side of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you don&rsquo;t know how alarming you are, appearing like this
      unexpectedly&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I! Alarming!&rdquo; he protested, sincerely vexed and surprised. &ldquo;I assure you
      that I am not in the least alarmed myself. A fan is lost; well, it will be
      found again. But I don&rsquo;t think it is here. It is a fan I am looking for. I
      cannot understand how Antonia could&mdash;Well! Have you found it, amigo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, senor,&rdquo; said behind Mrs. Gould the soft voice of Basilio, the head
      servant of the Casa. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think the senorita could have left it in
      this house at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go and look for it in the patio again. Go now, my friend; look for it on
      the steps, under the gate; examine every flagstone; search for it till I
      come down again. . . . That fellow&rdquo;&mdash;he addressed himself in English
      to Mrs. Gould&mdash;&ldquo;is always stealing up behind one&rsquo;s back on his bare
      feet. I set him to look for that fan directly I came in to justify my
      reappearance, my sudden return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused and Mrs. Gould said, amiably, &ldquo;You are always welcome.&rdquo; She
      paused for a second, too. &ldquo;But I am waiting to learn the cause of your
      return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud affected suddenly the utmost nonchalance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t bear to be spied upon. Oh, the cause? Yes, there is a cause;
      there is something else that is lost besides Antonia&rsquo;s favourite fan. As I
      was walking home after seeing Don Jose and Antonia to their house, the
      Capataz de Cargadores, riding down the street, spoke to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has anything happened to the Violas?&rdquo; inquired Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Violas? You mean the old Garibaldino who keeps the hotel where the
      engineers live? Nothing happened there. The Capataz said nothing of them;
      he only told me that the telegraphist of the Cable Company was walking on
      the Plaza, bareheaded, looking out for me. There is news from the
      interior, Mrs. Gould. I should rather say rumours of news.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good news?&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Worthless, I should think. But if I must define them, I would say bad.
      They are to the effect that a two days&rsquo; battle had been fought near Sta.
      Marta, and that the Ribierists are defeated. It must have happened a few
      days ago&mdash;perhaps a week. The rumour has just reached Cayta, and the
      man in charge of the cable station there has telegraphed the news to his
      colleague here. We might just as well have kept Barrios in Sulaco.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done now?&rdquo; murmured Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing. He&rsquo;s at sea with the troops. He will get to Cayta in a couple of
      days&rsquo; time and learn the news there. What he will do then, who can say?
      Hold Cayta? Offer his submission to Montero? Disband his army&mdash;this
      last most likely, and go himself in one of the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s steamers,
      north or south&mdash;to Valparaiso or to San Francisco, no matter where.
      Our Barrios has a great practice in exiles and repatriations, which mark
      the points in the political game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs. Gould, added, tentatively, as
      it were, &ldquo;And yet, if we had could have been done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Montero victorious, completely victorious!&rdquo; Mrs. Gould breathed out in a
      tone of unbelief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A canard, probably. That sort of bird is hatched in great numbers in such
      times as these. And even if it were true? Well, let us put things at their
      worst, let us say it is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then everything is lost,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, with the calmness of despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed to see Decoud&rsquo;s tremendous
      excitement under its cloak of studied carelessness. It was, indeed,
      becoming visible in his audacious and watchful stare, in the curve,
      half-reckless, half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French phrase came
      upon them as if, for this Costaguanero of the Boulevard, that had been the
      only forcible language&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Non, Madame. Rien n&rsquo;est perdu</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbed attitude, and she said,
      vivaciously&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you think of doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But already there was something of mockery in Decoud&rsquo;s suppressed
      excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you expect a true Costaguanero to do? Another revolution, of
      course. On my word of honour, Mrs. Gould, I believe I am a true <i>hijo
      del pays</i>, a true son of the country, whatever Father Corbelan may say.
      And I&rsquo;m not so much of an unbeliever as not to have faith in my own ideas,
      in my own remedies, in my own desires.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t seem convinced,&rdquo; Decoud went on again in French. &ldquo;Say, then, in
      my passions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould received this addition unflinchingly. To understand it
      thoroughly she did not require to hear his muttered assurance&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing I would not do for the sake of Antonia. There is nothing
      I am not prepared to undertake. There is no risk I am not ready to run.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing of his thoughts.
      &ldquo;You would not believe me if I were to say that it is the love of the
      country which&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm, as if to express that
      she had given up expecting that motive from any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Sulaco revolution,&rdquo; Decoud pursued in a forcible undertone. &ldquo;The Great
      Cause may be served here, on the very spot of its inception, in the place
      of its birth, Mrs. Gould.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she made a step away from
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not going to speak to your husband?&rdquo; Decoud arrested her
      anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will need his help?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; Decoud admitted without hesitation. &ldquo;Everything turns upon the
      San Tome mine, but I would rather he didn&rsquo;t know anything as yet of my&mdash;my
      hopes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s face, and Decoud, approaching,
      explained confidentially&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you see, he&rsquo;s such an idealist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker at the same time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charley an idealist!&rdquo; she said, as if to herself, wonderingly. &ldquo;What on
      earth do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; conceded Decoud, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a wonderful thing to say with the sight of
      the San Tome mine, the greatest fact in the whole of South America,
      perhaps, before our very eyes. But look even at that, he has idealized
      this fact to a point&mdash;&rdquo; He paused. &ldquo;Mrs. Gould, are you aware to what
      point he has idealized the existence, the worth, the meaning of the San
      Tome mine? Are you aware of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He must have known what he was talking about.
    </p>
    <p>
      The effect he expected was produced. Mrs. Gould, ready to take fire, gave
      it up suddenly with a low little sound that resembled a moan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you know?&rdquo; she asked in a feeble voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; answered Decoud, firmly. &ldquo;But, then, don&rsquo;t you see, he&rsquo;s an
      Englishman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what of that?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing every simple
      feeling, desire, or achievement. He could not believe his own motives if
      he did not make them first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not
      quite good enough for him, I fear. Do you excuse my frankness? Besides,
      whether you excuse it or not, it is part of the truth of things which
      hurts the&mdash;what do you call them?&mdash;the Anglo-Saxon&rsquo;s
      susceptibilities, and at the present moment I don&rsquo;t feel as if I could
      treat seriously either his conception of things or&mdash;if you allow me
      to say so&mdash;or yet yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. &ldquo;I suppose Antonia understands
      you thoroughly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure that she approves. That,
      however, makes no difference. I am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs.
      Gould.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your idea, of course, is separation,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Separation, of course,&rdquo; declared Martin. &ldquo;Yes; separation of the whole
      Occidental Province from the rest of the unquiet body. But my true idea,
      the only one I care for, is not to be separated from Antonia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is all?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Gould, without severity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself about my motives. She won&rsquo;t leave
      Sulaco for my sake, therefore Sulaco must leave the rest of the Republic
      to its fate. Nothing could be clearer than that. I like a clearly defined
      situation. I cannot part with Antonia, therefore the one and indivisible
      Republic of Costaguana must be made to part with its western province.
      Fortunately it happens to be also a sound policy. The richest, the most
      fertile part of this land may be saved from anarchy. Personally, I care
      little, very little; but it&rsquo;s a fact that the establishment of Montero in
      power would mean death to me. In all the proclamations of general pardon
      which I have seen, my name, with a few others, is specially excepted. The
      brothers hate me, as you know very well, Mrs. Gould; and behold, here is
      the rumour of them having won a battle. You say that supposing it is true,
      I have plenty of time to run away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The slight, protesting murmur on the part of Mrs. Gould made him pause for
      a moment, while he looked at her with a sombre and resolute glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would run away if it served that which at
      present is my only desire. I am courageous enough to say that, and to do
      it, too. But women, even our women, are idealists. It is Antonia that
      won&rsquo;t run away. A novel sort of vanity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You call it vanity,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, in a shocked voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say pride, then, which Father Corbelan would tell you, is a mortal sin.
      But I am not proud. I am simply too much in love to run away. At the same
      time I want to live. There is no love for a dead man. Therefore it is
      necessary that Sulaco should not recognize the victorious Montero.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you think my husband will give you his support?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he can be drawn into it, like all idealists, when he once sees a
      sentimental basis for his action. But I wouldn&rsquo;t talk to him. Mere clear
      facts won&rsquo;t appeal to his sentiment. It is much better for him to convince
      himself in his own way. And, frankly, I could not, perhaps, just now pay
      sufficient respect to either his motives or even, perhaps, to yours, Mrs.
      Gould.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was evident that Mrs. Gould was very determined not to be offended. She
      smiled vaguely, while she seemed to think the matter over. As far as she
      could judge from the girl&rsquo;s half-confidences, Antonia understood that
      young man. Obviously there was promise of safety in his plan, or rather in
      his idea. Moreover, right or wrong, the idea could do no harm. And it was
      quite possible, also, that the rumour was false.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have some sort of a plan,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him go on then; he will hold
      Cayta, which is the door of the sea route to Sulaco. They cannot send a
      sufficient force over the mountains. No; not even to cope with the band of
      Hernandez. Meantime we shall organize our resistance here. And for that,
      this very Hernandez will be useful. He has defeated troops as a bandit; he
      will no doubt accomplish the same thing if he is made a colonel or even a
      general. You know the country well enough not to be shocked by what I say,
      Mrs. Gould. I have heard you assert that this poor bandit was the living,
      breathing example of cruelty, injustice, stupidity, and oppression, that
      ruin men&rsquo;s souls as well as their fortunes in this country. Well, there
      would be some poetical retribution in that man arising to crush the evils
      which had driven an honest ranchero into a life of crime. A fine idea of
      retribution in that, isn&rsquo;t there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud had dropped easily into English, which he spoke with precision,
      very correctly, but with too many z sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think also of your hospitals, of your schools, of your ailing mothers and
      feeble old men, of all that population which you and your husband have
      brought into the rocky gorge of San Tome. Are you not responsible to your
      conscience for all these people? Is it not worth while to make another
      effort, which is not at all so desperate as it looks, rather than&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud finished his thought with an upward toss of the arm, suggesting
      annihilation; and Mrs. Gould turned away her head with a look of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you say all this to my husband?&rdquo; she asked, without looking at
      Decoud, who stood watching the effect of his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! But Don Carlos is so English,&rdquo; he began. Mrs. Gould interrupted&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave that alone, Don Martin. He&rsquo;s as much a Costaguanero&mdash;No! He&rsquo;s
      more of a Costaguanero than yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sentimentalist, sentimentalist,&rdquo; Decoud almost cooed, in a tone of gentle
      and soothing deference. &ldquo;Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner of your
      people. I have been watching El Rey de Sulaco since I came here on a
      fool&rsquo;s errand, and perhaps impelled by some treason of fate lurking behind
      the unaccountable turns of a man&rsquo;s life. But I don&rsquo;t matter, I am not a
      sentimentalist, I cannot endow my personal desires with a shining robe of
      silk and jewels. Life is not for me a moral romance derived from the
      tradition of a pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am practical. I am not
      afraid of my motives. But, pardon me, I have been rather carried away.
      What I wish to say is that I have been observing. I won&rsquo;t tell you what I
      have discovered&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. That is unnecessary,&rdquo; whispered Mrs. Gould, once more averting her
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is. Except one little fact, that your husband does not like me. It&rsquo;s a
      small matter, which, in the circumstances, seems to acquire a perfectly
      ridiculous importance. Ridiculous and immense; for, clearly, money is
      required for my plan,&rdquo; he reflected; then added, meaningly, &ldquo;and we have
      two sentimentalists to deal with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that I understand you, Don Martin,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, coldly,
      preserving the low key of their conversation. &ldquo;But, speaking as if I did,
      who is the other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,&rdquo; Decoud whispered,
      lightly. &ldquo;I think you understand me very well. Women are idealists; but
      then they are so perspicacious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But whatever was the reason of that remark, disparaging and complimentary
      at the same time, Mrs. Gould seemed not to pay attention to it. The name
      of Holroyd had given a new tone to her anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The silver escort is coming down to the harbour tomorrow; a whole six
      months&rsquo; working, Don Martin!&rdquo; she cried in dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let it come down, then,&rdquo; breathed out Decoud, earnestly, almost into her
      ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if the rumour should get about, and especially if it turned out true,
      troubles might break out in the town,&rdquo; objected Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud admitted that it was possible. He knew well the town children of
      the Sulaco Campo: sullen, thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty, whatever
      great qualities their brothers of the plain might have had. But then there
      was that other sentimentalist, who attached a strangely idealistic meaning
      to concrete facts. This stream of silver must be kept flowing north to
      return in the form of financial backing from the great house of Holroyd.
      Up at the mountain in the strong room of the mine the silver bars were
      worth less for his purpose than so much lead, from which at least bullets
      may be run. Let it come down to the harbour, ready for shipment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next north-going steamer would carry it off for the very salvation of
      the San Tome mine, which had produced so much treasure. And, moreover, the
      rumour was probably false, he remarked, with much conviction in his
      hurried tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, senora,&rdquo; concluded Decoud, &ldquo;we may suppress it for many days. I
      have been talking with the telegraphist in the middle of the Plaza Mayor;
      thus I am certain that we could not have been overheard. There was not
      even a bird in the air near us. And also let me tell you something more. I
      have been making friends with this man called Nostromo, the Capataz. We
      had a conversation this very evening, I walking by the side of his horse
      as he rode slowly out of the town just now. He promised me that if a riot
      took place for any reason&mdash;even for the most political of reasons,
      you understand&mdash;his Cargadores, an important part of the populace,
      you will admit, should be found on the side of the Europeans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has promised you that?&rdquo; Mrs. Gould inquired, with interest. &ldquo;What made
      him make that promise to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; declared Decoud, in a slightly surprised
      tone. &ldquo;He certainly promised me that, but now you ask me why, I could not
      tell you his reasons. He talked with his usual carelessness, which, if he
      had been anything else but a common sailor, I would call a pose or an
      affectation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud, interrupting himself, looked at Mrs. Gould curiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon the whole,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;I suppose he expects something to his
      advantage from it. You mustn&rsquo;t forget that he does not exercise his
      extraordinary power over the lower classes without a certain amount of
      personal risk and without a great profusion in spending his money. One
      must pay in some way or other for such a solid thing as individual
      prestige. He told me after we made friends at a dance, in a Posada kept by
      a Mexican just outside the walls, that he had come here to make his
      fortune. I suppose he looks upon his prestige as a sort of investment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he prizes it for its own sake,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould said in a tone as if
      she were repelling an undeserved aspersion. &ldquo;Viola, the Garibaldino, with
      whom he has lived for some years, calls him the Incorruptible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! he belongs to the group of your proteges out there towards the
      harbour, Mrs. Gould. Muy bien. And Captain Mitchell calls him wonderful. I
      have heard no end of tales of his strength, his audacity, his fidelity. No
      end of fine things. H&rsquo;m! incorruptible! It is indeed a name of honour for
      the Capataz of the Cargadores of Sulaco. Incorruptible! Fine, but vague.
      However, I suppose he&rsquo;s sensible, too. And I talked to him upon that sane
      and practical assumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I prefer to think him disinterested, and therefore trustworthy,&rdquo; Mrs.
      Gould said, with the nearest approach to curtness it was in her nature to
      assume.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if so, then the silver will be still more safe. Let it come down,
      senora. Let it come down, so that it may go north and return to us in the
      shape of credit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould glanced along the corredor towards the door of her husband&rsquo;s
      room. Decoud, watching her as if she had his fate in her hands, detected
      an almost imperceptible nod of assent. He bowed with a smile, and, putting
      his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a fan of light
      feathers set upon painted leaves of sandal-wood. &ldquo;I had it in my pocket,&rdquo;
       he murmured, triumphantly, &ldquo;for a plausible pretext.&rdquo; He bowed again.
      &ldquo;Good-night, senora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould continued along the corredor away from her husband&rsquo;s room. The
      fate of the San Tome mine was lying heavy upon her heart. It was a long
      time now since she had begun to fear it. It had been an idea. She had
      watched it with misgivings turning into a fetish, and now the fetish had
      grown into a monstrous and crushing weight. It was as if the inspiration
      of their early years had left her heart to turn into a wall of
      silver-bricks, erected by the silent work of evil spirits, between her and
      her husband. He seemed to dwell alone within a circumvallation of precious
      metal, leaving her outside with her school, her hospital, the sick mothers
      and the feeble old men, mere insignificant vestiges of the initial
      inspiration. &ldquo;Those poor people!&rdquo; she murmured to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Below she heard the voice of Martin Decoud in the patio speaking loudly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found Dona Antonia&rsquo;s fan, Basilio. Look, here it is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was part of what Decoud would have called his sane materialism that he
      did not believe in the possibility of friendship between man and woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The one exception he allowed confirmed, he maintained, that absolute rule.
      Friendship was possible between brother and sister, meaning by friendship
      the frank unreserve, as before another human being, of thoughts and
      sensations; all the objectless and necessary sincerity of one&rsquo;s innermost
      life trying to re-act upon the profound sympathies of another existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      His favourite sister, the handsome, slightly arbitrary and resolute angel,
      ruling the father and mother Decoud in the first-floor apartments of a
      very fine Parisian house, was the recipient of Martin Decoud&rsquo;s confidences
      as to his thoughts, actions, purposes, doubts, and even failures. . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prepare our little circle in Paris for the birth of another South
      American Republic. One more or less, what does it matter? They may come
      into the world like evil flowers on a hotbed of rotten institutions; but
      the seed of this one has germinated in your brother&rsquo;s brain, and that will
      be enough for your devoted assent. I am writing this to you by the light
      of a single candle, in a sort of inn, near the harbour, kept by an Italian
      called Viola, a protege of Mrs. Gould. The whole building, which, for all
      I know, may have been contrived by a Conquistador farmer of the pearl
      fishery three hundred years ago, is perfectly silent. So is the plain
      between the town and the harbour; silent, but not so dark as the house,
      because the pickets of Italian workmen guarding the railway have lighted
      little fires all along the line. It was not so quiet around here
      yesterday. We had an awful riot&mdash;a sudden outbreak of the populace,
      which was not suppressed till late today. Its object, no doubt, was loot,
      and that was defeated, as you may have learned already from the cablegram
      sent via San Francisco and New York last night, when the cables were still
      open. You have read already there that the energetic action of the
      Europeans of the railway has saved the town from destruction, and you may
      believe that. I wrote out the cable myself. We have no Reuter&rsquo;s agency man
      here. I have also fired at the mob from the windows of the club, in
      company with some other young men of position. Our object was to keep the
      Calle de la Constitucion clear for the exodus of the ladies and children,
      who have taken refuge on board a couple of cargo ships now in the harbour
      here. That was yesterday. You should also have learned from the cable that
      the missing President, Ribiera, who had disappeared after the battle of
      Sta. Marta, has turned up here in Sulaco by one of those strange
      coincidences that are almost incredible, riding on a lame mule into the
      very midst of the street fighting. It appears that he had fled, in company
      of a muleteer called Bonifacio, across the mountains from the threats of
      Montero into the arms of an enraged mob.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Capataz of Cargadores, that Italian sailor of whom I have written to
      you before, has saved him from an ignoble death. That man seems to have a
      particular talent for being on the spot whenever there is something
      picturesque to be done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was with me at four o&rsquo;clock in the morning at the offices of the
      Porvenir, where he had turned up so early in order to warn me of the
      coming trouble, and also to assure me that he would keep his Cargadores on
      the side of order. When the full daylight came we were looking together at
      the crowd on foot and on horseback, demonstrating on the Plaza and shying
      stones at the windows of the Intendencia. Nostromo (that is the name they
      call him by here) was pointing out to me his Cargadores interspersed in
      the mob.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sun shines late upon Sulaco, for it has first to climb above the
      mountains. In that clear morning light, brighter than twilight, Nostromo
      saw right across the vast Plaza, at the end of the street beyond the
      cathedral, a mounted man apparently in difficulties with a yelling knot of
      leperos. At once he said to me, &lsquo;That&rsquo;s a stranger. What is it they are
      doing to him?&rsquo; Then he took out the silver whistle he is in the habit of
      using on the wharf (this man seems to disdain the use of any metal less
      precious than silver) and blew into it twice, evidently a preconcerted
      signal for his Cargadores. He ran out immediately, and they rallied round
      him. I ran out, too, but was too late to follow them and help in the
      rescue of the stranger, whose animal had fallen. I was set upon at once as
      a hated aristocrat, and was only too glad to get into the club, where Don
      Jaime Berges (you may remember him visiting at our house in Paris some
      three years ago) thrust a sporting gun into my hands. They were already
      firing from the windows. There were little heaps of cartridges lying about
      on the open card-tables. I remember a couple of overturned chairs, some
      bottles rolling on the floor amongst the packs of cards scattered suddenly
      as the caballeros rose from their game to open fire upon the mob. Most of
      the young men had spent the night at the club in the expectation of some
      such disturbance. In two of the candelabra, on the consoles, the candles
      were burning down in their sockets. A large iron nut, probably stolen from
      the railway workshops, flew in from the street as I entered, and broke one
      of the large mirrors set in the wall. I noticed also one of the club
      servants tied up hand and foot with the cords of the curtain and flung in
      a corner. I have a vague recollection of Don Jaime assuring me hastily
      that the fellow had been detected putting poison into the dishes at
      supper. But I remember distinctly he was shrieking for mercy, without
      stopping at all, continuously, and so absolutely disregarded that nobody
      even took the trouble to gag him. The noise he made was so disagreeable
      that I had half a mind to do it myself. But there was no time to waste on
      such trifles. I took my place at one of the windows and began firing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t learn till later in the afternoon whom it was that Nostromo,
      with his Cargadores and some Italian workmen as well, had managed to save
      from those drunken rascals. That man has a peculiar talent when anything
      striking to the imagination has to be done. I made that remark to him
      afterwards when we met after some sort of order had been restored in the
      town, and the answer he made rather surprised me. He said quite moodily,
      &lsquo;And how much do I get for that, senor?&rsquo; Then it dawned upon me that
      perhaps this man&rsquo;s vanity has been satiated by the adulation of the common
      people and the confidence of his superiors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud paused to light a cigarette, then, with his head still over his
      writing, he blew a cloud of smoke, which seemed to rebound from the paper.
      He took up the pencil again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was yesterday evening on the Plaza, while he sat on the steps of the
      cathedral, his hands between his knees, holding the bridle of his famous
      silver-grey mare. He had led his body of Cargadores splendidly all day
      long. He looked fatigued. I don&rsquo;t know how I looked. Very dirty, I
      suppose. But I suppose I also looked pleased. From the time the fugitive
      President had been got off to the S. S. Minerva, the tide of success had
      turned against the mob. They had been driven off the harbour, and out of
      the better streets of the town, into their own maze of ruins and
      tolderias. You must understand that this riot, whose primary object was
      undoubtedly the getting hold of the San Tome silver stored in the lower
      rooms of the Custom House (besides the general looting of the Ricos), had
      acquired a political colouring from the fact of two Deputies to the
      Provincial Assembly, Senores Gamacho and Fuentes, both from Bolson,
      putting themselves at the head of it&mdash;late in the afternoon, it is
      true, when the mob, disappointed in their hopes of loot, made a stand in
      the narrow streets to the cries of &lsquo;Viva la Libertad! Down with
      Feudalism!&rsquo; (I wonder what they imagine feudalism to be?) &lsquo;Down with the
      Goths and Paralytics.&rsquo; I suppose the Senores Gamacho and Fuentes knew what
      they were doing. They are prudent gentlemen. In the Assembly they called
      themselves Moderates, and opposed every energetic measure with
      philanthropic pensiveness. At the first rumours of Montero&rsquo;s victory, they
      showed a subtle change of the pensive temper, and began to defy poor Don
      Juste Lopez in his Presidential tribune with an effrontery to which the
      poor man could only respond by a dazed smoothing of his beard and the
      ringing of the presidential bell. Then, when the downfall of the Ribierist
      cause became confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt, they have blossomed
      into convinced Liberals, acting together as if they were Siamese twins,
      and ultimately taking charge, as it were, of the riot in the name of
      Monterist principles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their last move of eight o&rsquo;clock last night was to organize themselves
      into a Monterist Committee which sits, as far as I know, in a posada kept
      by a retired Mexican bull-fighter, a great politician, too, whose name I
      have forgotten. Thence they have issued a communication to us, the Goths
      and Paralytics of the Amarilla Club (who have our own committee), inviting
      us to come to some provisional understanding for a truce, in order, they
      have the impudence to say, that the noble cause of Liberty &lsquo;should not be
      stained by the criminal excesses of Conservative selfishness!&rsquo; As I came
      out to sit with Nostromo on the cathedral steps the club was busy
      considering a proper reply in the principal room, littered with exploded
      cartridges, with a lot of broken glass, blood smears, candlesticks, and
      all sorts of wreckage on the floor. But all this is nonsense. Nobody in
      the town has any real power except the railway engineers, whose men occupy
      the dismantled houses acquired by the Company for their town station on
      one side of the Plaza, and Nostromo, whose Cargadores were sleeping under
      the arcades along the front of Anzani&rsquo;s shops. A fire of broken furniture
      out of the Intendencia saloons, mostly gilt, was burning on the Plaza, in
      a high flame swaying right upon the statue of Charles IV. The dead body of
      a man was lying on the steps of the pedestal, his arms thrown wide open,
      and his sombrero covering his face&mdash;the attention of some friend,
      perhaps. The light of the flames touched the foliage of the first trees on
      the Alameda, and played on the end of a side street near by, blocked up by
      a jumble of ox-carts and dead bullocks. Sitting on one of the carcasses, a
      lepero, muffled up, smoked a cigarette. It was a truce, you understand.
      The only other living being on the Plaza besides ourselves was a Cargador
      walking to and fro, with a long, bare knife in his hand, like a sentry
      before the Arcades, where his friends were sleeping. And the only other
      spot of light in the dark town were the lighted windows of the club, at
      the corner of the Calle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After having written so far, Don Martin Decoud, the exotic dandy of the
      Parisian boulevard, got up and walked across the sanded floor of the cafe
      at one end of the Albergo of United Italy, kept by Giorgio Viola, the old
      companion of Garibaldi. The highly coloured lithograph of the Faithful
      Hero seemed to look dimly, in the light of one candle, at the man with no
      faith in anything except the truth of his own sensations. Looking out of
      the window, Decoud was met by a darkness so impenetrable that he could see
      neither the mountains nor the town, nor yet the buildings near the
      harbour; and there was not a sound, as if the tremendous obscurity of the
      Placid Gulf, spreading from the waters over the land, had made it dumb as
      well as blind. Presently Decoud felt a light tremor of the floor and a
      distant clank of iron. A bright white light appeared, deep in the
      darkness, growing bigger with a thundering noise. The rolling stock
      usually kept on the sidings in Rincon was being run back to the yards for
      safe keeping. Like a mysterious stirring of the darkness behind the
      headlight of the engine, the train passed in a gust of hollow uproar, by
      the end of the house, which seemed to vibrate all over in response. And
      nothing was clearly visible but, on the end of the last flat car, a negro,
      in white trousers and naked to the waist, swinging a blazing torch basket
      incessantly with a circular movement of his bare arm. Decoud did not stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind him, on the back of the chair from which he had risen, hung his
      elegant Parisian overcoat, with a pearl-grey silk lining. But when he
      turned back to come to the table the candlelight fell upon a face that was
      grimy and scratched. His rosy lips were blackened with heat, the smoke of
      gun-powder. Dirt and rust tarnished the lustre of his short beard. His
      shirt collar and cuffs were crumpled; the blue silken tie hung down his
      breast like a rag; a greasy smudge crossed his white brow. He had not
      taken off his clothing nor used water, except to snatch a hasty drink
      greedily, for some forty hours. An awful restlessness had made him its
      own, had marked him with all the signs of desperate strife, and put a dry,
      sleepless stare into his eyes. He murmured to himself in a hoarse voice,
      &ldquo;I wonder if there&rsquo;s any bread here,&rdquo; looked vaguely about him, then
      dropped into the chair and took the pencil up again. He became aware he
      had not eaten anything for many hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      It occurred to him that no one could understand him so well as his sister.
      In the most sceptical heart there lurks at such moments, when the chances
      of existence are involved, a desire to leave a correct impression of the
      feelings, like a light by which the action may be seen when personality is
      gone, gone where no light of investigation can ever reach the truth which
      every death takes out of the world. Therefore, instead of looking for
      something to eat, or trying to snatch an hour or so of sleep, Decoud was
      filling the pages of a large pocket-book with a letter to his sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the intimacy of that intercourse he could not keep out his weariness,
      his great fatigue, the close touch of his bodily sensations. He began
      again as if he were talking to her. With almost an illusion of her
      presence, he wrote the phrase, &ldquo;I am very hungry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the feeling of a great solitude around me,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;Is it,
      perhaps, because I am the only man with a definite idea in his head, in
      the complete collapse of every resolve, intention, and hope about me? But
      the solitude is also very real. All the engineers are out, and have been
      for two days, looking after the property of the National Central Railway,
      of that great Costaguana undertaking which is to put money into the
      pockets of Englishmen, Frenchmen, Americans, Germans, and God knows who
      else. The silence about me is ominous. There is above the middle part of
      this house a sort of first floor, with narrow openings like loopholes for
      windows, probably used in old times for the better defence against the
      savages, when the persistent barbarism of our native continent did not
      wear the black coats of politicians, but went about yelling, half-naked,
      with bows and arrows in its hands. The woman of the house is dying up
      there, I believe, all alone with her old husband. There is a narrow
      staircase, the sort of staircase one man could easily defend against a
      mob, leading up there, and I have just heard, through the thickness of the
      wall, the old fellow going down into their kitchen for something or other.
      It was a sort of noise a mouse might make behind the plaster of a wall.
      All the servants they had ran away yesterday and have not returned yet, if
      ever they do. For the rest, there are only two children here, two girls.
      The father has sent them downstairs, and they have crept into this cafe,
      perhaps because I am here. They huddle together in a corner, in each
      other&rsquo;s arms; I just noticed them a few minutes ago, and I feel more
      lonely than ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud turned half round in his chair, and asked, &ldquo;Is there any bread
      here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda&rsquo;s dark head was shaken negatively in response, above the fair head
      of her sister nestling on her breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You couldn&rsquo;t get me some bread?&rdquo; insisted Decoud. The child did not move;
      he saw her large eyes stare at him very dark from the corner. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not
      afraid of me?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Linda, &ldquo;we are not afraid of you. You came here with Gian&rsquo;
      Battista.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean Nostromo?&rdquo; said Decoud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The English call him so, but that is no name either for man or beast,&rdquo;
       said the girl, passing her hand gently over her sister&rsquo;s hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he lets people call him so,&rdquo; remarked Decoud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in this house,&rdquo; retorted the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud gave up the point, and after writing steadily for a while turned
      round again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When do you expect him back?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After he brought you here he rode off to fetch the Senor Doctor from the
      town for mother. He will be back soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He stands a good chance of getting shot somewhere on the road,&rdquo; Decoud
      murmured to himself audibly; and Linda declared in her high-pitched voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody would dare to fire a shot at Gian&rsquo; Battista.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You believe that,&rdquo; asked Decoud, &ldquo;do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; said the child, with conviction. &ldquo;There is no one in this
      place brave enough to attack Gian&rsquo; Battista.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t require much bravery to pull a trigger behind a bush,&rdquo;
       muttered Decoud to himself. &ldquo;Fortunately, the night is dark, or there
      would be but little chance of saving the silver of the mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned again to his pocket-book, glanced back through the pages, and
      again started his pencil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was the position yesterday, after the Minerva with the fugitive
      President had gone out of harbour, and the rioters had been driven back
      into the side lanes of the town. I sat on the steps of the cathedral with
      Nostromo, after sending out the cable message for the information of a
      more or less attentive world. Strangely enough, though the offices of the
      Cable Company are in the same building as the Porvenir, the mob, which has
      thrown my presses out of the window and scattered the type all over the
      Plaza, has been kept from interfering with the instruments on the other
      side of the courtyard. As I sat talking with Nostromo, Bernhardt, the
      telegraphist, came out from under the Arcades with a piece of paper in his
      hand. The little man had tied himself up to an enormous sword and was hung
      all over with revolvers. He is ridiculous, but the bravest German of his
      size that ever tapped the key of a Morse transmitter. He had received the
      message from Cayta reporting the transports with Barrios&rsquo;s army just
      entering the port, and ending with the words, &lsquo;The greatest enthusiasm
      prevails.&rsquo; I walked off to drink some water at the fountain, and I was
      shot at from the Alameda by somebody hiding behind a tree. But I drank,
      and didn&rsquo;t care; with Barrios in Cayta and the great Cordillera between us
      and Montero&rsquo;s victorious army I seemed, notwithstanding Messrs. Gamacho
      and Fuentes, to hold my new State in the hollow of my hand. I was ready to
      sleep, but when I got as far as the Casa Gould I found the patio full of
      wounded laid out on straw. Lights were burning, and in that enclosed
      courtyard on that hot night a faint odour of chloroform and blood hung
      about. At one end Doctor Monygham, the doctor of the mine, was dressing
      the wounds; at the other, near the stairs, Father Corbelan, kneeling,
      listened to the confession of a dying Cargador. Mrs. Gould was walking
      about through these shambles with a large bottle in one hand and a lot of
      cotton wool in the other. She just looked at me and never even winked. Her
      camerista was following her, also holding a bottle, and sobbing gently to
      herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I busied myself for some time in fetching water from the cistern for the
      wounded. Afterwards I wandered upstairs, meeting some of the first ladies
      of Sulaco, paler than I had ever seen them before, with bandages over
      their arms. Not all of them had fled to the ships. A good many had taken
      refuge for the day in the Casa Gould. On the landing a girl, with her hair
      half down, was kneeling against the wall under the niche where stands a
      Madonna in blue robes and a gilt crown on her head. I think it was the
      eldest Miss Lopez; I couldn&rsquo;t see her face, but I remember looking at the
      high French heel of her little shoe. She did not make a sound, she did not
      stir, she was not sobbing; she remained there, perfectly still, all black
      against the white wall, a silent figure of passionate piety. I am sure she
      was no more frightened than the other white-faced ladies I met carrying
      bandages. One was sitting on the top step tearing a piece of linen hastily
      into strips&mdash;the young wife of an elderly man of fortune here. She
      interrupted herself to wave her hand to my bow, as though she were in her
      carriage on the Alameda. The women of our country are worth looking at
      during a revolution. The rouge and pearl powder fall off, together with
      that passive attitude towards the outer world which education, tradition,
      custom impose upon them from the earliest infancy. I thought of your face,
      which from your infancy had the stamp of intelligence instead of that
      patient and resigned cast which appears when some political commotion
      tears down the veil of cosmetics and usage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the great sala upstairs a sort of Junta of Notables was sitting, the
      remnant of the vanished Provincial Assembly. Don Juste Lopez had had half
      his beard singed off at the muzzle of a trabuco loaded with slugs, of
      which every one missed him, providentially. And as he turned his head from
      side to side it was exactly as if there had been two men inside his
      frock-coat, one nobly whiskered and solemn, the other untidy and scared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They raised a cry of &lsquo;Decoud! Don Martin!&rsquo; at my entrance. I asked them,
      &lsquo;What are you deliberating upon, gentlemen?&rsquo; There did not seem to be any
      president, though Don Jose Avellanos sat at the head of the table. They
      all answered together, &lsquo;On the preservation of life and property.&rsquo; &lsquo;Till
      the new officials arrive,&rsquo; Don Juste explained to me, with the solemn side
      of his face offered to my view. It was as if a stream of water had been
      poured upon my glowing idea of a new State. There was a hissing sound in
      my ears, and the room grew dim, as if suddenly filled with vapour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I walked up to the table blindly, as though I had been drunk. &lsquo;You are
      deliberating upon surrender,&rsquo; I said. They all sat still, with their noses
      over the sheet of paper each had before him, God only knows why. Only Don
      Jose hid his face in his hands, muttering, &lsquo;Never, never!&rsquo; But as I looked
      at him, it seemed to me that I could have blown him away with my breath,
      he looked so frail, so weak, so worn out. Whatever happens, he will not
      survive. The deception is too great for a man of his age; and hasn&rsquo;t he
      seen the sheets of &lsquo;Fifty Years of Misrule,&rsquo; which we have begun printing
      on the presses of the Porvenir, littering the Plaza, floating in the
      gutters, fired out as wads for trabucos loaded with handfuls of type,
      blown in the wind, trampled in the mud? I have seen pages floating upon
      the very waters of the harbour. It would be unreasonable to expect him to
      survive. It would be cruel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Do you know,&rsquo; I cried, &lsquo;what surrender means to you, to your women, to
      your children, to your property?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I declaimed for five minutes without drawing breath, it seems to me,
      harping on our best chances, on the ferocity of Montero, whom I made out
      to be as great a beast as I have no doubt he would like to be if he had
      intelligence enough to conceive a systematic reign of terror. And then for
      another five minutes or more I poured out an impassioned appeal to their
      courage and manliness, with all the passion of my love for Antonia. For if
      ever man spoke well, it would be from a personal feeling, denouncing an
      enemy, defending himself, or pleading for what really may be dearer than
      life. My dear girl, I absolutely thundered at them. It seemed as if my
      voice would burst the walls asunder, and when I stopped I saw all their
      scared eyes looking at me dubiously. And that was all the effect I had
      produced! Only Don Jose&rsquo;s head had sunk lower and lower on his breast. I
      bent my ear to his withered lips, and made out his whisper, something
      like, &lsquo;In God&rsquo;s name, then, Martin, my son!&rsquo; I don&rsquo;t know exactly. There
      was the name of God in it, I am certain. It seems to me I have caught his
      last breath&mdash;the breath of his departing soul on his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He lives yet, it is true. I have seen him since; but it was only a senile
      body, lying on its back, covered to the chin, with open eyes, and so still
      that you might have said it was breathing no longer. I left him thus, with
      Antonia kneeling by the side of the bed, just before I came to this
      Italian&rsquo;s posada, where the ubiquitous death is also waiting. But I know
      that Don Jose has really died there, in the Casa Gould, with that whisper
      urging me to attempt what no doubt his soul, wrapped up in the sanctity of
      diplomatic treaties and solemn declarations, must have abhorred. I had
      exclaimed very loud, &lsquo;There is never any God in a country where men will
      not help themselves.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meanwhile, Don Juste had begun a pondered oration whose solemn effect was
      spoiled by the ridiculous disaster to his beard. I did not wait to make it
      out. He seemed to argue that Montero&rsquo;s (he called him The General)
      intentions were probably not evil, though, he went on, &lsquo;that distinguished
      man&rsquo; (only a week ago we used to call him a gran&rsquo; bestia) &lsquo;was perhaps
      mistaken as to the true means.&rsquo; As you may imagine, I didn&rsquo;t stay to hear
      the rest. I know the intentions of Montero&rsquo;s brother, Pedrito, the
      guerrillero, whom I exposed in Paris, some years ago, in a cafe frequented
      by South American students, where he tried to pass himself off for a
      Secretary of Legation. He used to come in and talk for hours, twisting his
      felt hat in his hairy paws, and his ambition seemed to become a sort of
      Duc de Morny to a sort of Napoleon. Already, then, he used to talk of his
      brother in inflated terms. He seemed fairly safe from being found out,
      because the students, all of the Blanco families, did not, as you may
      imagine, frequent the Legation. It was only Decoud, a man without faith
      and principles, as they used to say, that went in there sometimes for the
      sake of the fun, as it were to an assembly of trained monkeys. I know his
      intentions. I have seen him change the plates at table. Whoever is allowed
      to live on in terror, I must die the death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I didn&rsquo;t stay to the end to hear Don Juste Lopez trying to persuade
      himself in a grave oration of the clemency and justice, and honesty, and
      purity of the brothers Montero. I went out abruptly to seek Antonia. I saw
      her in the gallery. As I opened the door, she extended to me her clasped
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What are they doing in there?&rsquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Talking,&rsquo; I said, with my eyes looking into hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, yes, but&mdash;&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Empty speeches,&rsquo; I interrupted her. &lsquo;Hiding their fears behind imbecile
      hopes. They are all great Parliamentarians there&mdash;on the English
      model, as you know.&rsquo; I was so furious that I could hardly speak. She made
      a gesture of despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Through the door I held a little ajar behind me, we heard Dun Juste&rsquo;s
      measured mouthing monotone go on from phrase to phrase, like a sort of
      awful and solemn madness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;After all, the Democratic aspirations have, perhaps, their legitimacy.
      The ways of human progress are inscrutable, and if the fate of the country
      is in the hand of Montero, we ought&mdash;&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I crashed the door to on that; it was enough; it was too much. There was
      never a beautiful face expressing more horror and despair than the face of
      Antonia. I couldn&rsquo;t bear it; I seized her wrists.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Have they killed my father in there?&rsquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her eyes blazed with indignation, but as I looked on, fascinated, the
      light in them went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;It is a surrender,&rsquo; I said. And I remember I was shaking her wrists I
      held apart in my hands. &lsquo;But it&rsquo;s more than talk. Your father told me to
      go on in God&rsquo;s name.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear girl, there is that in Antonia which would make me believe in the
      feasibility of anything. One look at her face is enough to set my brain on
      fire. And yet I love her as any other man would&mdash;with the heart, and
      with that alone. She is more to me than his Church to Father Corbelan (the
      Grand Vicar disappeared last night from the town; perhaps gone to join the
      band of Hernandez). She is more to me than his precious mine to that
      sentimental Englishman. I won&rsquo;t speak of his wife. She may have been
      sentimental once. The San Tome mine stands now between those two people.
      &lsquo;Your father himself, Antonia,&rsquo; I repeated; &lsquo;your father, do you
      understand? has told me to go on.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She averted her face, and in a pained voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;He has?&rsquo; she cried. &lsquo;Then, indeed, I fear he will never speak again.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She freed her wrists from my clutch and began to cry in her handkerchief.
      I disregarded her sorrow; I would rather see her miserable than not see
      her at all, never any more; for whether I escaped or stayed to die, there
      was for us no coming together, no future. And that being so, I had no pity
      to waste upon the passing moments of her sorrow. I sent her off in tears
      to fetch Dona Emilia and Don Carlos, too. Their sentiment was necessary to
      the very life of my plan; the sentimentalism of the people that will never
      do anything for the sake of their passionate desire, unless it comes to
      them clothed in the fair robes of an idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Late at night we formed a small junta of four&mdash;the two women, Don
      Carlos, and myself&mdash;in Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s blue-and-white boudoir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;El Rey de Sulaco thinks himself, no doubt, a very honest man. And so he
      is, if one could look behind his taciturnity. Perhaps he thinks that this
      alone makes his honesty unstained. Those Englishmen live on illusions
      which somehow or other help them to get a firm hold of the substance. When
      he speaks it is by a rare &lsquo;yes&rsquo; or &lsquo;no&rsquo; that seems as impersonal as the
      words of an oracle. But he could not impose on me by his dumb reserve. I
      knew what he had in his head; he has his mine in his head; and his wife
      had nothing in her head but his precious person, which he has bound up
      with the Gould Concession and tied up to that little woman&rsquo;s neck. No
      matter. The thing was to make him present the affair to Holroyd (the Steel
      and Silver King) in such a manner as to secure his financial support. At
      that time last night, just twenty-four hours ago, we thought the silver of
      the mine safe in the Custom House vaults till the north-bound steamer came
      to take it away. And as long as the treasure flowed north, without a
      break, that utter sentimentalist, Holroyd, would not drop his idea of
      introducing, not only justice, industry, peace, to the benighted
      continents, but also that pet dream of his of a purer form of
      Christianity. Later on, the principal European really in Sulaco, the
      engineer-in-chief of the railway, came riding up the Calle, from the
      harbour, and was admitted to our conclave. Meantime, the Junta of the
      Notables in the great sala was still deliberating; only, one of them had
      run out in the corredor to ask the servant whether something to eat
      couldn&rsquo;t be sent in. The first words the engineer-in-chief said as he came
      into the boudoir were, &lsquo;What is your house, dear Mrs. Gould? A war
      hospital below, and apparently a restaurant above. I saw them carrying
      trays full of good things into the sala.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;And here, in this boudoir,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;you behold the inner cabinet of the
      Occidental Republic that is to be.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was so preoccupied that he didn&rsquo;t smile at that, he didn&rsquo;t even look
      surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told us that he was attending to the general dispositions for the
      defence of the railway property at the railway yards when he was sent for
      to go into the railway telegraph office. The engineer of the railhead, at
      the foot of the mountains, wanted to talk to him from his end of the wire.
      There was nobody in the office but himself and the operator of the railway
      telegraph, who read off the clicks aloud as the tape coiled its length
      upon the floor. And the purport of that talk, clicked nervously from a
      wooden shed in the depths of the forests, had informed the chief that
      President Ribiera had been, or was being, pursued. This was news, indeed,
      to all of us in Sulaco. Ribiera himself, when rescued, revived, and
      soothed by us, had been inclined to think that he had not been pursued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ribiera had yielded to the urgent solicitations of his friends, and had
      left the headquarters of his discomfited army alone, under the guidance of
      Bonifacio, the muleteer, who had been willing to take the responsibility
      with the risk. He had departed at daybreak of the third day. His remaining
      forces had melted away during the night. Bonifacio and he rode hard on
      horses towards the Cordillera; then they obtained mules, entered the
      passes, and crossed the Paramo of Ivie just before a freezing blast swept
      over that stony plateau, burying in a drift of snow the little shelter-hut
      of stones in which they had spent the night. Afterwards poor Ribiera had
      many adventures, got separated from his guide, lost his mount, struggled
      down to the Campo on foot, and if he had not thrown himself on the mercy
      of a ranchero would have perished a long way from Sulaco. That man, who,
      as a matter of fact, recognized him at once, let him have a fresh mule,
      which the fugitive, heavy and unskilful, had ridden to death. And it was
      true he had been pursued by a party commanded by no less a person than
      Pedro Montero, the brother of the general. The cold wind of the Paramo
      luckily caught the pursuers on the top of the pass. Some few men, and all
      the animals, perished in the icy blast. The stragglers died, but the main
      body kept on. They found poor Bonifacio lying half-dead at the foot of a
      snow slope, and bayoneted him promptly in the true Civil War style. They
      would have had Ribiera, too, if they had not, for some reason or other,
      turned off the track of the old Camino Real, only to lose their way in the
      forests at the foot of the lower slopes. And there they were at last,
      having stumbled in unexpectedly upon the construction camp. The engineer
      at the railhead told his chief by wire that he had Pedro Montero
      absolutely there, in the very office, listening to the clicks. He was
      going to take possession of Sulaco in the name of the Democracy. He was
      very overbearing. His men slaughtered some of the Railway Company&rsquo;s cattle
      without asking leave, and went to work broiling the meat on the embers.
      Pedrito made many pointed inquiries as to the silver mine, and what had
      become of the product of the last six months&rsquo; working. He had said
      peremptorily, &lsquo;Ask your chief up there by wire, he ought to know; tell him
      that Don Pedro Montero, Chief of the Campo and Minister of the Interior of
      the new Government, desires to be correctly informed.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had his feet wrapped up in blood-stained rags, a lean, haggard face,
      ragged beard and hair, and had walked in limping, with a crooked branch of
      a tree for a staff. His followers were perhaps in a worse plight, but
      apparently they had not thrown away their arms, and, at any rate, not all
      their ammunition. Their lean faces filled the door and the windows of the
      telegraph hut. As it was at the same time the bedroom of the
      engineer-in-charge there, Montero had thrown himself on his clean blankets
      and lay there shivering and dictating requisitions to be transmitted by
      wire to Sulaco. He demanded a train of cars to be sent down at once to
      transport his men up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;To this I answered from my end,&rsquo; the engineer-in-chief related to us,
      &lsquo;that I dared not risk the rolling-stock in the interior, as there had
      been attempts to wreck trains all along the line several times. I did that
      for your sake, Gould,&rsquo; said the chief engineer. &lsquo;The answer to this was,
      in the words of my subordinate, &ldquo;The filthy brute on my bed said, &lsquo;Suppose
      I were to have you shot?&rsquo;&rdquo; To which my subordinate, who, it appears, was
      himself operating, remarked that it would not bring the cars up. Upon
      that, the other, yawning, said, &ldquo;Never mind, there is no lack of horses on
      the Campo.&rdquo; And, turning over, went to sleep on Harris&rsquo;s bed.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is why, my dear girl, I am a fugitive to-night. The last wire from
      railhead says that Pedro Montero and his men left at daybreak, after
      feeding on asado beef all night. They took all the horses; they will find
      more on the road; they&rsquo;ll be here in less than thirty hours, and thus
      Sulaco is no place either for me or the great store of silver belonging to
      the Gould Concession.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is not the worst. The garrison of Esmeralda has gone over to the
      victorious party. We have heard this by means of the telegraphist of the
      Cable Company, who came to the Casa Gould in the early morning with the
      news. In fact, it was so early that the day had not yet quite broken over
      Sulaco. His colleague in Esmeralda had called him up to say that the
      garrison, after shooting some of their officers, had taken possession of a
      Government steamer laid up in the harbour. It is really a heavy blow for
      me. I thought I could depend on every man in this province. It was a
      mistake. It was a Monterist Revolution in Esmeralda, just such as was
      attempted in Sulaco, only that that one came off. The telegraphist was
      signalling to Bernhardt all the time, and his last transmitted words were,
      &lsquo;They are bursting in the door, and taking possession of the cable office.
      You are cut off. Can do no more.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, as a matter of fact, he managed somehow to escape the vigilance of
      his captors, who had tried to stop the communication with the outer world.
      He did manage it. How it was done I don&rsquo;t know, but a few hours afterwards
      he called up Sulaco again, and what he said was, &lsquo;The insurgent army has
      taken possession of the Government transport in the bay and are filling
      her with troops, with the intention of going round the coast to Sulaco.
      Therefore look out for yourselves. They will be ready to start in a few
      hours, and may be upon you before daybreak.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is all he could say. They drove him away from his instrument this
      time for good, because Bernhardt has been calling up Esmeralda ever since
      without getting an answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After setting these words down in the pocket-book which he was filling up
      for the benefit of his sister, Decoud lifted his head to listen. But there
      were no sounds, neither in the room nor in the house, except the drip of
      the water from the filter into the vast earthenware jar under the wooden
      stand. And outside the house there was a great silence. Decoud lowered his
      head again over the pocket-book.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not running away, you understand,&rdquo; he wrote on. &ldquo;I am simply going
      away with that great treasure of silver which must be saved at all costs.
      Pedro Montero from the Campo and the revolted garrison of Esmeralda from
      the sea are converging upon it. That it is there lying ready for them is
      only an accident. The real objective is the San Tome mine itself, as you
      may well imagine; otherwise the Occidental Province would have been, no
      doubt, left alone for many weeks, to be gathered at leisure into the arms
      of the victorious party. Don Carlos Gould will have enough to do to save
      his mine, with its organization and its people; this &lsquo;Imperium in
      Imperio,&rsquo; this wealth-producing thing, to which his sentimentalism
      attaches a strange idea of justice. He holds to it as some men hold to the
      idea of love or revenge. Unless I am much mistaken in the man, it must
      remain inviolate or perish by an act of his will alone. A passion has
      crept into his cold and idealistic life. A passion which I can only
      comprehend intellectually. A passion that is not like the passions we
      know, we men of another blood. But it is as dangerous as any of ours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His wife has understood it, too. That is why she is such a good ally of
      mine. She seizes upon all my suggestions with a sure instinct that in the
      end they make for the safety of the Gould Concession. And he defers to her
      because he trusts her perhaps, but I fancy rather as if he wished to make
      up for some subtle wrong, for that sentimental unfaithfulness which
      surrenders her happiness, her life, to the seduction of an idea. The
      little woman has discovered that he lives for the mine rather than for
      her. But let them be. To each his fate, shaped by passion or sentiment.
      The principal thing is that she has backed up my advice to get the silver
      out of the town, out of the country, at once, at any cost, at any risk.
      Don Carlos&rsquo; mission is to preserve unstained the fair fame of his mine;
      Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s mission is to save him from the effects of that cold and
      overmastering passion, which she dreads more than if it were an
      infatuation for another woman. Nostromo&rsquo;s mission is to save the silver.
      The plan is to load it into the largest of the Company&rsquo;s lighters, and
      send it across the gulf to a small port out of Costaguana territory just
      on the other side the Azuera, where the first northbound steamer will get
      orders to pick it up. The waters here are calm. We shall slip away into
      the darkness of the gulf before the Esmeralda rebels arrive; and by the
      time the day breaks over the ocean we shall be out of sight, invisible,
      hidden by Azuera, which itself looks from the Sulaco shore like a faint
      blue cloud on the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The incorruptible Capataz de Cargadores is the man for that work; and I,
      the man with a passion, but without a mission, I go with him to return&mdash;to
      play my part in the farce to the end, and, if successful, to receive my
      reward, which no one but Antonia can give me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not see her again now before I depart. I left her, as I have
      said, by Don Jose&rsquo;s bedside. The street was dark, the houses shut up, and
      I walked out of the town in the night. Not a single street-lamp had been
      lit for two days, and the archway of the gate was only a mass of darkness
      in the vague form of a tower, in which I heard low, dismal groans, that
      seemed to answer the murmurs of a man&rsquo;s voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I recognized something impassive and careless in its tone, characteristic
      of that Genoese sailor who, like me, has come casually here to be drawn
      into the events for which his scepticism as well as mine seems to
      entertain a sort of passive contempt. The only thing he seems to care for,
      as far as I have been able to discover, is to be well spoken of. An
      ambition fit for noble souls, but also a profitable one for an
      exceptionally intelligent scoundrel. Yes. His very words, &lsquo;To be well
      spoken of. Si, senor.&rsquo; He does not seem to make any difference between
      speaking and thinking. Is it sheer naiveness or the practical point of
      view, I wonder? Exceptional individualities always interest me, because
      they are true to the general formula expressing the moral state of
      humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He joined me on the harbour road after I had passed them under the dark
      archway without stopping. It was a woman in trouble he had been talking
      to. Through discretion I kept silent while he walked by my side. After a
      time he began to talk himself. It was not what I expected. It was only an
      old woman, an old lace-maker, in search of her son, one of the
      street-sweepers employed by the municipality. Friends had come the day
      before at daybreak to the door of their hovel calling him out. He had gone
      with them, and she had not seen him since; so she had left the food she
      had been preparing half-cooked on the extinct embers and had crawled out
      as far as the harbour, where she had heard that some town mozos had been
      killed on the morning of the riot. One of the Cargadores guarding the
      Custom House had brought out a lantern, and had helped her to look at the
      few dead left lying about there. Now she was creeping back, having failed
      in her search. So she sat down on the stone seat under the arch, moaning,
      because she was very tired. The Capataz had questioned her, and after
      hearing her broken and groaning tale had advised her to go and look
      amongst the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould. He had also given her
      a quarter dollar, he mentioned carelessly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Why did you do that?&rsquo; I asked. &lsquo;Do you know her?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;No, senor. I don&rsquo;t suppose I have ever seen her before. How should I?
      She has not probably been out in the streets for years. She is one of
      those old women that you find in this country at the back of huts,
      crouching over fireplaces, with a stick on the ground by their side, and
      almost too feeble to drive away the stray dogs from their cooking-pots.
      Caramba! I could tell by her voice that death had forgotten her. But, old
      or young, they like money, and will speak well of the man who gives it to
      them.&rsquo; He laughed a little. &lsquo;Senor, you should have felt the clutch of her
      paw as I put the piece in her palm.&rsquo; He paused. &lsquo;My last, too,&rsquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I made no comment. He&rsquo;s known for his liberality and his bad luck at the
      game of monte, which keeps him as poor as when he first came here.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I suppose, Don Martin,&rsquo; he began, in a thoughtful, speculative tone,
      &lsquo;that the Senor Administrador of San Tome will reward me some day if I
      save his silver?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said that it could not be otherwise, surely. He walked on, muttering to
      himself. &lsquo;Si, si, without doubt, without doubt; and, look you, Senor
      Martin, what it is to be well spoken of! There is not another man that
      could have been even thought of for such a thing. I shall get something
      great for it some day. And let it come soon,&rsquo; he mumbled. &lsquo;Time passes in
      this country as quick as anywhere else.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, <i>soeur cherie</i>, is my companion in the great escape for the
      sake of the great cause. He is more naive than shrewd, more masterful than
      crafty, more generous with his personality than the people who make use of
      him are with their money. At least, that is what he thinks himself with
      more pride than sentiment. I am glad I have made friends with him. As a
      companion he acquires more importance than he ever had as a sort of minor
      genius in his way&mdash;as an original Italian sailor whom I allowed to
      come in in the small hours and talk familiarly to the editor of the
      Porvenir while the paper was going through the press. And it is curious to
      have met a man for whom the value of life seems to consist in personal
      prestige.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am waiting for him here now. On arriving at the posada kept by Viola we
      found the children alone down below, and the old Genoese shouted to his
      countryman to go and fetch the doctor. Otherwise we would have gone on to
      the wharf, where it appears Captain Mitchell with some volunteer Europeans
      and a few picked Cargadores are loading the lighter with the silver that
      must be saved from Montero&rsquo;s clutches in order to be used for Montero&rsquo;s
      defeat. Nostromo galloped furiously back towards the town. He has been
      long gone already. This delay gives me time to talk to you. By the time
      this pocket-book reaches your hands much will have happened. But now it is
      a pause under the hovering wing of death in this silent house buried in
      the black night, with this dying woman, the two children crouching without
      a sound, and that old man whom I can hear through the thickness of the
      wall passing up and down with a light rubbing noise no louder than a
      mouse. And I, the only other with them, don&rsquo;t really know whether to count
      myself with the living or with the dead. &lsquo;Quien sabe?&rsquo; as the people here
      are prone to say in answer to every question. But no! feeling for you is
      certainly not dead, and the whole thing, the house, the dark night, the
      silent children in this dim room, my very presence here&mdash;all this is
      life, must be life, since it is so much like a dream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the writing of the last line there came upon Decoud a moment of
      sudden and complete oblivion. He swayed over the table as if struck by a
      bullet. The next moment he sat up, confused, with the idea that he had
      heard his pencil roll on the floor. The low door of the cafe, wide open,
      was filled with the glare of a torch in which was visible half of a horse,
      switching its tail against the leg of a rider with a long iron spur
      strapped to the naked heel. The two girls were gone, and Nostromo,
      standing in the middle of the room, looked at him from under the round
      brim of the sombrero low down over his brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have brought that sour-faced English doctor in Senora Gould&rsquo;s
      carriage,&rdquo; said Nostromo. &ldquo;I doubt if, with all his wisdom, he can save
      the Padrona this time. They have sent for the children. A bad sign that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down on the end of a bench. &ldquo;She wants to give them her blessing, I
      suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dazedly Decoud observed that he must have fallen sound asleep, and
      Nostromo said, with a vague smile, that he had looked in at the window and
      had seen him lying still across the table with his head on his arms. The
      English senora had also come in the carriage, and went upstairs at once
      with the doctor. She had told him not to wake up Don Martin yet; but when
      they sent for the children he had come into the cafe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The half of the horse with its half of the rider swung round outside the
      door; the torch of tow and resin in the iron basket which was carried on a
      stick at the saddle-bow flared right into the room for a moment, and Mrs.
      Gould entered hastily with a very white, tired face. The hood of her dark,
      blue cloak had fallen back. Both men rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teresa wants to see you, Nostromo,&rdquo; she said. The Capataz did not move.
      Decoud, with his back to the table, began to button up his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The silver, Mrs. Gould, the silver,&rdquo; he murmured in English. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      forget that the Esmeralda garrison have got a steamer. They may appear at
      any moment at the harbour entrance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The doctor says there is no hope,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould spoke rapidly, also in
      English. &ldquo;I shall take you down to the wharf in my carriage and then come
      back to fetch away the girls.&rdquo; She changed swiftly into Spanish to address
      Nostromo. &ldquo;Why are you wasting time? Old Giorgio&rsquo;s wife wishes to see
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to her, senora,&rdquo; muttered the Capataz. Dr. Monygham now showed
      himself, bringing back the children. To Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s inquiring glance he
      only shook his head and went outside at once, followed by Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horse of the torch-bearer, motionless, hung his head low, and the
      rider had dropped the reins to light a cigarette. The glare of the torch
      played on the front of the house crossed by the big black letters of its
      inscription in which only the word <i>Italia</i> was lighted fully. The
      patch of wavering glare reached as far as Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s carriage waiting on
      the road, with the yellow-faced, portly Ignacio apparently dozing on the
      box. By his side Basilio, dark and skinny, held a Winchester carbine in
      front of him, with both hands, and peered fearfully into the darkness.
      Nostromo touched lightly the doctor&rsquo;s shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she really dying, senor doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the doctor, with a strange twitch of his scarred cheek. &ldquo;And
      why she wants to see you I cannot imagine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has been like that before,&rdquo; suggested Nostromo, looking away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Capataz, I can assure you she will never be like that again,&rdquo;
       snarled Dr. Monygham. &ldquo;You may go to her or stay away. There is very
      little to be got from talking to the dying. But she told Dona Emilia in my
      hearing that she has been like a mother to you ever since you first set
      foot ashore here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si! And she never had a good word to say for me to anybody. It is more as
      if she could not forgive me for being alive, and such a man, too, as she
      would have liked her son to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe!&rdquo; exclaimed a mournful deep voice near them. &ldquo;Women have their own
      ways of tormenting themselves.&rdquo; Giorgio Viola had come out of the house.
      He threw a heavy black shadow in the torchlight, and the glare fell on his
      big face, on the great bushy head of white hair. He motioned the Capataz
      indoors with his extended arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham, after busying himself with a little medicament box of
      polished wood on the seat of the landau, turned to old Giorgio and thrust
      into his big, trembling hand one of the glass-stoppered bottles out of the
      case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give her a spoonful of this now and then, in water,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It will
      make her easier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there is nothing more for her?&rdquo; asked the old man, patiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Not on earth,&rdquo; said the doctor, with his back to him, clicking the
      lock of the medicine case.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, all dark but for the glow of a
      heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel of the cooking-range, where water
      was boiling in an iron pot with a loud bubbling sound. Between the two
      walls of a narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the sick-room
      above; and the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores stepping noiselessly in
      soft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his muscular neck and bronzed chest
      bare in the open check shirt, resembled a Mediterranean sailor just come
      ashore from some wine or fruit-laden felucca. At the top he paused, broad
      shouldered, narrow hipped and supple, looking at the large bed, like a
      white couch of state, with a profusion of snowy linen, amongst which the
      Padrona sat unpropped and bowed, her handsome, black-browed face bent over
      her chest. A mass of raven hair with only a few white threads in it
      covered her shoulders; one thick strand fallen forward half veiled her
      cheek. Perfectly motionless in that pose, expressing physical anxiety and
      unrest, she turned her eyes alone towards Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz had a red sash wound many times round his waist, and a heavy
      silver ring on the forefinger of the hand he raised to give a twist to his
      moustache.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their revolutions, their revolutions,&rdquo; gasped Senora Teresa. &ldquo;Look, Gian&rsquo;
      Battista, it has killed me at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo said nothing, and the sick woman with an upward glance insisted.
      &ldquo;Look, this one has killed me, while you were away fighting for what did
      not concern you, foolish man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why talk like this?&rdquo; mumbled the Capataz between his teeth. &ldquo;Will you
      never believe in my good sense? It concerns me to keep on being what I am:
      every day alike.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never change, indeed,&rdquo; she said, bitterly. &ldquo;Always thinking of
      yourself and taking your pay out in fine words from those who care nothing
      for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was between them an intimacy of antagonism as close in its way as
      the intimacy of accord and affection. He had not walked along the way of
      Teresa&rsquo;s expectations. It was she who had encouraged him to leave his
      ship, in the hope of securing a friend and defender for the girls. The
      wife of old Giorgio was aware of her precarious health, and was haunted by
      the fear of her aged husband&rsquo;s loneliness and the unprotected state of the
      children. She had wanted to annex that apparently quiet and steady young
      man, affectionate and pliable, an orphan from his tenderest age, as he had
      told her, with no ties in Italy except an uncle, owner and master of a
      felucca, from whose ill-usage he had run away before he was fourteen. He
      had seemed to her courageous, a hard worker, determined to make his way in
      the world. From gratitude and the ties of habit he would become like a son
      to herself and Giorgio; and then, who knows, when Linda had grown up. . .
      . Ten years&rsquo; difference between husband and wife was not so much. Her own
      great man was nearly twenty years older than herself. Gian&rsquo; Battista was
      an attractive young fellow, besides; attractive to men, women, and
      children, just by that profound quietness of personality which, like a
      serene twilight, rendered more seductive the promise of his vigorous form
      and the resolution of his conduct.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Giorgio, in profound ignorance of his wife&rsquo;s views and hopes, had a
      great regard for his young countryman. &ldquo;A man ought not to be tame,&rdquo; he
      used to tell her, quoting the Spanish proverb in defence of the splendid
      Capataz. She was growing jealous of his success. He was escaping from her,
      she feared. She was practical, and he seemed to her to be an absurd
      spendthrift of these qualities which made him so valuable. He got too
      little for them. He scattered them with both hands amongst too many
      people, she thought. He laid no money by. She railed at his poverty, his
      exploits, his adventures, his loves and his reputation; but in her heart
      she had never given him up, as though, indeed, he had been her son.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even now, ill as she was, ill enough to feel the chill, black breath of
      the approaching end, she had wished to see him. It was like putting out
      her benumbed hand to regain her hold. But she had presumed too much on her
      strength. She could not command her thoughts; they had become dim, like
      her vision. The words faltered on her lips, and only the paramount anxiety
      and desire of her life seemed to be too strong for death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz said, &ldquo;I have heard these things many times. You are unjust,
      but it does not hurt me. Only now you do not seem to have much strength to
      talk, and I have but little time to listen. I am engaged in a work of very
      great moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made an effort to ask him whether it was true that he had found time
      to go and fetch a doctor for her. Nostromo nodded affirmatively.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was pleased: it relieved her sufferings to know that the man had
      condescended to do so much for those who really wanted his help. It was a
      proof of his friendship. Her voice become stronger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want a priest more than a doctor,&rdquo; she said, pathetically. She did not
      move her head; only her eyes ran into the corners to watch the Capataz
      standing by the side of her bed. &ldquo;Would you go to fetch a priest for me
      now? Think! A dying woman asks you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo shook his head resolutely. He did not believe in priests in their
      sacerdotal character. A doctor was an efficacious person; but a priest, as
      priest, was nothing, incapable of doing either good or harm. Nostromo did
      not even dislike the sight of them as old Giorgio did. The utter
      uselessness of the errand was what struck him most.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Padrona,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you have been like this before, and got better after
      a few days. I have given you already the very last moments I can spare.
      Ask Senora Gould to send you one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was feeling uneasy at the impiety of this refusal. The Padrona believed
      in priests, and confessed herself to them. But all women did that. It
      could not be of much consequence. And yet his heart felt oppressed for a
      moment&mdash;at the thought what absolution would mean to her if she
      believed in it only ever so little. No matter. It was quite true that he
      had given her already the very last moment he could spare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You refuse to go?&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;Ah! you are always yourself, indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to reason, Padrona,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am needed to save the silver of
      the mine. Do you hear? A greater treasure than the one which they say is
      guarded by ghosts and devils on Azuera. It is true. I am resolved to make
      this the most desperate affair I was ever engaged on in my whole life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She felt a despairing indignation. The supreme test had failed. Standing
      above her, Nostromo did not see the distorted features of her face,
      distorted by a paroxysm of pain and anger. Only she began to tremble all
      over. Her bowed head shook. The broad shoulders quivered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then God, perhaps, will have mercy upon me! But do you look to it, man,
      that you get something for yourself out of it, besides the remorse that
      shall overtake you some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laughed feebly. &ldquo;Get riches at least for once, you indispensable,
      admired Gian&rsquo; Battista, to whom the peace of a dying woman is less than
      the praise of people who have given you a silly name&mdash;and nothing
      besides&mdash;in exchange for your soul and body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz de Cargadores swore to himself under his breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave my soul alone, Padrona, and I shall know how to take care of my
      body. Where is the harm of people having need of me? What are you envying
      me that I have robbed you and the children of? Those very people you are
      throwing in my teeth have done more for old Giorgio than they ever thought
      of doing for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He struck his breast with his open palm; his voice had remained low though
      he had spoken in a forcible tone. He twisted his moustaches one after
      another, and his eyes wandered a little about the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it my fault that I am the only man for their purposes? What angry
      nonsense are you talking, mother? Would you rather have me timid and
      foolish, selling water-melons on the market-place or rowing a boat for
      passengers along the harbour, like a soft Neapolitan without courage or
      reputation? Would you have a young man live like a monk? I do not believe
      it. Would you want a monk for your eldest girl? Let her grow. What are you
      afraid of? You have been angry with me for everything I did for years;
      ever since you first spoke to me, in secret from old Giorgio, about your
      Linda. Husband to one and brother to the other, did you say? Well, why
      not! I like the little ones, and a man must marry some time. But ever
      since that time you have been making little of me to everyone. Why? Did
      you think you could put a collar and chain on me as if I were one of the
      watch-dogs they keep over there in the railway yards? Look here, Padrona,
      I am the same man who came ashore one evening and sat down in the thatched
      ranche you lived in at that time on the other side of the town and told
      you all about himself. You were not unjust to me then. What has happened
      since? I am no longer an insignificant youth. A good name, Giorgio says,
      is a treasure, Padrona.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have turned your head with their praises,&rdquo; gasped the sick woman.
      &ldquo;They have been paying you with words. Your folly shall betray you into
      poverty, misery, starvation. The very leperos shall laugh at you&mdash;the
      great Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo stood for a time as if struck dumb. She never looked at him. A
      self-confident, mirthless smile passed quickly from his lips, and then he
      backed away. His disregarded figure sank down beyond the doorway. He
      descended the stairs backwards, with the usual sense of having been
      somehow baffled by this woman&rsquo;s disparagement of this reputation he had
      obtained and desired to keep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Downstairs in the big kitchen a candle was burning, surrounded by the
      shadows of the walls, of the ceiling, but no ruddy glare filled the open
      square of the outer door. The carriage with Mrs. Gould and Don Martin,
      preceded by the horseman bearing the torch, had gone on to the jetty. Dr.
      Monygham, who had remained, sat on the corner of a hard wood table near
      the candlestick, his seamed, shaven face inclined sideways, his arms
      crossed on his breast, his lips pursed up, and his prominent eyes glaring
      stonily upon the floor of black earth. Near the overhanging mantel of the
      fireplace, where the pot of water was still boiling violently, old Giorgio
      held his chin in his hand, one foot advanced, as if arrested by a sudden
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adios, viejo,&rdquo; said Nostromo, feeling the handle of his revolver in the
      belt and loosening his knife in its sheath. He picked up a blue poncho
      lined with red from the table, and put it over his head. &ldquo;Adios, look
      after the things in my sleeping-room, and if you hear from me no more,
      give up the box to Paquita. There is not much of value there, except my
      new serape from Mexico, and a few silver buttons on my best jacket. No
      matter! The things will look well enough on the next lover she gets, and
      the man need not be afraid I shall linger on earth after I am dead, like
      those Gringos that haunt the Azuera.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham twisted his lips into a bitter smile. After old Giorgio, with
      an almost imperceptible nod and without a word, had gone up the narrow
      stairs, he said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Capataz! I thought you could never fail in anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo, glancing contemptuously at the doctor, lingered in the doorway
      rolling a cigarette, then struck a match, and, after lighting it, held the
      burning piece of wood above his head till the flame nearly touched his
      fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No wind!&rdquo; he muttered to himself. &ldquo;Look here, senor&mdash;do you know the
      nature of my undertaking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham nodded sourly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is as if I were taking up a curse upon me, senor doctor. A man with a
      treasure on this coast will have every knife raised against him in every
      place upon the shore. You see that, senor doctor? I shall float along with
      a spell upon my life till I meet somewhere the north-bound steamer of the
      Company, and then indeed they will talk about the Capataz of the Sulaco
      Cargadores from one end of America to another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham laughed his short, throaty laugh. Nostromo turned round in
      the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if your worship can find any other man ready and fit for such
      business I will stand back. I am not exactly tired of my life, though I am
      so poor that I can carry all I have with myself on my horse&rsquo;s back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You gamble too much, and never say &lsquo;no&rsquo; to a pretty face, Capataz,&rdquo; said
      Dr. Monygham, with sly simplicity. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not the way to make a fortune.
      But nobody that I know ever suspected you of being poor. I hope you have
      made a good bargain in case you come back safe from this adventure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What bargain would your worship have made?&rdquo; asked Nostromo, blowing the
      smoke out of his lips through the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham listened up the staircase for a moment before he answered,
      with another of his short, abrupt laughs&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Illustrious Capataz, for taking the curse of death upon my back, as you
      call it, nothing else but the whole treasure would do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo vanished out of the doorway with a grunt of discontent at this
      jeering answer. Dr. Monygham heard him gallop away. Nostromo rode
      furiously in the dark. There were lights in the buildings of the O.S.N.
      Company near the wharf, but before he got there he met the Gould carriage.
      The horseman preceded it with the torch, whose light showed the white
      mules trotting, the portly Ignacio driving, and Basilio with the carbine
      on the box. From the dark body of the landau Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s voice cried,
      &ldquo;They are waiting for you, Capataz!&rdquo; She was returning, chilly and
      excited, with Decoud&rsquo;s pocket-book still held in her hand. He had confided
      it to her to send to his sister. &ldquo;Perhaps my last words to her,&rdquo; he had
      said, pressing Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz never checked his speed. At the head of the wharf vague
      figures with rifles leapt to the head of his horse; others closed upon him&mdash;cargadores
      of the company posted by Captain Mitchell on the watch. At a word from him
      they fell back with subservient murmurs, recognizing his voice. At the
      other end of the jetty, near a cargo crane, in a dark group with glowing
      cigars, his name was pronounced in a tone of relief. Most of the Europeans
      in Sulaco were there, rallied round Charles Gould, as if the silver of the
      mine had been the emblem of a common cause, the symbol of the supreme
      importance of material interests. They had loaded it into the lighter with
      their own hands. Nostromo recognized Don Carlos Gould, a thin, tall shape
      standing a little apart and silent, to whom another tall shape, the
      engineer-in-chief, said aloud, &ldquo;If it must be lost, it is a million times
      better that it should go to the bottom of the sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martin Decoud called out from the lighter, &ldquo;<i>Au revoir</i>, messieurs,
      till we clasp hands again over the new-born Occidental Republic.&rdquo; Only a
      subdued murmur responded to his clear, ringing tones; and then it seemed
      to him that the wharf was floating away into the night; but it was
      Nostromo, who was already pushing against a pile with one of the heavy
      sweeps. Decoud did not move; the effect was that of being launched into
      space. After a splash or two there was not a sound but the thud of
      Nostromo&rsquo;s feet leaping about the boat. He hoisted the big sail; a breath
      of wind fanned Decoud&rsquo;s cheek. Everything had vanished but the light of
      the lantern Captain Mitchell had hoisted upon the post at the end of the
      jetty to guide Nostromo out of the harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men, unable to see each other, kept silent till the lighter,
      slipping before the fitful breeze, passed out between almost invisible
      headlands into the still deeper darkness of the gulf. For a time the
      lantern on the jetty shone after them. The wind failed, then fanned up
      again, but so faintly that the big, half-decked boat slipped along with no
      more noise than if she had been suspended in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are out in the gulf now,&rdquo; said the calm voice of Nostromo. A moment
      after he added, &ldquo;Senor Mitchell has lowered the light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Decoud; &ldquo;nobody can find us now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A great recrudescence of obscurity embraced the boat. The sea in the gulf
      was as black as the clouds above. Nostromo, after striking a couple of
      matches to get a glimpse of the boat-compass he had with him in the
      lighter, steered by the feel of the wind on his cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a new experience for Decoud, this mysteriousness of the great
      waters spread out strangely smooth, as if their restlessness had been
      crushed by the weight of that dense night. The Placido was sleeping
      profoundly under its black poncho.
    </p>
    <p>
      The main thing now for success was to get away from the coast and gain the
      middle of the gulf before day broke. The Isabels were somewhere at hand.
      &ldquo;On your left as you look forward, senor,&rdquo; said Nostromo, suddenly. When
      his voice ceased, the enormous stillness, without light or sound, seemed
      to affect Decoud&rsquo;s senses like a powerful drug. He didn&rsquo;t even know at
      times whether he were asleep or awake. Like a man lost in slumber, he
      heard nothing, he saw nothing. Even his hand held before his face did not
      exist for his eyes. The change from the agitation, the passions and the
      dangers, from the sights and sounds of the shore, was so complete that it
      would have resembled death had it not been for the survival of his
      thoughts. In this foretaste of eternal peace they floated vivid and light,
      like unearthly clear dreams of earthly things that may haunt the souls
      freed by death from the misty atmosphere of regrets and hopes. Decoud
      shook himself, shuddered a bit, though the air that drifted past him was
      warm. He had the strangest sensation of his soul having just returned into
      his body from the circumambient darkness in which land, sea, sky, the
      mountains, and the rocks were as if they had not been.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo&rsquo;s voice was speaking, though he, at the tiller, was also as if he
      were not. &ldquo;Have you been asleep, Don Martin? Caramba! If it were possible
      I would think that I, too, have dozed off. I have a strange notion somehow
      of having dreamt that there was a sound of blubbering, a sound a sorrowing
      man could make, somewhere near this boat. Something between a sigh and a
      sob.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange!&rdquo; muttered Decoud, stretched upon the pile of treasure boxes
      covered by many tarpaulins. &ldquo;Could it be that there is another boat near
      us in the gulf? We could not see it, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo laughed a little at the absurdity of the idea. They dismissed it
      from their minds. The solitude could almost be felt. And when the breeze
      ceased, the blackness seemed to weigh upon Decoud like a stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is overpowering,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;Do we move at all, Capataz?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so fast as a crawling beetle tangled in the grass,&rdquo; answered
      Nostromo, and his voice seemed deadened by the thick veil of obscurity
      that felt warm and hopeless all about them. There were long periods when
      he made no sound, invisible and inaudible as if he had mysteriously
      stepped out of the lighter.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the featureless night Nostromo was not even certain which way the
      lighter headed after the wind had completely died out. He peered for the
      islands. There was not a hint of them to be seen, as if they had sunk to
      the bottom of the gulf. He threw himself down by the side of Decoud at
      last, and whispered into his ear that if daylight caught them near the
      Sulaco shore through want of wind, it would be possible to sweep the
      lighter behind the cliff at the high end of the Great Isabel, where she
      would lie concealed. Decoud was surprised at the grimness of his anxiety.
      To him the removal of the treasure was a political move. It was necessary
      for several reasons that it should not fall into the hands of Montero, but
      here was a man who took another view of this enterprise. The Caballeros
      over there did not seem to have the slightest idea of what they had given
      him to do. Nostromo, as if affected by the gloom around, seemed nervously
      resentful. Decoud was surprised. The Capataz, indifferent to those dangers
      that seemed obvious to his companion, allowed himself to become scornfully
      exasperated by the deadly nature of the trust put, as a matter of course,
      into his hands. It was more dangerous, Nostromo said, with a laugh and a
      curse, than sending a man to get the treasure that people said was guarded
      by devils and ghosts in the deep ravines of Azuera. &ldquo;Senor,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we
      must catch the steamer at sea. We must keep out in the open looking for
      her till we have eaten and drunk all that has been put on board here. And
      if we miss her by some mischance, we must keep away from the land till we
      grow weak, and perhaps mad, and die, and drift dead, until one or another
      of the steamers of the Compania comes upon the boat with the two dead men
      who have saved the treasure. That, senor, is the only way to save it; for,
      don&rsquo;t you see? for us to come to the land anywhere in a hundred miles
      along this coast with this silver in our possession is to run the naked
      breast against the point of a knife. This thing has been given to me like
      a deadly disease. If men discover it I am dead, and you, too, senor, since
      you would come with me. There is enough silver to make a whole province
      rich, let alone a seaboard pueblo inhabited by thieves and vagabonds.
      Senor, they would think that heaven itself sent these riches into their
      hands, and would cut our throats without hesitation. I would trust no fair
      words from the best man around the shores of this wild gulf. Reflect that,
      even by giving up the treasure at the first demand, we would not be able
      to save our lives. Do you understand this, or must I explain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you needn&rsquo;t explain,&rdquo; said Decoud, a little listlessly. &ldquo;I can see it
      well enough myself, that the possession of this treasure is very much like
      a deadly disease for men situated as we are. But it had to be removed from
      Sulaco, and you were the man for the task.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was; but I cannot believe,&rdquo; said Nostromo, &ldquo;that its loss would have
      impoverished Don Carlos Gould very much. There is more wealth in the
      mountain. I have heard it rolling down the shoots on quiet nights when I
      used to ride to Rincon to see a certain girl, after my work at the harbour
      was done. For years the rich rocks have been pouring down with a noise
      like thunder, and the miners say that there is enough at the heart of the
      mountain to thunder on for years and years to come. And yet, the day
      before yesterday, we have been fighting to save it from the mob, and
      to-night I am sent out with it into this darkness, where there is no wind
      to get away with; as if it were the last lot of silver on earth to get
      bread for the hungry with. Ha! ha! Well, I am going to make it the most
      famous and desperate affair of my life&mdash;wind or no wind. It shall be
      talked about when the little children are grown up and the grown men are
      old. Aha! the Monterists must not get hold of it, I am told, whatever
      happens to Nostromo the Capataz; and they shall not have it, I tell you,
      since it has been tied for safety round Nostromo&rsquo;s neck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it,&rdquo; murmured Decoud. He saw, indeed, that his companion had his
      own peculiar view of this enterprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo interrupted his reflections upon the way men&rsquo;s qualities are made
      use of, without any fundamental knowledge of their nature, by the proposal
      they should slip the long oars out and sweep the lighter in the direction
      of the Isabels. It wouldn&rsquo;t do for daylight to reveal the treasure
      floating within a mile or so of the harbour entrance. The denser the
      darkness generally, the smarter were the puffs of wind on which he had
      reckoned to make his way; but tonight the gulf, under its poncho of
      clouds, remained breathless, as if dead rather than asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Martin&rsquo;s soft hands suffered cruelly, tugging at the thick handle of
      the enormous oar. He stuck to it manfully, setting his teeth. He, too, was
      in the toils of an imaginative existence, and that strange work of pulling
      a lighter seemed to belong naturally to the inception of a new state,
      acquired an ideal meaning from his love for Antonia. For all their
      efforts, the heavily laden lighter hardly moved. Nostromo could be heard
      swearing to himself between the regular splashes of the sweeps. &ldquo;We are
      making a crooked path,&rdquo; he muttered to himself. &ldquo;I wish I could see the
      islands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In his unskilfulness Don Martin over-exerted himself. Now and then a sort
      of muscular faintness would run from the tips of his aching fingers
      through every fibre of his body, and pass off in a flush of heat. He had
      fought, talked, suffered mentally and physically, exerting his mind and
      body for the last forty-eight hours without intermission. He had had no
      rest, very little food, no pause in the stress of his thoughts and his
      feelings. Even his love for Antonia, whence he drew his strength and his
      inspiration, had reached the point of tragic tension during their hurried
      interview by Don Jose&rsquo;s bedside. And now, suddenly, he was thrown out of
      all this into a dark gulf, whose very gloom, silence, and breathless peace
      added a torment to the necessity for physical exertion. He imagined the
      lighter sinking to the bottom with an extraordinary shudder of delight. &ldquo;I
      am on the verge of delirium,&rdquo; he thought. He mastered the trembling of all
      his limbs, of his breast, the inward trembling of all his body exhausted
      of its nervous force.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we rest, Capataz?&rdquo; he proposed in a careless tone. &ldquo;There are many
      hours of night yet before us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True. It is but a mile or so, I suppose. Rest your arms, senor, if that
      is what you mean. You will find no other sort of rest, I can promise you,
      since you let yourself be bound to this treasure whose loss would make no
      poor man poorer. No, senor; there is no rest till we find a north-bound
      steamer, or else some ship finds us drifting about stretched out dead upon
      the Englishman&rsquo;s silver. Or rather&mdash;no; por Dios! I shall cut down
      the gunwale with the axe right to the water&rsquo;s edge before thirst and
      hunger rob me of my strength. By all the saints and devils I shall let the
      sea have the treasure rather than give it up to any stranger. Since it was
      the good pleasure of the Caballeros to send me off on such an errand, they
      shall learn I am just the man they take me for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud lay on the silver boxes panting. All his active sensations and
      feelings from as far back as he could remember seemed to him the maddest
      of dreams. Even his passionate devotion to Antonia into which he had
      worked himself up out of the depths of his scepticism had lost all
      appearance of reality. For a moment he was the prey of an extremely
      languid but not unpleasant indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure they didn&rsquo;t mean you to take such a desperate view of this
      affair,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it, then? A joke?&rdquo; snarled the man, who on the pay-sheets of the
      O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s establishment in Sulaco was described as &ldquo;Foreman of the
      wharf&rdquo; against the figure of his wages. &ldquo;Was it for a joke they woke me up
      from my sleep after two days of street fighting to make me stake my life
      upon a bad card? Everybody knows, too, that I am not a lucky gambler.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, everybody knows of your good luck with women, Capataz,&rdquo; Decoud
      propitiated his companion in a weary drawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, senor,&rdquo; Nostromo went on. &ldquo;I never even remonstrated about
      this affair. Directly I heard what was wanted I saw what a desperate
      affair it must be, and I made up my mind to see it out. Every minute was
      of importance. I had to wait for you first. Then, when we arrived at the
      Italia Una, old Giorgio shouted to me to go for the English doctor. Later
      on, that poor dying woman wanted to see me, as you know. Senor, I was
      reluctant to go. I felt already this cursed silver growing heavy upon my
      back, and I was afraid that, knowing herself to be dying, she would ask me
      to ride off again for a priest. Father Corbelan, who is fearless, would
      have come at a word; but Father Corbelan is far away, safe with the band
      of Hernandez, and the populace, that would have liked to tear him to
      pieces, are much incensed against the priests. Not a single fat padre
      would have consented to put his head out of his hiding-place to-night to
      save a Christian soul, except, perhaps, under my protection. That was in
      her mind. I pretended I did not believe she was going to die. Senor, I
      refused to fetch a priest for a dying woman. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud was heard to stir.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did, Capataz!&rdquo; he exclaimed. His tone changed. &ldquo;Well, you know&mdash;it
      was rather fine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not believe in priests, Don Martin? Neither do I. What was the use
      of wasting time? But she&mdash;she believes in them. The thing sticks in
      my throat. She may be dead already, and here we are floating helpless with
      no wind at all. Curse on all superstition. She died thinking I deprived
      her of Paradise, I suppose. It shall be the most desperate affair of my
      life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud remained lost in reflection. He tried to analyze the sensations
      awaked by what he had been told. The voice of the Capataz was heard again:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Don Martin, let us take up the sweeps and try to find the Isabels.
      It is either that or sinking the lighter if the day overtakes us. We must
      not forget that the steamer from Esmeralda with the soldiers may be coming
      along. We will pull straight on now. I have discovered a bit of a candle
      here, and we must take the risk of a small light to make a course by the
      boat compass. There is not enough wind to blow it out&mdash;may the curse
      of Heaven fall upon this blind gulf!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A small flame appeared burning quite straight. It showed fragmentarily the
      stout ribs and planking in the hollow, empty part of the lighter. Decoud
      could see Nostromo standing up to pull. He saw him as high as the red sash
      on his waist, with a gleam of a white-handled revolver and the wooden haft
      of a long knife protruding on his left side. Decoud nerved himself for the
      effort of rowing. Certainly there was not enough wind to blow the candle
      out, but its flame swayed a little to the slow movement of the heavy boat.
      It was so big that with their utmost efforts they could not move it
      quicker than about a mile an hour. This was sufficient, however, to sweep
      them amongst the Isabels long before daylight came. There was a good six
      hours of darkness before them, and the distance from the harbour to the
      Great Isabel did not exceed two miles. Decoud put this heavy toil to the
      account of the Capataz&rsquo;s impatience. Sometimes they paused, and then
      strained their ears to hear the boat from Esmeralda. In this perfect
      quietness a steamer moving would have been heard from far off. As to
      seeing anything it was out of the question. They could not see each other.
      Even the lighter&rsquo;s sail, which remained set, was invisible. Very often
      they rested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caramba!&rdquo; said Nostromo, suddenly, during one of those intervals when
      they lolled idly against the heavy handles of the sweeps. &ldquo;What is it? Are
      you distressed, Don Martin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud assured him that he was not distressed in the least. Nostromo for a
      time kept perfectly still, and then in a whisper invited Martin to come
      aft.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his lips touching Decoud&rsquo;s ear he declared his belief that there was
      somebody else besides themselves upon the lighter. Twice now he had heard
      the sound of stifled sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senor,&rdquo; he whispered with awed wonder, &ldquo;I am certain that there is
      somebody weeping in this lighter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud had heard nothing. He expressed his incredulity. However, it was
      easy to ascertain the truth of the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is most amazing,&rdquo; muttered Nostromo. &ldquo;Could anybody have concealed
      himself on board while the lighter was lying alongside the wharf?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you say it was like sobbing?&rdquo; asked Decoud, lowering his voice, too.
      &ldquo;If he is weeping, whoever he is he cannot be very dangerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Clambering over the precious pile in the middle, they crouched low on the
      foreside of the mast and groped under the half-deck. Right forward, in the
      narrowest part, their hands came upon the limbs of a man, who remained as
      silent as death. Too startled themselves to make a sound, they dragged him
      aft by one arm and the collar of his coat. He was limp&mdash;lifeless.
    </p>
    <p>
      The light of the bit of candle fell upon a round, hook-nosed face with
      black moustaches and little side-whiskers. He was extremely dirty. A
      greasy growth of beard was sprouting on the shaven parts of the cheeks.
      The thick lips were slightly parted, but the eyes remained closed. Decoud,
      to his immense astonishment, recognized Senor Hirsch, the hide merchant
      from Esmeralda. Nostromo, too, had recognized him. And they gazed at each
      other across the body, lying with its naked feet higher than its head, in
      an absurd pretence of sleep, faintness, or death.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHT
    </h2>
    <p>
      For a moment, before this extraordinary find, they forgot their own
      concerns and sensations. Senor Hirsch&rsquo;s sensations as he lay there must
      have been those of extreme terror. For a long time he refused to give a
      sign of life, till at last Decoud&rsquo;s objurgations, and, perhaps more,
      Nostromo&rsquo;s impatient suggestion that he should be thrown overboard, as he
      seemed to be dead, induced him to raise one eyelid first, and then the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared that he had never found a safe opportunity to leave Sulaco. He
      lodged with Anzani, the universal storekeeper, on the Plaza Mayor. But
      when the riot broke out he had made his escape from his host&rsquo;s house
      before daylight, and in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put on his
      shoes. He had run out impulsively in his socks, and with his hat in his
      hand, into the garden of Anzani&rsquo;s house. Fear gave him the necessary
      agility to climb over several low walls, and afterwards he blundered into
      the overgrown cloisters of the ruined Franciscan convent in one of the
      by-streets. He forced himself into the midst of matted bushes with the
      recklessness of desperation, and this accounted for his scratched body and
      his torn clothing. He lay hidden there all day, his tongue cleaving to the
      roof of his mouth with all the intensity of thirst engendered by heat and
      fear. Three times different bands of men invaded the place with shouts and
      imprecations, looking for Father Corbelan; but towards the evening, still
      lying on his face in the bushes, he thought he would die from the fear of
      silence. He was not very clear as to what had induced him to leave the
      place, but evidently he had got out and slunk successfully out of town
      along the deserted back lanes. He wandered in the darkness near the
      railway, so maddened by apprehension that he dared not even approach the
      fires of the pickets of Italian workmen guarding the line. He had a vague
      idea evidently of finding refuge in the railway yards, but the dogs rushed
      upon him, barking; men began to shout; a shot was fired at random. He fled
      away from the gates. By the merest accident, as it happened, he took the
      direction of the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s offices. Twice he stumbled upon the
      bodies of men killed during the day. But everything living frightened him
      much more. He crouched, crept, crawled, made dashes, guided by a sort of
      animal instinct, keeping away from every light and from every sound of
      voices. His idea was to throw himself at the feet of Captain Mitchell and
      beg for shelter in the Company&rsquo;s offices. It was all dark there as he
      approached on his hands and knees, but suddenly someone on guard
      challenged loudly, &ldquo;Quien vive?&rdquo; There were more dead men lying about, and
      he flattened himself down at once by the side of a cold corpse. He heard a
      voice saying, &ldquo;Here is one of those wounded rascals crawling about. Shall
      I go and finish him?&rdquo; And another voice objected that it was not safe to
      go out without a lantern upon such an errand; perhaps it was only some
      negro Liberal looking for a chance to stick a knife into the stomach of an
      honest man. Hirsch didn&rsquo;t stay to hear any more, but crawling away to the
      end of the wharf, hid himself amongst a lot of empty casks. After a while
      some people came along, talking, and with glowing cigarettes. He did not
      stop to ask himself whether they would be likely to do him any harm, but
      bolted incontinently along the jetty, saw a lighter lying moored at the
      end, and threw himself into it. In his desire to find cover he crept right
      forward under the half-deck, and he had remained there more dead than
      alive, suffering agonies of hunger and thirst, and almost fainting with
      terror, when he heard numerous footsteps and the voices of the Europeans
      who came in a body escorting the wagonload of treasure, pushed along the
      rails by a squad of Cargadores. He understood perfectly what was being
      done from the talk, but did not disclose his presence from the fear that
      he would not be allowed to remain. His only idea at the time, overpowering
      and masterful, was to get away from this terrible Sulaco. And now he
      regretted it very much. He had heard Nostromo talk to Decoud, and wished
      himself back on shore. He did not desire to be involved in any desperate
      affair&mdash;in a situation where one could not run away. The involuntary
      groans of his anguished spirit had betrayed him to the sharp ears of the
      Capataz.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had propped him up in a sitting posture against the side of the
      lighter, and he went on with the moaning account of his adventures till
      his voice broke, his head fell forward. &ldquo;Water,&rdquo; he whispered, with
      difficulty. Decoud held one of the cans to his lips. He revived after an
      extraordinarily short time, and scrambled up to his feet wildly. Nostromo,
      in an angry and threatening voice, ordered him forward. Hirsch was one of
      those men whom fear lashes like a whip, and he must have had an appalling
      idea of the Capataz&rsquo;s ferocity. He displayed an extraordinary agility in
      disappearing forward into the darkness. They heard him getting over the
      tarpaulin; then there was the sound of a heavy fall, followed by a weary
      sigh. Afterwards all was still in the fore-part of the lighter, as though
      he had killed himself in his headlong tumble. Nostromo shouted in a
      menacing voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lie still there! Do not move a limb. If I hear as much as a loud breath
      from you I shall come over there and put a bullet through your head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mere presence of a coward, however passive, brings an element of
      treachery into a dangerous situation. Nostromo&rsquo;s nervous impatience passed
      into gloomy thoughtfulness. Decoud, in an undertone, as if speaking to
      himself, remarked that, after all, this bizarre event made no great
      difference. He could not conceive what harm the man could do. At most he
      would be in the way, like an inanimate and useless object&mdash;like a
      block of wood, for instance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would think twice before getting rid of a piece of wood,&rdquo; said
      Nostromo, calmly. &ldquo;Something may happen unexpectedly where you could make
      use of it. But in an affair like ours a man like this ought to be thrown
      overboard. Even if he were as brave as a lion we would not want him here.
      We are not running away for our lives. Senor, there is no harm in a brave
      man trying to save himself with ingenuity and courage; but you have heard
      his tale, Don Martin. His being here is a miracle of fear&mdash;&rdquo; Nostromo
      paused. &ldquo;There is no room for fear in this lighter,&rdquo; he added through his
      teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud had no answer to make. It was not a position for argument, for a
      display of scruples or feelings. There were a thousand ways in which a
      panic-stricken man could make himself dangerous. It was evident that
      Hirsch could not be spoken to, reasoned with, or persuaded into a rational
      line of conduct. The story of his own escape demonstrated that clearly
      enough. Decoud thought that it was a thousand pities the wretch had not
      died of fright. Nature, who had made him what he was, seemed to have
      calculated cruelly how much he could bear in the way of atrocious anguish
      without actually expiring. Some compassion was due to so much terror.
      Decoud, though imaginative enough for sympathy, resolved not to interfere
      with any action that Nostromo would take. But Nostromo did nothing. And
      the fate of Senor Hirsch remained suspended in the darkness of the gulf at
      the mercy of events which could not be foreseen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz, extending his hand, put out the candle suddenly. It was to
      Decoud as if his companion had destroyed, by a single touch, the world of
      affairs, of loves, of revolution, where his complacent superiority
      analyzed fearlessly all motives and all passions, including his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gasped a little. Decoud was affected by the novelty of his position.
      Intellectually self-confident, he suffered from being deprived of the only
      weapon he could use with effect. No intelligence could penetrate the
      darkness of the Placid Gulf. There remained only one thing he was certain
      of, and that was the overweening vanity of his companion. It was direct,
      uncomplicated, naive, and effectual. Decoud, who had been making use of
      him, had tried to understand his man thoroughly. He had discovered a
      complete singleness of motive behind the varied manifestations of a
      consistent character. This was why the man remained so astonishingly
      simple in the jealous greatness of his conceit. And now there was a
      complication. It was evident that he resented having been given a task in
      which there were so many chances of failure. &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; thought Decoud,
      &ldquo;how he would behave if I were not here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He heard Nostromo mutter again, &ldquo;No! there is no room for fear on this
      lighter. Courage itself does not seem good enough. I have a good eye and a
      steady hand; no man can say he ever saw me tired or uncertain what to do;
      but por Dios, Don Martin, I have been sent out into this black calm on a
      business where neither a good eye, nor a steady hand, nor judgment are any
      use. . . .&rdquo; He swore a string of oaths in Spanish and Italian under his
      breath. &ldquo;Nothing but sheer desperation will do for this affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words were in strange contrast to the prevailing peace&mdash;to this
      almost solid stillness of the gulf. A shower fell with an abrupt
      whispering sound all round the boat, and Decoud took off his hat, and,
      letting his head get wet, felt greatly refreshed. Presently a steady
      little draught of air caressed his cheek. The lighter began to move, but
      the shower distanced it. The drops ceased to fall upon his head and hands,
      the whispering died out in the distance. Nostromo emitted a grunt of
      satisfaction, and grasping the tiller, chirruped softly, as sailors do, to
      encourage the wind. Never for the last three days had Decoud felt less the
      need for what the Capataz would call desperation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy I hear another shower on the water,&rdquo; he observed in a tone of
      quiet content. &ldquo;I hope it will catch us up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo ceased chirruping at once. &ldquo;You hear another shower?&rdquo; he said,
      doubtfully. A sort of thinning of the darkness seemed to have taken place,
      and Decoud could see now the outline of his companion&rsquo;s figure, and even
      the sail came out of the night like a square block of dense snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound which Decoud had detected came along the water harshly. Nostromo
      recognized that noise partaking of a hiss and a rustle which spreads out
      on all sides of a steamer making her way through a smooth water on a quiet
      night. It could be nothing else but the captured transport with troops
      from Esmeralda. She carried no lights. The noise of her steaming, growing
      louder every minute, would stop at times altogether, and then begin again
      abruptly, and sound startlingly nearer; as if that invisible vessel, whose
      position could not be precisely guessed, were making straight for the
      lighter. Meantime, that last kept on sailing slowly and noiselessly before
      a breeze so faint that it was only by leaning over the side and feeling
      the water slip through his fingers that Decoud convinced himself they were
      moving at all. His drowsy feeling had departed. He was glad to know that
      the lighter was moving. After so much stillness the noise of the steamer
      seemed uproarious and distracting. There was a weirdness in not being able
      to see her. Suddenly all was still. She had stopped, but so close to them
      that the steam, blowing off, sent its rumbling vibration right over their
      heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are trying to make out where they are,&rdquo; said Decoud in a whisper.
      Again he leaned over and put his fingers into the water. &ldquo;We are moving
      quite smartly,&rdquo; he informed Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We seem to be crossing her bows,&rdquo; said the Capataz in a cautious tone.
      &ldquo;But this is a blind game with death. Moving on is of no use. We mustn&rsquo;t
      be seen or heard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His whisper was hoarse with excitement. Of all his face there was nothing
      visible but a gleam of white eyeballs. His fingers gripped Decoud&rsquo;s
      shoulder. &ldquo;That is the only way to save this treasure from this steamer
      full of soldiers. Any other would have carried lights. But you observe
      there is not a gleam to show us where she is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud stood as if paralyzed; only his thoughts were wildly active. In the
      space of a second he remembered the desolate glance of Antonia as he left
      her at the bedside of her father in the gloomy house of Avellanos, with
      shuttered windows, but all the doors standing open, and deserted by all
      the servants except an old negro at the gate. He remembered the Casa Gould
      on his last visit, the arguments, the tones of his voice, the impenetrable
      attitude of Charles, Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s face so blanched with anxiety and
      fatigue that her eyes seemed to have changed colour, appearing nearly
      black by contrast. Even whole sentences of the proclamation which he meant
      to make Barrios issue from his headquarters at Cayta as soon as he got
      there passed through his mind; the very germ of the new State, the
      Separationist proclamation which he had tried before he left to read
      hurriedly to Don Jose, stretched out on his bed under the fixed gaze of
      his daughter. God knows whether the old statesman had understood it; he
      was unable to speak, but he had certainly lifted his arm off the coverlet;
      his hand had moved as if to make the sign of the cross in the air, a
      gesture of blessing, of consent. Decoud had that very draft in his pocket,
      written in pencil on several loose sheets of paper, with the
      heavily-printed heading, &ldquo;Administration of the San Tome Silver Mine.
      Sulaco. Republic of Costaguana.&rdquo; He had written it furiously, snatching
      page after page on Charles Gould&rsquo;s table. Mrs. Gould had looked several
      times over his shoulder as he wrote; but the Senor Administrador, standing
      straddle-legged, would not even glance at it when it was finished. He had
      waved it away firmly. It must have been scorn, and not caution, since he
      never made a remark about the use of the Administration&rsquo;s paper for such a
      compromising document. And that showed his disdain, the true English
      disdain of common prudence, as if everything outside the range of their
      own thoughts and feelings were unworthy of serious recognition. Decoud had
      the time in a second or two to become furiously angry with Charles Gould,
      and even resentful against Mrs. Gould, in whose care, tacitly it is true,
      he had left the safety of Antonia. Better perish a thousand times than owe
      your preservation to such people, he exclaimed mentally. The grip of
      Nostromo&rsquo;s fingers never removed from his shoulder, tightening fiercely,
      recalled him to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The darkness is our friend,&rdquo; the Capataz murmured into his ear. &ldquo;I am
      going to lower the sail, and trust our escape to this black gulf. No eyes
      could make us out lying silent with a naked mast. I will do it now, before
      this steamer closes still more upon us. The faint creak of a block would
      betray us and the San Tome treasure into the hands of those thieves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved about as warily as a cat. Decoud heard no sound; and it was only
      by the disappearance of the square blotch of darkness that he knew the
      yard had come down, lowered as carefully as if it had been made of glass.
      Next moment he heard Nostromo&rsquo;s quiet breathing by his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better not move at all from where you are, Don Martin,&rdquo; advised
      the Capataz, earnestly. &ldquo;You might stumble or displace something which
      would make a noise. The sweeps and the punting poles are lying about. Move
      not for your life. Por Dios, Don Martin,&rdquo; he went on in a keen but
      friendly whisper, &ldquo;I am so desperate that if I didn&rsquo;t know your worship to
      be a man of courage, capable of standing stock still whatever happens, I
      would drive my knife into your heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A deathlike stillness surrounded the lighter. It was difficult to believe
      that there was near a steamer full of men with many pairs of eyes peering
      from her bridge for some hint of land in the night. Her steam had ceased
      blowing off, and she remained stopped too far off apparently for any other
      sound to reach the lighter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you would, Capataz,&rdquo; Decoud began in a whisper. &ldquo;However, you
      need not trouble. There are other things than the fear of your knife to
      keep my heart steady. It shall not betray you. Only, have you forgotten&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I spoke to you openly as to a man as desperate as myself,&rdquo; explained the
      Capataz. &ldquo;The silver must be saved from the Monterists. I told Captain
      Mitchell three times that I preferred to go alone. I told Don Carlos
      Gould, too. It was in the Casa Gould. They had sent for me. The ladies
      were there; and when I tried to explain why I did not wish to have you
      with me, they promised me, both of them, great rewards for your safety. A
      strange way to talk to a man you are sending out to an almost certain
      death. Those gentlefolk do not seem to have sense enough to understand
      what they are giving one to do. I told them I could do nothing for you.
      You would have been safer with the bandit Hernandez. It would have been
      possible to ride out of the town with no greater risk than a chance shot
      sent after you in the dark. But it was as if they had been deaf. I had to
      promise I would wait for you under the harbour gate. I did wait. And now
      because you are a brave man you are as safe as the silver. Neither more
      nor less.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At that moment, as if by way of comment upon Nostromo&rsquo;s words, the
      invisible steamer went ahead at half speed only, as could be judged by the
      leisurely beat of her propeller. The sound shifted its place markedly, but
      without coming nearer. It even grew a little more distant right abeam of
      the lighter, and then ceased again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are trying for a sight of the Isabels,&rdquo; muttered Nostromo, &ldquo;in order
      to make for the harbour in a straight line and seize the Custom House with
      the treasure in it. Have you ever seen the Commandant of Esmeralda,
      Sotillo? A handsome fellow, with a soft voice. When I first came here I
      used to see him in the Calle talking to the senoritas at the windows of
      the houses, and showing his white teeth all the time. But one of my
      Cargadores, who had been a soldier, told me that he had once ordered a man
      to be flayed alive in the remote Campo, where he was sent recruiting
      amongst the people of the Estancias. It has never entered his head that
      the Compania had a man capable of baffling his game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The murmuring loquacity of the Capataz disturbed Decoud like a hint of
      weakness. And yet, talkative resolution may be as genuine as grim silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sotillo is not baffled so far,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Have you forgotten that crazy
      man forward?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had not forgotten Senor Hirsch. He reproached himself bitterly
      for not having visited the lighter carefully before leaving the wharf. He
      reproached himself for not having stabbed and flung Hirsch overboard at
      the very moment of discovery without even looking at his face. That would
      have been consistent with the desperate character of the affair. Whatever
      happened, Sotillo was already baffled. Even if that wretch, now as silent
      as death, did anything to betray the nearness of the lighter, Sotillo&mdash;if
      Sotillo it was in command of the troops on board&mdash;would be still
      baffled of his plunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have an axe in my hand,&rdquo; Nostromo whispered, wrathfully, &ldquo;that in three
      strokes would cut through the side down to the water&rsquo;s edge. Moreover,
      each lighter has a plug in the stern, and I know exactly where it is. I
      feel it under the sole of my foot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud recognized the ring of genuine determination in the nervous
      murmurs, the vindictive excitement of the famous Capataz. Before the
      steamer, guided by a shriek or two (for there could be no more than that,
      Nostromo said, gnashing his teeth audibly), could find the lighter there
      would be plenty of time to sink this treasure tied up round his neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last words he hissed into Decoud&rsquo;s ear. Decoud said nothing. He was
      perfectly convinced. The usual characteristic quietness of the man was
      gone. It was not equal to the situation as he conceived it. Something
      deeper, something unsuspected by everyone, had come to the surface.
      Decoud, with careful movements, slipped off his overcoat and divested
      himself of his boots; he did not consider himself bound in honour to sink
      with the treasure. His object was to get down to Barrios, in Cayta, as the
      Capataz knew very well; and he, too, meant, in his own way, to put into
      that attempt all the desperation of which he was capable. Nostromo
      muttered, &ldquo;True, true! You are a politician, senor. Rejoin the army, and
      start another revolution.&rdquo; He pointed out, however, that there was a
      little boat belonging to every lighter fit to carry two men, if not more.
      Theirs was towing behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of that Decoud had not been aware. Of course, it was too dark to see, and
      it was only when Nostromo put his hand upon its painter fastened to a
      cleat in the stern that he experienced a full measure of relief. The
      prospect of finding himself in the water and swimming, overwhelmed by
      ignorance and darkness, probably in a circle, till he sank from
      exhaustion, was revolting. The barren and cruel futility of such an end
      intimidated his affectation of careless pessimism. In comparison to it,
      the chance of being left floating in a boat, exposed to thirst, hunger,
      discovery, imprisonment, execution, presented itself with an aspect of
      amenity worth securing even at the cost of some self-contempt. He did not
      accept Nostromo&rsquo;s proposal that he should get into the boat at once.
      &ldquo;Something sudden may overwhelm us, senor,&rdquo; the Capataz remarked promising
      faithfully, at the same time, to let go the painter at the moment when the
      necessity became manifest.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Decoud assured him lightly that he did not mean to take to the boat
      till the very last moment, and that then he meant the Capataz to come
      along, too. The darkness of the gulf was no longer for him the end of all
      things. It was part of a living world since, pervading it, failure and
      death could be felt at your elbow. And at the same time it was a shelter.
      He exulted in its impenetrable obscurity. &ldquo;Like a wall, like a wall,&rdquo; he
      muttered to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only thing which checked his confidence was the thought of Senor
      Hirsch. Not to have bound and gagged him seemed to Decoud now the height
      of improvident folly. As long as the miserable creature had the power to
      raise a yell he was a constant danger. His abject terror was mute now, but
      there was no saying from what cause it might suddenly find vent in
      shrieks.
    </p>
    <p>
      This very madness of fear which both Decoud and Nostromo had seen in the
      wild and irrational glances, and in the continuous twitchings of his
      mouth, protected Senor Hirsch from the cruel necessities of this desperate
      affair. The moment of silencing him for ever had passed. As Nostromo
      remarked, in answer to Decoud&rsquo;s regrets, it was too late! It could not be
      done without noise, especially in the ignorance of the man&rsquo;s exact
      position. Wherever he had elected to crouch and tremble, it was too
      hazardous to go near him. He would begin probably to yell for mercy. It
      was much better to leave him quite alone since he was keeping so still.
      But to trust to his silence became every moment a greater strain upon
      Decoud&rsquo;s composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish, Capataz, you had not let the right moment pass,&rdquo; he murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! To silence him for ever? I thought it good to hear first how he
      came to be here. It was too strange. Who could imagine that it was all an
      accident? Afterwards, senor, when I saw you giving him water to drink, I
      could not do it. Not after I had seen you holding up the can to his lips
      as though he were your brother. Senor, that sort of necessity must not be
      thought of too long. And yet it would have been no cruelty to take away
      from him his wretched life. It is nothing but fear. Your compassion saved
      him then, Don Martin, and now it is too late. It couldn&rsquo;t be done without
      noise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the steamer they were keeping a perfect silence, and the stillness was
      so profound that Decoud felt as if the slightest sound conceivable must
      travel unchecked and audible to the end of the world. What if Hirsch
      coughed or sneezed? To feel himself at the mercy of such an idiotic
      contingency was too exasperating to be looked upon with irony. Nostromo,
      too, seemed to be getting restless. Was it possible, he asked himself,
      that the steamer, finding the night too dark altogether, intended to
      remain stopped where she was till daylight? He began to think that this,
      after all, was the real danger. He was afraid that the darkness, which was
      his protection, would, in the end, cause his undoing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, as Nostromo had surmised, was in command on board the transport.
      The events of the last forty-eight hours in Sulaco were not known to him;
      neither was he aware that the telegraphist in Esmeralda had managed to
      warn his colleague in Sulaco. Like a good many officers of the troops
      garrisoning the province, Sotillo had been influenced in his adoption of
      the Ribierist cause by the belief that it had the enormous wealth of the
      Gould Concession on its side. He had been one of the frequenters of the
      Casa Gould, where he had aired his Blanco convictions and his ardour for
      reform before Don Jose Avellanos, casting frank, honest glances towards
      Mrs. Gould and Antonia the while. He was known to belong to a good family
      persecuted and impoverished during the tyranny of Guzman Bento. The
      opinions he expressed appeared eminently natural and proper in a man of
      his parentage and antecedents. And he was not a deceiver; it was perfectly
      natural for him to express elevated sentiments while his whole faculties
      were taken up with what seemed then a solid and practical notion&mdash;the
      notion that the husband of Antonia Avellanos would be, naturally, the
      intimate friend of the Gould Concession. He even pointed this out to
      Anzani once, when negotiating the sixth or seventh small loan in the
      gloomy, damp apartment with enormous iron bars, behind the principal shop
      in the whole row under the Arcades. He hinted to the universal shopkeeper
      at the excellent terms he was on with the emancipated senorita, who was
      like a sister to the Englishwoman. He would advance one leg and put his
      arms akimbo, posing for Anzani&rsquo;s inspection, and fixing him with a haughty
      stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, miserable shopkeeper! How can a man like me fail with any woman,
      let alone an emancipated girl living in scandalous freedom?&rdquo; he seemed to
      say.
    </p>
    <p>
      His manner in the Casa Gould was, of course, very different&mdash;devoid
      of all truculence, and even slightly mournful. Like most of his
      countrymen, he was carried away by the sound of fine words, especially if
      uttered by himself. He had no convictions of any sort upon anything except
      as to the irresistible power of his personal advantages. But that was so
      firm that even Decoud&rsquo;s appearance in Sulaco, and his intimacy with the
      Goulds and the Avellanos, did not disquiet him. On the contrary, he tried
      to make friends with that rich Costaguanero from Europe in the hope of
      borrowing a large sum by-and-by. The only guiding motive of his life was
      to get money for the satisfaction of his expensive tastes, which he
      indulged recklessly, having no self-control. He imagined himself a master
      of intrigue, but his corruption was as simple as an animal instinct. At
      times, in solitude, he had his moments of ferocity, and also on such
      occasions as, for instance, when alone in a room with Anzani trying to get
      a loan.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had talked himself into the command of the Esmeralda garrison. That
      small seaport had its importance as the station of the main submarine
      cable connecting the Occidental Provinces with the outer world, and the
      junction with it of the Sulaco branch. Don Jose Avellanos proposed him,
      and Barrios, with a rude and jeering guffaw, had said, &ldquo;Oh, let Sotillo
      go. He is a very good man to keep guard over the cable, and the ladies of
      Esmeralda ought to have their turn.&rdquo; Barrios, an indubitably brave man,
      had no great opinion of Sotillo.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was through the Esmeralda cable alone that the San Tome mine could be
      kept in constant touch with the great financier, whose tacit approval made
      the strength of the Ribierist movement. This movement had its adversaries
      even there. Sotillo governed Esmeralda with repressive severity till the
      adverse course of events upon the distant theatre of civil war forced upon
      him the reflection that, after all, the great silver mine was fated to
      become the spoil of the victors. But caution was necessary. He began by
      assuming a dark and mysterious attitude towards the faithful Ribierist
      municipality of Esmeralda. Later on, the information that the commandant
      was holding assemblies of officers in the dead of night (which had leaked
      out somehow) caused those gentlemen to neglect their civil duties
      altogether, and remain shut up in their houses. Suddenly one day all the
      letters from Sulaco by the overland courier were carried off by a file of
      soldiers from the post office to the Commandancia, without disguise,
      concealment, or apology. Sotillo had heard through Cayta of the final
      defeat of Ribiera.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the first open sign of the change in his convictions. Presently
      notorious democrats, who had been living till then in constant fear of
      arrest, leg irons, and even floggings, could be observed going in and out
      at the great door of the Commandancia, where the horses of the orderlies
      doze under their heavy saddles, while the men, in ragged uniforms and
      pointed straw hats, lounge on a bench, with their naked feet stuck out
      beyond the strip of shade; and a sentry, in a red baize coat with holes at
      the elbows, stands at the top of the steps glaring haughtily at the common
      people, who uncover their heads to him as they pass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo&rsquo;s ideas did not soar above the care for his personal safety and
      the chance of plundering the town in his charge, but he feared that such a
      late adhesion would earn but scant gratitude from the victors. He had
      believed just a little too long in the power of the San Tome mine. The
      seized correspondence had confirmed his previous information of a large
      amount of silver ingots lying in the Sulaco Custom House. To gain
      possession of it would be a clear Monterist move; a sort of service that
      would have to be rewarded. With the silver in his hands he could make
      terms for himself and his soldiers. He was aware neither of the riots, nor
      of the President&rsquo;s escape to Sulaco and the close pursuit led by Montero&rsquo;s
      brother, the guerrillero. The game seemed in his own hands. The initial
      moves were the seizure of the cable telegraph office and the securing of
      the Government steamer lying in the narrow creek which is the harbour of
      Esmeralda. The last was effected without difficulty by a company of
      soldiers swarming with a rush over the gangways as she lay alongside the
      quay; but the lieutenant charged with the duty of arresting the
      telegraphist halted on the way before the only cafe in Esmeralda, where he
      distributed some brandy to his men, and refreshed himself at the expense
      of the owner, a known Ribierist. The whole party became intoxicated, and
      proceeded on their mission up the street yelling and firing random shots
      at the windows. This little festivity, which might have turned out
      dangerous to the telegraphist&rsquo;s life, enabled him in the end to send his
      warning to Sulaco. The lieutenant, staggering upstairs with a drawn sabre,
      was before long kissing him on both cheeks in one of those swift changes
      of mood peculiar to a state of drunkenness. He clasped the telegraphist
      close round the neck, assuring him that all the officers of the Esmeralda
      garrison were going to be made colonels, while tears of happiness streamed
      down his sodden face. Thus it came about that the town major, coming along
      later, found the whole party sleeping on the stairs and in passages, and
      the telegraphist (who scorned this chance of escape) very busy clicking
      the key of the transmitter. The major led him away bareheaded, with his
      hands tied behind his back, but concealed the truth from Sotillo, who
      remained in ignorance of the warning despatched to Sulaco.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel was not the man to let any sort of darkness stand in the way
      of the planned surprise. It appeared to him a dead certainty; his heart
      was set upon his object with an ungovernable, childlike impatience. Ever
      since the steamer had rounded Punta Mala, to enter the deeper shadow of
      the gulf, he had remained on the bridge in a group of officers as excited
      as himself. Distracted between the coaxings and menaces of Sotillo and his
      Staff, the miserable commander of the steamer kept her moving with as much
      prudence as they would let him exercise. Some of them had been drinking
      heavily, no doubt; but the prospect of laying hands on so much wealth made
      them absurdly foolhardy, and, at the same time, extremely anxious. The old
      major of the battalion, a stupid, suspicious man, who had never been
      afloat in his life, distinguished himself by putting out suddenly the
      binnacle light, the only one allowed on board for the necessities of
      navigation. He could not understand of what use it could be for finding
      the way. To the vehement protestations of the ship&rsquo;s captain, he stamped
      his foot and tapped the handle of his sword. &ldquo;Aha! I have unmasked you,&rdquo;
       he cried, triumphantly. &ldquo;You are tearing your hair from despair at my
      acuteness. Am I a child to believe that a light in that brass box can show
      you where the harbour is? I am an old soldier, I am. I can smell a traitor
      a league off. You wanted that gleam to betray our approach to your friend
      the Englishman. A thing like that show you the way! What a miserable lie!
      Que picardia! You Sulaco people are all in the pay of those foreigners.
      You deserve to be run through the body with my sword.&rdquo; Other officers,
      crowding round, tried to calm his indignation, repeating persuasively,
      &ldquo;No, no! This is an appliance of the mariners, major. This is no
      treachery.&rdquo; The captain of the transport flung himself face downwards on
      the bridge, and refused to rise. &ldquo;Put an end to me at once,&rdquo; he repeated
      in a stifled voice. Sotillo had to interfere.
    </p>
    <p>
      The uproar and confusion on the bridge became so great that the helmsman
      fled from the wheel. He took refuge in the engine-room, and alarmed the
      engineers, who, disregarding the threats of the soldiers set on guard over
      them, stopped the engines, protesting that they would rather be shot than
      run the risk of being drowned down below.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the first time Nostromo and Decoud heard the steamer stop. After
      order had been restored, and the binnacle lamp relighted, she went ahead
      again, passing wide of the lighter in her search for the Isabels. The
      group could not be made out, and, at the pitiful entreaties of the
      captain, Sotillo allowed the engines to be stopped again to wait for one
      of those periodical lightenings of darkness caused by the shifting of the
      cloud canopy spread above the waters of the gulf.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, on the bridge, muttered from time to time angrily to the captain.
      The other, in an apologetic and cringing tone, begged su merced the
      colonel to take into consideration the limitations put upon human
      faculties by the darkness of the night. Sotillo swelled with rage and
      impatience. It was the chance of a lifetime.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your eyes are of no more use to you than this, I shall have them put
      out,&rdquo; he yelled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain of the steamer made no answer, for just then the mass of the
      Great Isabel loomed up darkly after a passing shower, then vanished, as if
      swept away by a wave of greater obscurity preceding another downpour. This
      was enough for him. In the voice of a man come back to life again, he
      informed Sotillo that in an hour he would be alongside the Sulaco wharf.
      The ship was put then full speed on the course, and a great bustle of
      preparation for landing arose among the soldiers on her deck.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was heard distinctly by Decoud and Nostromo. The Capataz understood its
      meaning. They had made out the Isabels, and were going on now in a
      straight line for Sulaco. He judged that they would pass close; but
      believed that lying still like this, with the sail lowered, the lighter
      could not be seen. &ldquo;No, not even if they rubbed sides with us,&rdquo; he
      muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rain began to fall again; first like a wet mist, then with a heavier
      touch, thickening into a smart, perpendicular downpour; and the hiss and
      thump of the approaching steamer was coming extremely near. Decoud, with
      his eyes full of water, and lowered head, asked himself how long it would
      be before she drew past, when unexpectedly he felt a lurch. An inrush of
      foam broke swishing over the stern, simultaneously with a crack of timbers
      and a staggering shock. He had the impression of an angry hand laying hold
      of the lighter and dragging it along to destruction. The shock, of course,
      had knocked him down, and he found himself rolling in a lot of water at
      the bottom of the lighter. A violent churning went on alongside; a strange
      and amazed voice cried out something above him in the night. He heard a
      piercing shriek for help from Senor Hirsch. He kept his teeth hard set all
      the time. It was a collision!
    </p>
    <p>
      The steamer had struck the lighter obliquely, heeling her over till she
      was half swamped, starting some of her timbers, and swinging her head
      parallel to her own course with the force of the blow. The shock of it on
      board of her was hardly perceptible. All the violence of that collision
      was, as usual, felt only on board the smaller craft. Even Nostromo himself
      thought that this was perhaps the end of his desperate adventure. He, too,
      had been flung away from the long tiller, which took charge in the lurch.
      Next moment the steamer would have passed on, leaving the lighter to sink
      or swim after having shouldered her thus out of her way, and without even
      getting a glimpse of her form, had it not been that, being deeply laden
      with stores and the great number of people on board, her anchor was low
      enough to hook itself into one of the wire shrouds of the lighter&rsquo;s mast.
      For the space of two or three gasping breaths that new rope held against
      the sudden strain. It was this that gave Decoud the sensation of the
      snatching pull, dragging the lighter away to destruction. The cause of it,
      of course, was inexplicable to him. The whole thing was so sudden that he
      had no time to think. But all his sensations were perfectly clear; he had
      kept complete possession of himself; in fact, he was even pleasantly aware
      of that calmness at the very moment of being pitched head first over the
      transom, to struggle on his back in a lot of water. Senor Hirsch&rsquo;s shriek
      he had heard and recognized while he was regaining his feet, always with
      that mysterious sensation of being dragged headlong through the darkness.
      Not a word, not a cry escaped him; he had no time to see anything; and
      following upon the despairing screams for help, the dragging motion ceased
      so suddenly that he staggered forward with open arms and fell against the
      pile of the treasure boxes. He clung to them instinctively, in the vague
      apprehension of being flung about again; and immediately he heard another
      lot of shrieks for help, prolonged and despairing, not near him at all,
      but unaccountably in the distance, away from the lighter altogether, as if
      some spirit in the night were mocking at Senor Hirsch&rsquo;s terror and
      despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then all was still&mdash;as still as when you wake up in your bed in a
      dark room from a bizarre and agitated dream. The lighter rocked slightly;
      the rain was still falling. Two groping hands took hold of his bruised
      sides from behind, and the Capataz&rsquo;s voice whispered, in his ear,
      &ldquo;Silence, for your life! Silence! The steamer has stopped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Decoud listened. The gulf was dumb. He felt the water nearly up to his
      knees. &ldquo;Are we sinking?&rdquo; he asked in a faint breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; Nostromo breathed back to him. &ldquo;Senor, make not the
      slightest sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hirsch, when ordered forward by Nostromo, had not returned into his first
      hiding-place. He had fallen near the mast, and had no strength to rise;
      moreover, he feared to move. He had given himself up for dead, but not on
      any rational grounds. It was simply a cruel and terrifying feeling.
      Whenever he tried to think what would become of him his teeth would start
      chattering violently. He was too absorbed in the utter misery of his fear
      to take notice of anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though he was stifling under the lighter&rsquo;s sail which Nostromo had
      unwittingly lowered on top of him, he did not even dare to put out his
      head till the very moment of the steamer striking. Then, indeed, he leaped
      right out, spurred on to new miracles of bodily vigour by this new shape
      of danger. The inrush of water when the lighter heeled over unsealed his
      lips. His shriek, &ldquo;Save me!&rdquo; was the first distinct warning of the
      collision for the people on board the steamer. Next moment the wire shroud
      parted, and the released anchor swept over the lighter&rsquo;s forecastle. It
      came against the breast of Senor Hirsch, who simply seized hold of it,
      without in the least knowing what it was, but curling his arms and legs
      upon the part above the fluke with an invincible, unreasonable tenacity.
      The lighter yawed off wide, and the steamer, moving on, carried him away,
      clinging hard, and shouting for help. It was some time, however, after the
      steamer had stopped that his position was discovered. His sustained
      yelping for help seemed to come from somebody swimming in the water. At
      last a couple of men went over the bows and hauled him on board. He was
      carried straight off to Sotillo on the bridge. His examination confirmed
      the impression that some craft had been run over and sunk, but it was
      impracticable on such a dark night to look for the positive proof of
      floating wreckage. Sotillo was more anxious than ever now to enter the
      harbour without loss of time; the idea that he had destroyed the principal
      object of his expedition was too intolerable to be accepted. This feeling
      made the story he had heard appear the more incredible. Senor Hirsch,
      after being beaten a little for telling lies, was thrust into the
      chartroom. But he was beaten only a little. His tale had taken the heart
      out of Sotillo&rsquo;s Staff, though they all repeated round their chief,
      &ldquo;Impossible! impossible!&rdquo; with the exception of the old major, who
      triumphed gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you; I told you,&rdquo; he mumbled. &ldquo;I could smell some treachery, some
      diableria a league off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the steamer had kept on her way towards Sulaco, where only the
      truth of that matter could be ascertained. Decoud and Nostromo heard the
      loud churning of her propeller diminish and die out; and then, with no
      useless words, busied themselves in making for the Isabels. The last
      shower had brought with it a gentle but steady breeze. The danger was not
      over yet, and there was no time for talk. The lighter was leaking like a
      sieve. They splashed in the water at every step. The Capataz put into
      Decoud&rsquo;s hands the handle of the pump which was fitted at the side aft,
      and at once, without question or remark, Decoud began to pump in utter
      forgetfulness of every desire but that of keeping the treasure afloat.
      Nostromo hoisted the sail, flew back to the tiller, pulled at the sheet
      like mad. The short flare of a match (they had been kept dry in a tight
      tin box, though the man himself was completely wet), disclosed to the
      toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the
      compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was,
      and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where
      the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts
      by a deep and overgrown ravine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for
      a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if
      utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was
      nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter
      must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the
      crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely
      estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision
      that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both.
      This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in
      character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision
      of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely
      two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same
      imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each
      other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they
      shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz
      made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island&rsquo;s shape and
      the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens
      between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the
      bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two
      men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious
      freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the
      bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below
      the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling
      column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone,
      exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was
      done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the
      low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware
      of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Nostromo repeated, &ldquo;I never forget a place I have carefully looked
      at once.&rdquo; He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole
      leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before
      daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this
      improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step,
      upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial
      failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had
      known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His
      vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never know what may be of use,&rdquo; he pursued with his usual quietness
      of tone and manner. &ldquo;I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this
      crumb of land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A misanthropic sort of occupation,&rdquo; muttered Decoud, viciously. &ldquo;You had
      no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls
      in your usual haunts, Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>E vero!</i>&rdquo; exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his
      native tongue by so much perspicacity. &ldquo;I had not! Therefore I did not
      want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It
      is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men,
      and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don&rsquo;t care
      for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having
      opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn&rsquo;t look at any one of
      them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good
      people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by
      listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was
      in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular
      Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I
      would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my
      chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a
      woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a
      single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and
      pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my
      pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this
      rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both
      before and after a smoke.&rdquo; He was silent for a while, then added
      reflectively, &ldquo;That was the first Sunday after I brought down the
      white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the
      Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass&mdash;and in the coach, too! No
      coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man,
      senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like
      one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the
      rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway.
      He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the
      month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the
      brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among
      the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often
      happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night
      had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards
      the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly,
      half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away
      like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel
      Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in
      the very opening of the ravine.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from
      Nostromo&rsquo;s hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put
      on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy
      which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes.
      It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a
      prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s mail
      boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north.
      But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up
      north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer
      down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as
      far as the Minerva&rsquo;s officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of
      the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as
      far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that.
      The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his
      head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked
      much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the
      harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades
      which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting
      ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough
      to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the
      cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as
      if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but
      even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and
      even the broken bushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?&rdquo;
       Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot.
      &ldquo;Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this
      piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The
      people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here
      to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf
      goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this
      island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for
      Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut
      your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And,
      senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the
      officers of the Company&rsquo;s steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty
      alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence
      in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a
      confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of
      years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal
      that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible
      metal,&rdquo; he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As some men are said to be,&rdquo; Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the
      Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden
      bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash.
      Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with
      general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous
      vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every
      virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped
      the bucket with a clatter into the lighter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any message?&rdquo; he asked in a lowered voice. &ldquo;Remember, I shall be
      asked questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in
      town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You
      understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, senor. . . . For the ladies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said Decoud, hastily. &ldquo;Your wonderful reputation will make
      them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say.
      I am looking forward,&rdquo; he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt
      for himself to which his complex nature was subject, &ldquo;I am looking forward
      to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz?
      Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your
      own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have
      indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but
      probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo detected the ironic tone. &ldquo;I dare say, Senor Don Martin,&rdquo; he
      said, moodily. &ldquo;There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the
      foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what
      you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that
      I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. &ldquo;Shall I go
      back with you to Sulaco?&rdquo; he asked in an angry tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?&rdquo; retorted
      Nostromo, contemptuously. &ldquo;It would be the same thing as taking you to
      Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is
      bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been
      no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me,&rdquo; Decoud almost
      shouted. &ldquo;You would have gone to the bottom with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; uttered Nostromo, slowly; &ldquo;alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have
      preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a
      man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on
      board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar,
      and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A
      sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The
      lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she
      floated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think has become of Hirsch?&rdquo; he shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knocked overboard and drowned,&rdquo; cried Nostromo&rsquo;s voice confidently out of
      the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. &ldquo;Keep close in the
      ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It
      filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went
      back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time
      at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged
      into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head
      again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed
      heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while
      the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality
      affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of
      the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo&rsquo;s
      faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to
      keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to
      imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter
      of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out
      in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed
      in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and
      running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and
      certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had
      left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo&rsquo;s intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this
      thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind
      and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would
      raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on
      the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there
      was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted
      himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its
      white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by
      the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at
      once.
    </p>
    <p>
      He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal
      of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance,
      and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in
      loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every
      lighter carried a little iron ballast&mdash;enough to make her go down
      when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the
      Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out
      the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair,
      and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an
      easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned
      fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a
      good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless
      nights.
    </p>
    <p>
      With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the
      plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the
      water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the
      taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only,
      he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a
      mighty splash.
    </p>
    <p>
      At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the
      mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a
      dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish,
      as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ONE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in
      the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare
      for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from
      the mountains, as well as from the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted
      action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the
      newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the
      calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain
      Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the
      planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The
      engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian
      workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House,
      so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four
      winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully
      during the famous &ldquo;three days&rdquo; of Sulaco. In a great part this
      faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather
      than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had
      pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been
      the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for
      Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the
      country had been uniformly bad from the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola&rsquo;s kitchen, observed this
      retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of
      the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their
      penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front
      of the house, made the letters of the inscription, &ldquo;Albergo d&rsquo;ltalia Una,&rdquo;
       leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the
      clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob
      of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels,
      nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known
      character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the
      flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Withdrawing your people from the harbour?&rdquo; said the doctor, addressing
      himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles
      Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse,
      with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open
      door to let the workmen cross the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As quick as I can. We are not a political faction,&rdquo; answered the
      engineer, meaningly. &ldquo;And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle
      against the railway. You approve me, Gould?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absolutely,&rdquo; said Charles Gould&rsquo;s impassive voice, high up and outside
      the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door.
    </p>
    <p>
      With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the
      engineer-in-chief&rsquo;s only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either.
      Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great
      accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its
      property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and
      in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the
      self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and
      Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on
      that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table
      linen of the Amarilla Club.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy
      all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time
      to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to
      them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The
      brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected
      at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out
      of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo
      Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him
      effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. &ldquo;I have misled
      them a little as to the time,&rdquo; the chief engineer confessed. &ldquo;However hard
      he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is
      attained. I&rsquo;ve secured several hours&rsquo; peace for the losing party. But I
      did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into
      their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him
      or welcome him&mdash;there&rsquo;s no saying which. There was Gould&rsquo;s silver, on
      which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud&rsquo;s retreat had to be thought
      of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without
      compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to
      themselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Costaguana for the Costaguaneros,&rdquo; interjected the doctor, sardonically.
      &ldquo;It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates,
      vengeance, murder, and rapine&mdash;those sons of the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am one of them,&rdquo; Charles Gould&rsquo;s voice sounded, calmly, &ldquo;and I
      must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven
      straight on, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor
      indoors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That man is calmness personified,&rdquo; he said, appreciatively, dropping on a
      bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly
      across the doorway. &ldquo;He must be extremely sure of himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that&rsquo;s all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing,&rdquo; said the
      doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed
      his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow.
      &ldquo;It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of.&rdquo; The candle,
      half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below
      his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in
      the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful
      bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister
      things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really don&rsquo;t see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that
      sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of
      Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs.
      Gould&rsquo;s drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no
      doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in
      the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored.
      But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his
      hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man&rsquo;s
      character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had
      been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of
      the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and
      trusted by the fierce old Dictator.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the
      innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream
      is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and
      troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that
      he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering
      with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior
      where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless
      wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for
      science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his
      battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in
      casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the
      arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up
      the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage
      independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger
      that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with
      Charles Gould&rsquo;s father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the
      dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine
      he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not
      unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken
      scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the
      bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account,
      vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace
      and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great
      Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the
      conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of
      the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted
      in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the
      diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to
      betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned
      and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years,
      decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of
      sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don
      Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of
      those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he,
      with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was
      wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever
      the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould
      Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his
      peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had
      lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had
      come to look upon the Albergo d&rsquo;ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway.
      Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s interest
      in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The
      engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated
      the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His
      austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of
      faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to
      fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or
      less large share of booty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor old chap!&rdquo; he said, after he had heard the doctor&rsquo;s account of
      Teresa. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall
      be sorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s quite alone up there,&rdquo; grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his
      heavy head towards the narrow staircase. &ldquo;Every living soul has cleared
      out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be
      over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can
      do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as
      I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no
      difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether
      anything happens to-night at the harbour,&rdquo; declared the engineer-in-chief.
      &ldquo;He must not be molested by Sotillo&rsquo;s soldiery, who may push on as far as
      this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds&rsquo; and at
      the club. How that man&rsquo;ll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the
      face I can&rsquo;t imagine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll no doubt begin by shooting some of them to get over the first
      awkwardness,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;Nothing in this country serves better your
      military man who has changed sides than a few summary executions.&rdquo; He
      spoke with a gloomy positiveness that left no room for protest. The
      engineer-in-chief did not attempt any. He simply nodded several times
      regretfully, then said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think we shall be able to mount you in the morning, doctor. Our peons
      have recovered some of our stampeded horses. By riding hard and taking a
      wide circuit by Los Hatos and along the edge of the forest, clear of
      Rincon altogether, you may hope to reach the San Tome bridge without being
      interfered with. The mine is just now, to my mind, the safest place for
      anybody at all compromised. I only wish the railway was as difficult to
      touch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I compromised?&rdquo; Doctor Monygham brought out slowly after a short
      silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The whole Gould Concession is compromised. It could not have remained for
      ever outside the political life of the country&mdash;if those convulsions
      may be called life. The thing is&mdash;can it be touched? The moment was
      bound to come when neutrality would become impossible, and Charles Gould
      understood this well. I believe he is prepared for every extremity. A man
      of his sort has never contemplated remaining indefinitely at the mercy of
      ignorance and corruption. It was like being a prisoner in a cavern of
      banditti with the price of your ransom in your pocket, and buying your
      life from day to day. Your mere safety, not your liberty, mind, doctor. I
      know what I am talking about. The image at which you shrug your shoulders
      is perfectly correct, especially if you conceive such a prisoner endowed
      with the power of replenishing his pocket by means as remote from the
      faculties of his captors as if they were magic. You must have understood
      that as well as I do, doctor. He was in the position of the goose with the
      golden eggs. I broached this matter to him as far back as Sir John&rsquo;s visit
      here. The prisoner of stupid and greedy banditti is always at the mercy of
      the first imbecile ruffian, who may blow out his brains in a fit of temper
      or for some prospect of an immediate big haul. The tale of killing the
      goose with the golden eggs has not been evolved for nothing out of the
      wisdom of mankind. It is a story that will never grow old. That is why
      Charles Gould in his deep, dumb way has countenanced the Ribierist
      Mandate, the first public act that promised him safety on other than venal
      grounds. Ribierism has failed, as everything merely rational fails in this
      country. But Gould remains logical in wishing to save this big lot of
      silver. Decoud&rsquo;s plan of a counter-revolution may be practicable or not,
      it may have a chance, or it may not have a chance. With all my experience
      of this revolutionary continent, I can hardly yet look at their methods
      seriously. Decoud has been reading to us his draft of a proclamation, and
      talking very well for two hours about his plan of action. He had arguments
      which should have appeared solid enough if we, members of old, stable
      political and national organizations, were not startled by the mere idea
      of a new State evolved like this out of the head of a scoffing young man
      fleeing for his life, with a proclamation in his pocket, to a rough,
      jeering, half-bred swashbuckler, who in this part of the world is called a
      general. It sounds like a comic fairy tale&mdash;and behold, it may come
      off; because it is true to the very spirit of the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the silver gone off, then?&rdquo; asked the doctor, moodily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chief engineer pulled out his watch. &ldquo;By Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s reckoning&mdash;and
      he ought to know&mdash;it has been gone long enough now to be some three
      or four miles outside the harbour; and, as Mitchell says, Nostromo is the
      sort of seaman to make the best of his opportunities.&rdquo; Here the doctor
      grunted so heavily that the other changed his tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a poor opinion of that move, doctor? But why? Charles Gould has
      got to play his game out, though he is not the man to formulate his
      conduct even to himself, perhaps, let alone to others. It may be that the
      game has been partly suggested to him by Holroyd; but it accords with his
      character, too; and that is why it has been so successful. Haven&rsquo;t they
      come to calling him &lsquo;El Rey de Sulaco&rsquo; in Sta. Marta? A nickname may be
      the best record of a success. That&rsquo;s what I call putting the face of a
      joke upon the body of a truth. My dear sir, when I first arrived in Sta.
      Marta I was struck by the way all those journalists, demagogues, members
      of Congress, and all those generals and judges cringed before a
      sleepy-eyed advocate without practice simply because he was the
      plenipotentiary of the Gould Concession. Sir John when he came out was
      impressed, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A new State, with that plump dandy, Decoud, for the first President,&rdquo;
       mused Dr. Monygham, nursing his cheek and swinging his legs all the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my word, and why not?&rdquo; the chief engineer retorted in an
      unexpectedly earnest and confidential voice. It was as if something subtle
      in the air of Costaguana had inoculated him with the local faith in
      &ldquo;pronunciamientos.&rdquo; All at once he began to talk, like an expert
      revolutionist, of the instrument ready to hand in the intact army at
      Cayta, which could be brought back in a few days to Sulaco if only Decoud
      managed to make his way at once down the coast. For the military chief
      there was Barrios, who had nothing but a bullet to expect from Montero,
      his former professional rival and bitter enemy. Barrios&rsquo;s concurrence was
      assured. As to his army, it had nothing to expect from Montero either; not
      even a month&rsquo;s pay. From that point of view the existence of the treasure
      was of enormous importance. The mere knowledge that it had been saved from
      the Monterists would be a strong inducement for the Cayta troops to
      embrace the cause of the new State.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor turned round and contemplated his companion for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This Decoud, I see, is a persuasive young beggar,&rdquo; he remarked at last.
      &ldquo;And pray is it for this, then, that Charles Gould has let the whole lot
      of ingots go out to sea in charge of that Nostromo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles Gould,&rdquo; said the engineer-in-chief, &ldquo;has said no more about his
      motive than usual. You know, he doesn&rsquo;t talk. But we all here know his
      motive, and he has only one&mdash;the safety of the San Tome mine with the
      preservation of the Gould Concession in the spirit of his compact with
      Holroyd. Holroyd is another uncommon man. They understand each other&rsquo;s
      imaginative side. One is thirty, the other nearly sixty, and they have
      been made for each other. To be a millionaire, and such a millionaire as
      Holroyd, is like being eternally young. The audacity of youth reckons upon
      what it fancies an unlimited time at its disposal; but a millionaire has
      unlimited means in his hand&mdash;which is better. One&rsquo;s time on earth is
      an uncertain quantity, but about the long reach of millions there is no
      doubt. The introduction of a pure form of Christianity into this continent
      is a dream for a youthful enthusiast, and I have been trying to explain to
      you why Holroyd at fifty-eight is like a man on the threshold of life, and
      better, too. He&rsquo;s not a missionary, but the San Tome mine holds just that
      for him. I assure you, in sober truth, that he could not manage to keep
      this out of a strictly business conference upon the finances of Costaguana
      he had with Sir John a couple of years ago. Sir John mentioned it with
      amazement in a letter he wrote to me here, from San Francisco, when on his
      way home. Upon my word, doctor, things seem to be worth nothing by what
      they are in themselves. I begin to believe that the only solid thing about
      them is the spiritual value which everyone discovers in his own form of
      activity&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; interrupted the doctor, without stopping for an instant the idle
      swinging movement of his legs. &ldquo;Self-flattery. Food for that vanity which
      makes the world go round. Meantime, what do you think is going to happen
      to the treasure floating about the gulf with the great Capataz and the
      great politician?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you uneasy about it, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I uneasy! And what the devil is it to me? I put no spiritual value into
      my desires, or my opinions, or my actions. They have not enough vastness
      to give me room for self-flattery. Look, for instance, I should certainly
      have liked to ease the last moments of that poor woman. And I can&rsquo;t. It&rsquo;s
      impossible. Have you met the impossible face to face&mdash;or have you,
      the Napoleon of railways, no such word in your dictionary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she bound to have a very bad time of it?&rdquo; asked the chief engineer,
      with humane concern.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slow, heavy footsteps moved across the planks above the heavy hard wood
      beams of the kitchen. Then down the narrow opening of the staircase made
      in the thickness of the wall, and narrow enough to be defended by one man
      against twenty enemies, came the murmur of two voices, one faint and
      broken, the other deep and gentle answering it, and in its graver tone
      covering the weaker sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two men remained still and silent till the murmurs ceased, then the
      doctor shrugged his shoulders and muttered&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, she&rsquo;s bound to. And I could do nothing if I went up now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A long period of silence above and below ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy,&rdquo; began the engineer, in a subdued voice, &ldquo;that you mistrust
      Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mistrust him!&rdquo; muttered the doctor through his teeth. &ldquo;I believe him
      capable of anything&mdash;even of the most absurd fidelity. I am the last
      person he spoke to before he left the wharf, you know. The poor woman up
      there wanted to see him, and I let him go up to her. The dying must not be
      contradicted, you know. She seemed then fairly calm and resigned, but the
      scoundrel in those ten minutes or so has done or said something which
      seems to have driven her into despair. You know,&rdquo; went on the doctor,
      hesitatingly, &ldquo;women are so very unaccountable in every position, and at
      all times of life, that I thought sometimes she was in a way, don&rsquo;t you
      see? in love with him&mdash;the Capataz. The rascal has his own charm
      indubitably, or he would not have made the conquest of all the populace of
      the town. No, no, I am not absurd. I may have given a wrong name to some
      strong sentiment for him on her part, to an unreasonable and simple
      attitude a woman is apt to take up emotionally towards a man. She used to
      abuse him to me frequently, which, of course, is not inconsistent with my
      idea. Not at all. It looked to me as if she were always thinking of him.
      He was something important in her life. You know, I have seen a lot of
      those people. Whenever I came down from the mine Mrs. Gould used to ask me
      to keep my eye on them. She likes Italians; she has lived a long time in
      Italy, I believe, and she took a special fancy to that old Garibaldino. A
      remarkable chap enough. A rugged and dreamy character, living in the
      republicanism of his young days as if in a cloud. He has encouraged much
      of the Capataz&rsquo;s confounded nonsense&mdash;the high-strung, exalted old
      beggar!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of nonsense?&rdquo; wondered the chief engineer. &ldquo;I found the Capataz
      always a very shrewd and sensible fellow, absolutely fearless, and
      remarkably useful. A perfect handy man. Sir John was greatly impressed by
      his resourcefulness and attention when he made that overland journey from
      Sta. Marta. Later on, as you might have heard, he rendered us a service by
      disclosing to the then chief of police the presence in the town of some
      professional thieves, who came from a distance to wreck and rob our
      monthly pay train. He has certainly organized the lighterage service of
      the harbour for the O.S.N. Company with great ability. He knows how to
      make himself obeyed, foreigner though he is. It is true that the
      Cargadores are strangers here, too, for the most part&mdash;immigrants,
      Islenos.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His prestige is his fortune,&rdquo; muttered the doctor, sourly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The man has proved his trustworthiness up to the hilt on innumerable
      occasions and in all sorts of ways,&rdquo; argued the engineer. &ldquo;When this
      question of the silver arose, Captain Mitchell naturally was very warmly
      of the opinion that his Capataz was the only man fit for the trust. As a
      sailor, of course, I suppose so. But as a man, don&rsquo;t you know, Gould,
      Decoud, and myself judged that it didn&rsquo;t matter in the least who went. Any
      boatman would have done just as well. Pray, what could a thief do with
      such a lot of ingots? If he ran off with them he would have in the end to
      land somewhere, and how could he conceal his cargo from the knowledge of
      the people ashore? We dismissed that consideration from our minds.
      Moreover, Decoud was going. There have been occasions when the Capataz has
      been more implicitly trusted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He took a slightly different view,&rdquo; the doctor said. &ldquo;I heard him declare
      in this very room that it would be the most desperate affair of his life.
      He made a sort of verbal will here in my hearing, appointing old Viola his
      executor; and, by Jove! do you know, he&mdash;he&rsquo;s not grown rich by his
      fidelity to you good people of the railway and the harbour. I suppose he
      obtains some&mdash;how do you say that?&mdash;some spiritual value for his
      labours, or else I don&rsquo;t know why the devil he should be faithful to you,
      Gould, Mitchell, or anybody else. He knows this country well. He knows,
      for instance, that Gamacho, the Deputy from Javira, has been nothing else
      but a &lsquo;tramposo&rsquo; of the commonest sort, a petty pedlar of the Campo, till
      he managed to get enough goods on credit from Anzani to open a little
      store in the wilds, and got himself elected by the drunken mozos that hang
      about the Estancias and the poorest sort of rancheros who were in his
      debt. And Gamacho, who to-morrow will be probably one of our high
      officials, is a stranger, too&mdash;an Isleno. He might have been a
      Cargador on the O. S. N. wharf had he not (the posadero of Rincon is ready
      to swear it) murdered a pedlar in the woods and stolen his pack to begin
      life on. And do you think that Gamacho, then, would have ever become a
      hero with the democracy of this place, like our Capataz? Of course not. He
      isn&rsquo;t half the man. No; decidedly, I think that Nostromo is a fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor&rsquo;s talk was distasteful to the builder of railways. &ldquo;It is
      impossible to argue that point,&rdquo; he said, philosophically. &ldquo;Each man has
      his gifts. You should have heard Gamacho haranguing his friends in the
      street. He has a howling voice, and he shouted like mad, lifting his
      clenched fist right above his head, and throwing his body half out of the
      window. At every pause the rabble below yelled, &lsquo;Down with the Oligarchs!
      Viva la Libertad!&rsquo; Fuentes inside looked extremely miserable. You know, he
      is the brother of Jorge Fuentes, who has been Minister of the Interior for
      six months or so, some few years back. Of course, he has no conscience;
      but he is a man of birth and education&mdash;at one time the director of
      the Customs of Cayta. That idiot-brute Gamacho fastened himself upon him
      with his following of the lowest rabble. His sickly fear of that ruffian
      was the most rejoicing sight imaginable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up and went to the door to look out towards the harbour. &ldquo;All
      quiet,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I wonder if Sotillo really means to turn up here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWO
    </h2>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell, pacing the wharf, was asking himself the same question.
      There was always the doubt whether the warning of the Esmeralda
      telegraphist&mdash;a fragmentary and interrupted message&mdash;had been
      properly understood. However, the good man had made up his mind not to go
      to bed till daylight, if even then. He imagined himself to have rendered
      an enormous service to Charles Gould. When he thought of the saved silver
      he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. In his simple way he was
      proud at being a party to this extremely clever expedient. It was he who
      had given it a practical shape by suggesting the possibility of
      intercepting at sea the north-bound steamer. And it was advantageous to
      his Company, too, which would have lost a valuable freight if the treasure
      had been left ashore to be confiscated. The pleasure of disappointing the
      Monterists was also very great. Authoritative by temperament and the long
      habit of command, Captain Mitchell was no democrat. He even went so far as
      to profess a contempt for parliamentarism itself. &ldquo;His Excellency Don
      Vincente Ribiera,&rdquo; he used to say, &ldquo;whom I and that fellow of mine,
      Nostromo, had the honour, sir, and the pleasure of saving from a cruel
      death, deferred too much to his Congress. It was a mistake&mdash;a
      distinct mistake, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The guileless old seaman superintending the O.S.N. service imagined that
      the last three days had exhausted every startling surprise the political
      life of Costaguana could offer. He used to confess afterwards that the
      events which followed surpassed his imagination. To begin with, Sulaco
      (because of the seizure of the cables and the disorganization of the steam
      service) remained for a whole fortnight cut off from the rest of the world
      like a besieged city.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One would not have believed it possible; but so it was, sir. A full
      fortnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The account of the extraordinary things that happened during that time,
      and the powerful emotions he experienced, acquired a comic impressiveness
      from the pompous manner of his personal narrative. He opened it always by
      assuring his hearer that he was &ldquo;in the thick of things from first to
      last.&rdquo; Then he would begin by describing the getting away of the silver,
      and his natural anxiety lest &ldquo;his fellow&rdquo; in charge of the lighter should
      make some mistake. Apart from the loss of so much precious metal, the life
      of Senor Martin Decoud, an agreeable, wealthy, and well-informed young
      gentleman, would have been jeopardized through his falling into the hands
      of his political enemies. Captain Mitchell also admitted that in his
      solitary vigil on the wharf he had felt a certain measure of concern for
      the future of the whole country.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A feeling, sir,&rdquo; he explained, &ldquo;perfectly comprehensible in a man
      properly grateful for the many kindnesses received from the best families
      of merchants and other native gentlemen of independent means, who, barely
      saved by us from the excesses of the mob, seemed, to my mind&rsquo;s eye,
      destined to become the prey in person and fortune of the native soldiery,
      which, as is well known, behave with regrettable barbarity to the
      inhabitants during their civil commotions. And then, sir, there were the
      Goulds, for both of whom, man and wife, I could not but entertain the
      warmest feelings deserved by their hospitality and kindness. I felt, too,
      the dangers of the gentlemen of the Amarilla Club, who had made me
      honorary member, and had treated me with uniform regard and civility, both
      in my capacity of Consular Agent and as Superintendent of an important
      Steam Service. Miss Antonia Avellanos, the most beautiful and accomplished
      young lady whom it had ever been my privilege to speak to, was not a
      little in my mind, I confess. How the interests of my Company would be
      affected by the impending change of officials claimed a large share of my
      attention, too. In short, sir, I was extremely anxious and very tired, as
      you may suppose, by the exciting and memorable events in which I had taken
      my little part. The Company&rsquo;s building containing my residence was within
      five minutes&rsquo; walk, with the attraction of some supper and of my hammock
      (I always take my nightly rest in a hammock, as the most suitable to the
      climate); but somehow, sir, though evidently I could do nothing for any
      one by remaining about, I could not tear myself away from that wharf,
      where the fatigue made me stumble painfully at times. The night was
      excessively dark&mdash;the darkest I remember in my life; so that I began
      to think that the arrival of the transport from Esmeralda could not
      possibly take place before daylight, owing to the difficulty of navigating
      the gulf. The mosquitoes bit like fury. We have been infested here with
      mosquitoes before the late improvements; a peculiar harbour brand, sir,
      renowned for its ferocity. They were like a cloud about my head, and I
      shouldn&rsquo;t wonder that but for their attacks I would have dozed off as I
      walked up and down, and got a heavy fall. I kept on smoking cigar after
      cigar, more to protect myself from being eaten up alive than from any real
      relish for the weed. Then, sir, when perhaps for the twentieth time I was
      approaching my watch to the lighted end in order to see the time, and
      observing with surprise that it wanted yet ten minutes to midnight, I
      heard the splash of a ship&rsquo;s propeller&mdash;an unmistakable sound to a
      sailor&rsquo;s ear on such a calm night. It was faint indeed, because they were
      advancing with precaution and dead slow, both on account of the darkness
      and from their desire of not revealing too soon their presence: a very
      unnecessary care, because, I verily believe, in all the enormous extent of
      this harbour I was the only living soul about. Even the usual staff of
      watchmen and others had been absent from their posts for several nights
      owing to the disturbances. I stood stock still, after dropping and
      stamping out my cigar&mdash;a circumstance highly agreeable, I should
      think, to the mosquitoes, if I may judge from the state of my face next
      morning. But that was a trifling inconvenience in comparison with the
      brutal proceedings I became victim of on the part of Sotillo. Something
      utterly inconceivable, sir; more like the proceedings of a maniac than the
      action of a sane man, however lost to all sense of honour and decency. But
      Sotillo was furious at the failure of his thievish scheme.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this Captain Mitchell was right. Sotillo was indeed infuriated. Captain
      Mitchell, however, had not been arrested at once; a vivid curiosity
      induced him to remain on the wharf (which is nearly four hundred feet
      long) to see, or rather hear, the whole process of disembarkation.
      Concealed by the railway truck used for the silver, which had been run
      back afterwards to the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell saw the
      small detachment thrown forward, pass by, taking different directions upon
      the plain. Meantime, the troops were being landed and formed into a
      column, whose head crept up gradually so close to him that he made it out,
      barring nearly the whole width of the wharf, only a very few yards from
      him. Then the low, shuffling, murmuring, clinking sounds ceased, and the
      whole mass remained for about an hour motionless and silent, awaiting the
      return of the scouts. On land nothing was to be heard except the deep
      baying of the mastiffs at the railway yards, answered by the faint barking
      of the curs infesting the outer limits of the town. A detached knot of
      dark shapes stood in front of the head of the column.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently the picket at the end of the wharf began to challenge in
      undertones single figures approaching from the plain. Those messengers
      sent back from the scouting parties flung to their comrades brief
      sentences and passed on rapidly, becoming lost in the great motionless
      mass, to make their report to the Staff. It occurred to Captain Mitchell
      that his position could become disagreeable and perhaps dangerous, when
      suddenly, at the head of the jetty, there was a shout of command, a bugle
      call, followed by a stir and a rattling of arms, and a murmuring noise
      that ran right up the column. Near by a loud voice directed hurriedly,
      &ldquo;Push that railway car out of the way!&rdquo; At the rush of bare feet to
      execute the order Captain Mitchell skipped back a pace or two; the car,
      suddenly impelled by many hands, flew away from him along the rails, and
      before he knew what had happened he found himself surrounded and seized by
      his arms and the collar of his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have caught a man hiding here, mi teniente!&rdquo; cried one of his captors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold him on one side till the rearguard comes along,&rdquo; answered the voice.
      The whole column streamed past Captain Mitchell at a run, the thundering
      noise of their feet dying away suddenly on the shore. His captors held him
      tightly, disregarding his declaration that he was an Englishman and his
      loud demands to be taken at once before their commanding officer. Finally
      he lapsed into dignified silence. With a hollow rumble of wheels on the
      planks a couple of field guns, dragged by hand, rolled by. Then, after a
      small body of men had marched past escorting four or five figures which
      walked in advance, with a jingle of steel scabbards, he felt a tug at his
      arms, and was ordered to come along. During the passage from the wharf to
      the Custom House it is to be feared that Captain Mitchell was subjected to
      certain indignities at the hands of the soldiers&mdash;such as jerks,
      thumps on the neck, forcible application of the butt of a rifle to the
      small of his back. Their ideas of speed were not in accord with his notion
      of his dignity. He became flustered, flushed, and helpless. It was as if
      the world were coming to an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      The long building was surrounded by troops, which were already piling arms
      by companies and preparing to pass the night lying on the ground in their
      ponchos with their sacks under their heads. Corporals moved with swinging
      lanterns posting sentries all round the walls wherever there was a door or
      an opening. Sotillo was taking his measures to protect his conquest as if
      it had indeed contained the treasure. His desire to make his fortune at
      one audacious stroke of genius had overmastered his reasoning faculties.
      He would not believe in the possibility of failure; the mere hint of such
      a thing made his brain reel with rage. Every circumstance pointing to it
      appeared incredible. The statement of Hirsch, which was so absolutely
      fatal to his hopes, could by no means be admitted. It is true, too, that
      Hirsch&rsquo;s story had been told so incoherently, with such excessive signs of
      distraction, that it really looked improbable. It was extremely difficult,
      as the saying is, to make head or tail of it. On the bridge of the
      steamer, directly after his rescue, Sotillo and his officers, in their
      impatience and excitement, would not give the wretched man time to collect
      such few wits as remained to him. He ought to have been quieted, soothed,
      and reassured, whereas he had been roughly handled, cuffed, shaken, and
      addressed in menacing tones. His struggles, his wriggles, his attempts to
      get down on his knees, followed by the most violent efforts to break away,
      as if he meant incontinently to jump overboard, his shrieks and shrinkings
      and cowering wild glances had filled them first with amazement, then with
      a doubt of his genuineness, as men are wont to suspect the sincerity of
      every great passion. His Spanish, too, became so mixed up with German that
      the better half of his statements remained incomprehensible. He tried to
      propitiate them by calling them hochwohlgeboren herren, which in itself
      sounded suspicious. When admonished sternly not to trifle he repeated his
      entreaties and protestations of loyalty and innocence again in German,
      obstinately, because he was not aware in what language he was speaking.
      His identity, of course, was perfectly known as an inhabitant of
      Esmeralda, but this made the matter no clearer. As he kept on forgetting
      Decoud&rsquo;s name, mixing him up with several other people he had seen in the
      Casa Gould, it looked as if they all had been in the lighter together; and
      for a moment Sotillo thought that he had drowned every prominent Ribierist
      of Sulaco. The improbability of such a thing threw a doubt upon the whole
      statement. Hirsch was either mad or playing a part&mdash;pretending fear
      and distraction on the spur of the moment to cover the truth. Sotillo&rsquo;s
      rapacity, excited to the highest pitch by the prospect of an immense
      booty, could believe in nothing adverse. This Jew might have been very
      much frightened by the accident, but he knew where the silver was
      concealed, and had invented this story, with his Jewish cunning, to put
      him entirely off the track as to what had been done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo had taken up his quarters on the upper floor in a vast apartment
      with heavy black beams. But there was no ceiling, and the eye lost itself
      in the darkness under the high pitch of the roof. The thick shutters stood
      open. On a long table could be seen a large inkstand, some stumpy, inky
      quill pens, and two square wooden boxes, each holding half a
      hundred-weight of sand. Sheets of grey coarse official paper bestrewed the
      floor. It must have been a room occupied by some higher official of the
      Customs, because a large leathern armchair stood behind the table, with
      other high-backed chairs scattered about. A net hammock was swung under
      one of the beams&mdash;for the official&rsquo;s afternoon siesta, no doubt. A
      couple of candles stuck into tall iron candlesticks gave a dim reddish
      light. The colonel&rsquo;s hat, sword, and revolver lay between them, and a
      couple of his more trusty officers lounged gloomily against the table. The
      colonel threw himself into the armchair, and a big negro with a sergeant&rsquo;s
      stripes on his ragged sleeve, kneeling down, pulled off his boots.
      Sotillo&rsquo;s ebony moustache contrasted violently with the livid colouring of
      his cheeks. His eyes were sombre and as if sunk very far into his head. He
      seemed exhausted by his perplexities, languid with disappointment; but
      when the sentry on the landing thrust his head in to announce the arrival
      of a prisoner, he revived at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him be brought in,&rdquo; he shouted, fiercely.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door flew open, and Captain Mitchell, bareheaded, his waistcoat open,
      the bow of his tie under his ear, was hustled into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo recognized him at once. He could not have hoped for a more
      precious capture; here was a man who could tell him, if he chose,
      everything he wished to know&mdash;and directly the problem of how best to
      make him talk to the point presented itself to his mind. The resentment of
      a foreign nation had no terrors for Sotillo. The might of the whole armed
      Europe would not have protected Captain Mitchell from insults and
      ill-usage, so well as the quick reflection of Sotillo that this was an
      Englishman who would most likely turn obstinate under bad treatment, and
      become quite unmanageable. At all events, the colonel smoothed the scowl
      on his brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! The excellent Senor Mitchell!&rdquo; he cried, in affected dismay. The
      pretended anger of his swift advance and of his shout, &ldquo;Release the
      caballero at once,&rdquo; was so effective that the astounded soldiers
      positively sprang away from their prisoner. Thus suddenly deprived of
      forcible support, Captain Mitchell reeled as though about to fall. Sotillo
      took him familiarly under the arm, led him to a chair, waved his hand at
      the room. &ldquo;Go out, all of you,&rdquo; he commanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had been left alone he stood looking down, irresolute and
      silent, watching till Captain Mitchell had recovered his power of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here in his very grasp was one of the men concerned in the removal of the
      silver. Sotillo&rsquo;s temperament was of that sort that he experienced an
      ardent desire to beat him; just as formerly when negotiating with
      difficulty a loan from the cautious Anzani, his fingers always itched to
      take the shopkeeper by the throat. As to Captain Mitchell, the suddenness,
      unexpectedness, and general inconceivableness of this experience had
      confused his thoughts. Moreover, he was physically out of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been knocked down three times between this and the wharf,&rdquo; he gasped
      out at last. &ldquo;Somebody shall be made to pay for this.&rdquo; He had certainly
      stumbled more than once, and had been dragged along for some distance
      before he could regain his stride. With his recovered breath his
      indignation seemed to madden him. He jumped up, crimson, all his white
      hair bristling, his eyes glaring vengefully, and shook violently the flaps
      of his ruined waistcoat before the disconcerted Sotillo. &ldquo;Look! Those
      uniformed thieves of yours downstairs have robbed me of my watch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old sailor&rsquo;s aspect was very threatening. Sotillo saw himself cut off
      from the table on which his sabre and revolver were lying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I demand restitution and apologies,&rdquo; Mitchell thundered at him, quite
      beside himself. &ldquo;From you! Yes, from you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the space of a second or so the colonel stood with a perfectly stony
      expression of face; then, as Captain Mitchell flung out an arm towards the
      table as if to snatch up the revolver, Sotillo, with a yell of alarm,
      bounded to the door and was gone in a flash, slamming it after him.
      Surprise calmed Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s fury. Behind the closed door Sotillo
      shouted on the landing, and there was a great tumult of feet on the wooden
      staircase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Disarm him! Bind him!&rdquo; the colonel could be heard vociferating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell had just the time to glance once at the windows, with
      three perpendicular bars of iron each and some twenty feet from the
      ground, as he well knew, before the door flew open and the rush upon him
      took place. In an incredibly short time he found himself bound with many
      turns of a hide rope to a high-backed chair, so that his head alone
      remained free. Not till then did Sotillo, who had been leaning in the
      doorway trembling visibly, venture again within. The soldiers, picking up
      from the floor the rifles they had dropped to grapple with the prisoner,
      filed out of the room. The officers remained leaning on their swords and
      looking on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The watch! the watch!&rdquo; raved the colonel, pacing to and fro like a tiger
      in a cage. &ldquo;Give me that man&rsquo;s watch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was true, that when searched for arms in the hall downstairs, before
      being taken into Sotillo&rsquo;s presence, Captain Mitchell had been relieved of
      his watch and chain; but at the colonel&rsquo;s clamour it was produced quickly
      enough, a corporal bringing it up, carried carefully in the palms of his
      joined hands. Sotillo snatched it, and pushed the clenched fist from which
      it dangled close to Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now then! You arrogant Englishman! You dare to call the soldiers of the
      army thieves! Behold your watch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He flourished his fist as if aiming blows at the prisoner&rsquo;s nose. Captain
      Mitchell, helpless as a swathed infant, looked anxiously at the
      sixty-guinea gold half-chronometer, presented to him years ago by a
      Committee of Underwriters for saving a ship from total loss by fire.
      Sotillo, too, seemed to perceive its valuable appearance. He became silent
      suddenly, stepped aside to the table, and began a careful examination in
      the light of the candles. He had never seen anything so fine. His officers
      closed in and craned their necks behind his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      He became so interested that for an instant he forgot his precious
      prisoner. There is always something childish in the rapacity of the
      passionate, clear-minded, Southern races, wanting in the misty idealism of
      the Northerners, who at the smallest encouragement dream of nothing less
      than the conquest of the earth. Sotillo was fond of jewels, gold trinkets,
      of personal adornment. After a moment he turned about, and with a
      commanding gesture made all his officers fall back. He laid down the watch
      on the table, then, negligently, pushed his hat over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; he began, going up very close to the chair. &ldquo;You dare call my
      valiant soldiers of the Esmeralda regiment, thieves. You dare! What
      impudence! You foreigners come here to rob our country of its wealth. You
      never have enough! Your audacity knows no bounds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked towards the officers, amongst whom there was an approving
      murmur. The older major was moved to declare&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, mi colonel. They are all traitors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall say nothing,&rdquo; continued Sotillo, fixing the motionless and
      powerless Mitchell with an angry but uneasy stare. &ldquo;I shall say nothing of
      your treacherous attempt to get possession of my revolver to shoot me
      while I was trying to treat you with consideration you did not deserve.
      You have forfeited your life. Your only hope is in my clemency.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He watched for the effect of his words, but there was no obvious sign of
      fear on Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s face. His white hair was full of dust, which
      covered also the rest of his helpless person. As if he had heard nothing,
      he twitched an eyebrow to get rid of a bit of straw which hung amongst the
      hairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo advanced one leg and put his arms akimbo. &ldquo;It is you, Mitchell,&rdquo;
       he said, emphatically, &ldquo;who are the thief, not my soldiers!&rdquo; He pointed at
      his prisoner a forefinger with a long, almond-shaped nail. &ldquo;Where is the
      silver of the San Tome mine? I ask you, Mitchell, where is the silver that
      was deposited in this Custom House? Answer me that! You stole it. You were
      a party to stealing it. It was stolen from the Government. Aha! you think
      I do not know what I say; but I am up to your foreign tricks. It is gone,
      the silver! No? Gone in one of your lanchas, you miserable man! How dared
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time he produced his effect. &ldquo;How on earth could Sotillo know that?&rdquo;
       thought Mitchell. His head, the only part of his body that could move,
      betrayed his surprise by a sudden jerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! you tremble,&rdquo; Sotillo shouted, suddenly. &ldquo;It is a conspiracy. It is a
      crime against the State. Did you not know that the silver belongs to the
      Republic till the Government claims are satisfied? Where is it? Where have
      you hidden it, you miserable thief?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this question Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s sinking spirits revived. In whatever
      incomprehensible manner Sotillo had already got his information about the
      lighter, he had not captured it. That was clear. In his outraged heart,
      Captain Mitchell had resolved that nothing would induce him to say a word
      while he remained so disgracefully bound, but his desire to help the
      escape of the silver made him depart from this resolution. His wits were
      very much at work. He detected in Sotillo a certain air of doubt, of
      irresolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That man,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;is not certain of what he advances.&rdquo; For
      all his pomposity in social intercourse, Captain Mitchell could meet the
      realities of life in a resolute and ready spirit. Now he had got over the
      first shock of the abominable treatment he was cool and collected enough.
      The immense contempt he felt for Sotillo steadied him, and he said
      oracularly, &ldquo;No doubt it is well concealed by this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, too, had time to cool down. &ldquo;Muy bien, Mitchell,&rdquo; he said in a
      cold and threatening manner. &ldquo;But can you produce the Government receipt
      for the royalty and the Custom House permit of embarkation, hey? Can you?
      No. Then the silver has been removed illegally, and the guilty shall be
      made to suffer, unless it is produced within five days from this.&rdquo; He gave
      orders for the prisoner to be unbound and locked up in one of the smaller
      rooms downstairs. He walked about the room, moody and silent, till Captain
      Mitchell, with each of his arms held by a couple of men, stood up, shook
      himself, and stamped his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you like to be tied up, Mitchell?&rdquo; he asked, derisively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the most incredible, abominable use of power!&rdquo; Captain Mitchell
      declared in a loud voice. &ldquo;And whatever your purpose, you shall gain
      nothing from it, I can promise you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tall colonel, livid, with his coal-black ringlets and moustache,
      crouched, as it were, to look into the eyes of the short, thick-set,
      red-faced prisoner with rumpled white hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That we shall see. You shall know my power a little better when I tie you
      up to a potalon outside in the sun for a whole day.&rdquo; He drew himself up
      haughtily, and made a sign for Captain Mitchell to be led away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about my watch?&rdquo; cried Captain Mitchell, hanging back from the
      efforts of the men pulling him towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo turned to his officers. &ldquo;No! But only listen to this picaro,
      caballeros,&rdquo; he pronounced with affected scorn, and was answered by a
      chorus of derisive laughter. &ldquo;He demands his watch!&rdquo; . . . He ran up again
      to Captain Mitchell, for the desire to relieve his feelings by inflicting
      blows and pain upon this Englishman was very strong within him. &ldquo;Your
      watch! You are a prisoner in war time, Mitchell! In war time! You have no
      rights and no property! Caramba! The very breath in your body belongs to
      me. Remember that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bosh!&rdquo; said Captain Mitchell, concealing a disagreeable impression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down below, in a great hall, with the earthen floor and with a tall mound
      thrown up by white ants in a corner, the soldiers had kindled a small fire
      with broken chairs and tables near the arched gateway, through which the
      faint murmur of the harbour waters on the beach could be heard. While
      Captain Mitchell was being led down the staircase, an officer passed him,
      running up to report to Sotillo the capture of more prisoners. A lot of
      smoke hung about in the vast gloomy place, the fire crackled, and, as if
      through a haze, Captain Mitchell made out, surrounded by short soldiers
      with fixed bayonets, the heads of three tall prisoners&mdash;the doctor,
      the engineer-in-chief, and the white leonine mane of old Viola, who stood
      half-turned away from the others with his chin on his breast and his arms
      crossed. Mitchell&rsquo;s astonishment knew no bounds. He cried out; the other
      two exclaimed also. But he hurried on, diagonally, across the big
      cavern-like hall. Lots of thoughts, surmises, hints of caution, and so on,
      crowded his head to distraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he actually keeping you?&rdquo; shouted the chief engineer, whose single
      eyeglass glittered in the firelight.
    </p>
    <p>
      An officer from the top of the stairs was shouting urgently, &ldquo;Bring them
      all up&mdash;all three.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the clamour of voices and the rattle of arms, Captain Mitchell made
      himself heard imperfectly: &ldquo;By heavens! the fellow has stolen my watch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The engineer-in-chief on the staircase resisted the pressure long enough
      to shout, &ldquo;What? What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My chronometer!&rdquo; Captain Mitchell yelled violently at the very moment of
      being thrust head foremost through a small door into a sort of cell,
      perfectly black, and so narrow that he fetched up against the opposite
      wall. The door had been instantly slammed. He knew where they had put him.
      This was the strong room of the Custom House, whence the silver had been
      removed only a few hours earlier. It was almost as narrow as a corridor,
      with a small square aperture, barred by a heavy grating, at the distant
      end. Captain Mitchell staggered for a few steps, then sat down on the
      earthen floor with his back to the wall. Nothing, not even a gleam of
      light from anywhere, interfered with Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s meditation. He did
      some hard but not very extensive thinking. It was not of a gloomy cast.
      The old sailor, with all his small weaknesses and absurdities, was
      constitutionally incapable of entertaining for any length of time a fear
      of his personal safety. It was not so much firmness of soul as the lack of
      a certain kind of imagination&mdash;the kind whose undue development
      caused intense suffering to Senor Hirsch; that sort of imagination which
      adds the blind terror of bodily suffering and of death, envisaged as an
      accident to the body alone, strictly&mdash;to all the other apprehensions
      on which the sense of one&rsquo;s existence is based. Unfortunately, Captain
      Mitchell had not much penetration of any kind; characteristic,
      illuminating trifles of expression, action, or movement, escaped him
      completely. He was too pompously and innocently aware of his own existence
      to observe that of others. For instance, he could not believe that Sotillo
      had been really afraid of him, and this simply because it would never have
      entered into his head to shoot any one except in the most pressing case of
      self-defence. Anybody could see he was not a murdering kind of man, he
      reflected quite gravely. Then why this preposterous and insulting charge?
      he asked himself. But his thoughts mainly clung around the astounding and
      unanswerable question: How the devil the fellow got to know that the
      silver had gone off in the lighter? It was obvious that he had not
      captured it. And, obviously, he could not have captured it! In this last
      conclusion Captain Mitchell was misled by the assumption drawn from his
      observation of the weather during his long vigil on the wharf. He thought
      that there had been much more wind than usual that night in the gulf;
      whereas, as a matter of fact, the reverse was the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How in the name of all that&rsquo;s marvellous did that confounded fellow get
      wind of the affair?&rdquo; was the first question he asked directly after the
      bang, clatter, and flash of the open door (which was closed again almost
      before he could lift his dropped head) informed him that he had a
      companion of captivity. Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s voice stopped muttering curses in
      English and Spanish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that you, Mitchell?&rdquo; he made answer, surlily. &ldquo;I struck my forehead
      against this confounded wall with enough force to fell an ox. Where are
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell, accustomed to the darkness, could make out the doctor
      stretching out his hands blindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sitting here on the floor. Don&rsquo;t fall over my legs,&rdquo; Captain
      Mitchell&rsquo;s voice announced with great dignity of tone. The doctor,
      entreated not to walk about in the dark, sank down to the ground, too. The
      two prisoners of Sotillo, with their heads nearly touching, began to
      exchange confidences.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; the doctor related in a low tone to Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s vehement
      curiosity, &ldquo;we have been nabbed in old Viola&rsquo;s place. It seems that one of
      their pickets, commanded by an officer, pushed as far as the town gate.
      They had orders not to enter, but to bring along every soul they could
      find on the plain. We had been talking in there with the door open, and no
      doubt they saw the glimmer of our light. They must have been making their
      approaches for some time. The engineer laid himself on a bench in a recess
      by the fire-place, and I went upstairs to have a look. I hadn&rsquo;t heard any
      sound from there for a long time. Old Viola, as soon as he saw me come up,
      lifted his arm for silence. I stole in on tiptoe. By Jove, his wife was
      lying down and had gone to sleep. The woman had actually dropped off to
      sleep! &lsquo;Senor Doctor,&rsquo; Viola whispers to me, &lsquo;it looks as if her
      oppression was going to get better.&rsquo; &lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; I said, very much surprised;
      &lsquo;your wife is a wonderful woman, Giorgio.&rsquo; Just then a shot was fired in
      the kitchen, which made us jump and cower as if at a thunder-clap. It
      seems that the party of soldiers had stolen quite close up, and one of
      them had crept up to the door. He looked in, thought there was no one
      there, and, holding his rifle ready, entered quietly. The chief told me
      that he had just closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw
      the man already in the middle of the room peering into the dark corners.
      The chief was so startled that, without thinking, he made one leap from
      the recess right out in front of the fireplace. The soldier, no less
      startled, up with his rifle and pulls the trigger, deafening and singeing
      the engineer, but in his flurry missing him completely. But, look what
      happens! At the noise of the report the sleeping woman sat up, as if moved
      by a spring, with a shriek, &lsquo;The children, Gian&rsquo; Battista! Save the
      children!&rsquo; I have it in my ears now. It was the truest cry of distress I
      ever heard. I stood as if paralyzed, but the old husband ran across to the
      bedside, stretching out his hands. She clung to them! I could see her eyes
      go glazed; the old fellow lowered her down on the pillows and then looked
      round at me. She was dead! All this took less than five minutes, and then
      I ran down to see what was the matter. It was no use thinking of any
      resistance. Nothing we two could say availed with the officer, so I
      volunteered to go up with a couple of soldiers and fetch down old Viola.
      He was sitting at the foot of the bed, looking at his wife&rsquo;s face, and did
      not seem to hear what I said; but after I had pulled the sheet over her
      head, he got up and followed us downstairs quietly, in a sort of
      thoughtful way. They marched us off along the road, leaving the door open
      and the candle burning. The chief engineer strode on without a word, but I
      looked back once or twice at the feeble gleam. After we had gone some
      considerable distance, the Garibaldino, who was walking by my side,
      suddenly said, &lsquo;I have buried many men on battlefields on this continent.
      The priests talk of consecrated ground! Bah! All the earth made by God is
      holy; but the sea, which knows nothing of kings and priests and tyrants,
      is the holiest of all. Doctor! I should like to bury her in the sea. No
      mummeries, candles, incense, no holy water mumbled over by priests. The
      spirit of liberty is upon the waters.&rsquo; . . . Amazing old man. He was
      saying all this in an undertone as if talking to himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; interrupted Captain Mitchell, impatiently. &ldquo;Poor old chap! But
      have you any idea how that ruffian Sotillo obtained his information? He
      did not get hold of any of our Cargadores who helped with the truck, did
      he? But no, it is impossible! These were picked men we&rsquo;ve had in our boats
      for these five years, and I paid them myself specially for the job, with
      instructions to keep out of the way for twenty-four hours at least. I saw
      them with my own eyes march on with the Italians to the railway yards. The
      chief promised to give them rations as long as they wanted to remain
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the doctor, slowly, &ldquo;I can tell you that you may say good-bye
      for ever to your best lighter, and to the Capataz of Cargadores.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this, Captain Mitchell scrambled up to his feet in the excess of his
      excitement. The doctor, without giving him time to exclaim, stated briefly
      the part played by Hirsch during the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell was overcome. &ldquo;Drowned!&rdquo; he muttered, in a bewildered and
      appalled whisper. &ldquo;Drowned!&rdquo; Afterwards he kept still, apparently
      listening, but too absorbed in the news of the catastrophe to follow the
      doctor&rsquo;s narrative with attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor had taken up an attitude of perfect ignorance, till at last
      Sotillo was induced to have Hirsch brought in to repeat the whole story,
      which was got out of him again with the greatest difficulty, because every
      moment he would break out into lamentations. At last, Hirsch was led away,
      looking more dead than alive, and shut up in one of the upstairs rooms to
      be close at hand. Then the doctor, keeping up his character of a man not
      admitted to the inner councils of the San Tome Administration, remarked
      that the story sounded incredible. Of course, he said, he couldn&rsquo;t tell
      what had been the action of the Europeans, as he had been exclusively
      occupied with his own work in looking after the wounded, and also in
      attending Don Jose Avellanos. He had succeeded in assuming so well a tone
      of impartial indifference, that Sotillo seemed to be completely deceived.
      Till then a show of regular inquiry had been kept up; one of the officers
      sitting at the table wrote down the questions and the answers, the others,
      lounging about the room, listened attentively, puffing at their long
      cigars and keeping their eyes on the doctor. But at that point Sotillo
      ordered everybody out.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THREE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Directly they were alone, the colonel&rsquo;s severe official manner changed. He
      rose and approached the doctor. His eyes shone with rapacity and hope; he
      became confidential. &ldquo;The silver might have been indeed put on board the
      lighter, but it was not conceivable that it should have been taken out to
      sea.&rdquo; The doctor, watching every word, nodded slightly, smoking with
      apparent relish the cigar which Sotillo had offered him as a sign of his
      friendly intentions. The doctor&rsquo;s manner of cold detachment from the rest
      of the Europeans led Sotillo on, till, from conjecture to conjecture, he
      arrived at hinting that in his opinion this was a putup job on the part of
      Charles Gould, in order to get hold of that immense treasure all to
      himself. The doctor, observant and self-possessed, muttered, &ldquo;He is very
      capable of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Captain Mitchell exclaimed with amazement, amusement, and
      indignation, &ldquo;You said that of Charles Gould!&rdquo; Disgust, and even some
      suspicion, crept into his tone, for to him, too, as to other Europeans,
      there appeared to be something dubious about the doctor&rsquo;s personality.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What on earth made you say that to this watch-stealing scoundrel?&rdquo; he
      asked. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the object of an infernal lie of that sort? That confounded
      pick-pocket was quite capable of believing you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He snorted. For a time the doctor remained silent in the dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is exactly what I did say,&rdquo; he uttered at last, in a tone which
      would have made it clear enough to a third party that the pause was not of
      a reluctant but of a reflective character. Captain Mitchell thought that
      he had never heard anything so brazenly impudent in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; he muttered to himself, but he had not the heart to voice
      his thoughts. They were swept away by others full of astonishment and
      regret. A heavy sense of discomfiture crushed him: the loss of the silver,
      the death of Nostromo, which was really quite a blow to his sensibilities,
      because he had become attached to his Capataz as people get attached to
      their inferiors from love of ease and almost unconscious gratitude. And
      when he thought of Decoud being drowned, too, his sensibility was almost
      overcome by this miserable end. What a heavy blow for that poor young
      woman! Captain Mitchell did not belong to the species of crabbed old
      bachelors; on the contrary, he liked to see young men paying attentions to
      young women. It seemed to him a natural and proper thing. Proper
      especially. As to sailors, it was different; it was not their place to
      marry, he maintained, but it was on moral grounds as a matter of
      self-denial, for, he explained, life on board ship is not fit for a woman
      even at best, and if you leave her on shore, first of all it is not fair,
      and next she either suffers from it or doesn&rsquo;t care a bit, which, in both
      cases, is bad. He couldn&rsquo;t have told what upset him most&mdash;Charles
      Gould&rsquo;s immense material loss, the death of Nostromo, which was a heavy
      loss to himself, or the idea of that beautiful and accomplished young
      woman being plunged into mourning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; the doctor, who had been apparently reflecting, began again, &ldquo;he
      believed me right enough. I thought he would have hugged me. &lsquo;Si, si,&rsquo; he
      said, &lsquo;he will write to that partner of his, the rich Americano in San
      Francisco, that it is all lost. Why not? There is enough to share with
      many people.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is perfectly imbecile!&rdquo; cried Captain Mitchell.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor remarked that Sotillo was imbecile, and that his imbecility was
      ingenious enough to lead him completely astray. He had helped him only but
      a little way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mentioned,&rdquo; the doctor said, &ldquo;in a sort of casual way, that treasure is
      generally buried in the earth rather than set afloat upon the sea. At this
      my Sotillo slapped his forehead. &lsquo;Por Dios, yes,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;they must have
      buried it on the shores of this harbour somewhere before they sailed
      out.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens and earth!&rdquo; muttered Captain Mitchell, &ldquo;I should not have
      believed that anybody could be ass enough&mdash;&rdquo; He paused, then went on
      mournfully: &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the good of all this? It would have been a clever
      enough lie if the lighter had been still afloat. It would have kept that
      inconceivable idiot perhaps from sending out the steamer to cruise in the
      gulf. That was the danger that worried me no end.&rdquo; Captain Mitchell sighed
      profoundly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had an object,&rdquo; the doctor pronounced, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had you?&rdquo; muttered Captain Mitchell. &ldquo;Well, that&rsquo;s lucky, or else I would
      have thought that you went on fooling him for the fun of the thing. And
      perhaps that was your object. Well, I must say I personally wouldn&rsquo;t
      condescend to that sort of thing. It is not to my taste. No, no.
      Blackening a friend&rsquo;s character is not my idea of fun, if it were to fool
      the greatest blackguard on earth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Had it not been for Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s depression, caused by the fatal
      news, his disgust of Dr. Monygham would have taken a more outspoken shape;
      but he thought to himself that now it really did not matter what that man,
      whom he had never liked, would say and do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; he grumbled, &ldquo;why they have shut us up together, or why
      Sotillo should have shut you up at all, since it seems to me you have been
      fairly chummy up there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I wonder,&rdquo; said the doctor grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s heart was so heavy that he would have preferred for the
      time being a complete solitude to the best of company. But any company
      would have been preferable to the doctor&rsquo;s, at whom he had always looked
      askance as a sort of beachcomber of superior intelligence partly reclaimed
      from his abased state. That feeling led him to ask&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has that ruffian done with the other two?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chief engineer he would have let go in any case,&rdquo; said the doctor.
      &ldquo;He wouldn&rsquo;t like to have a quarrel with the railway upon his hands. Not
      just yet, at any rate. I don&rsquo;t think, Captain Mitchell, that you
      understand exactly what Sotillo&rsquo;s position is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see why I should bother my head about it,&rdquo; snarled Captain
      Mitchell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; assented the doctor, with the same grim composure. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t see why
      you should. It wouldn&rsquo;t help a single human being in the world if you
      thought ever so hard upon any subject whatever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Captain Mitchell, simply, and with evident depression. &ldquo;A man
      locked up in a confounded dark hole is not much use to anybody.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to old Viola,&rdquo; the doctor continued, as though he had not heard,
      &ldquo;Sotillo released him for the same reason he is presently going to release
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh? What?&rdquo; exclaimed Captain Mitchell, staring like an owl in the
      darkness. &ldquo;What is there in common between me and old Viola? More likely
      because the old chap has no watch and chain for the pickpocket to steal.
      And I tell you what, Dr. Monygham,&rdquo; he went on with rising choler, &ldquo;he
      will find it more difficult than he thinks to get rid of me. He will burn
      his fingers over that job yet, I can tell you. To begin with, I won&rsquo;t go
      without my watch, and as to the rest&mdash;we shall see. I dare say it is
      no great matter for you to be locked up. But Joe Mitchell is a different
      kind of man, sir. I don&rsquo;t mean to submit tamely to insult and robbery. I
      am a public character, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then Captain Mitchell became aware that the bars of the opening had
      become visible, a black grating upon a square of grey. The coming of the
      day silenced Captain Mitchell as if by the reflection that now in all the
      future days he would be deprived of the invaluable services of his
      Capataz. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded on his breast,
      and the doctor walked up and down the whole length of the place with his
      peculiar hobbling gait, as if slinking about on damaged feet. At the end
      furthest from the grating he would be lost altogether in the darkness.
      Only the slight limping shuffle could be heard. There was an air of moody
      detachment in that painful prowl kept up without a pause. When the door of
      the prison was suddenly flung open and his name shouted out he showed no
      surprise. He swerved sharply in his walk, and passed out at once, as
      though much depended upon his speed; but Captain Mitchell remained for
      some time with his shoulders against the wall, quite undecided in the
      bitterness of his spirit whether it wouldn&rsquo;t be better to refuse to stir a
      limb in the way of protest. He had half a mind to get himself carried out,
      but after the officer at the door had shouted three or four times in tones
      of remonstrance and surprise he condescended to walk out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo&rsquo;s manner had changed. The colonel&rsquo;s off-hand civility was slightly
      irresolute, as though he were in doubt if civility were the proper course
      in this case. He observed Captain Mitchell attentively before he spoke
      from the big armchair behind the table in a condescending voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have concluded not to detain you, Senor Mitchell. I am of a forgiving
      disposition. I make allowances. Let this be a lesson to you, however.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The peculiar dawn of Sulaco, which seems to break far away to the westward
      and creep back into the shade of the mountains, mingled with the reddish
      light of the candles. Captain Mitchell, in sign of contempt and
      indifference, let his eyes roam all over the room, and he gave a hard
      stare to the doctor, perched already on the casement of one of the
      windows, with his eyelids lowered, careless and thoughtful&mdash;or
      perhaps ashamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, ensconced in the vast armchair, remarked, &ldquo;I should have thought
      that the feelings of a caballero would have dictated to you an appropriate
      reply.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited for it, but Captain Mitchell remaining mute, more from extreme
      resentment than from reasoned intention, Sotillo hesitated, glanced
      towards the doctor, who looked up and nodded, then went on with a slight
      effort&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Senor Mitchell, is your watch. Learn how hasty and unjust has been
      your judgment of my patriotic soldiers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lying back in his seat, he extended his arm over the table and pushed the
      watch away slightly. Captain Mitchell walked up with undisguised
      eagerness, put it to his ear, then slipped it into his pocket coolly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo seemed to overcome an immense reluctance. Again he looked aside at
      the doctor, who stared at him unwinkingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as Captain Mitchell was turning away, without as much as a nod or a
      glance, he hastened to say&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may go and wait downstairs for the senor doctor, whom I am going to
      liberate, too. You foreigners are insignificant, to my mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He forced a slight, discordant laugh out of himself, while Captain
      Mitchell, for the first time, looked at him with some interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The law shall take note later on of your transgressions,&rdquo; Sotillo hurried
      on. &ldquo;But as for me, you can live free, unguarded, unobserved. Do you hear,
      Senor Mitchell? You may depart to your affairs. You are beneath my notice.
      My attention is claimed by matters of the very highest importance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell was very nearly provoked to an answer. It displeased him
      to be liberated insultingly; but want of sleep, prolonged anxieties, a
      profound disappointment with the fatal ending of the silver-saving
      business weighed upon his spirits. It was as much as he could do to
      conceal his uneasiness, not about himself perhaps, but about things in
      general. It occurred to him distinctly that something underhand was going
      on. As he went out he ignored the doctor pointedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A brute!&rdquo; said Sotillo, as the door shut.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham slipped off the window-sill, and, thrusting his hands into
      the pockets of the long, grey dust coat he was wearing, made a few steps
      into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo got up, too, and, putting himself in the way, examined him from
      head to foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So your countrymen do not confide in you very much, senor doctor. They do
      not love you, eh? Why is that, I wonder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, lifting his head, answered by a long, lifeless stare and the
      words, &ldquo;Perhaps because I have lived too long in Costaguana.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo had a gleam of white teeth under the black moustache.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! But you love yourself,&rdquo; he said, encouragingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you leave them alone,&rdquo; the doctor said, looking with the same lifeless
      stare at Sotillo&rsquo;s handsome face, &ldquo;they will betray themselves very soon.
      Meantime, I may try to make Don Carlos speak?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! senor doctor,&rdquo; said Sotillo, wagging his head, &ldquo;you are a man of
      quick intelligence. We were made to understand each other.&rdquo; He turned
      away. He could bear no longer that expressionless and motionless stare,
      which seemed to have a sort of impenetrable emptiness like the black depth
      of an abyss.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even in a man utterly devoid of moral sense there remains an appreciation
      of rascality which, being conventional, is perfectly clear. Sotillo
      thought that Dr. Monygham, so different from all Europeans, was ready to
      sell his countrymen and Charles Gould, his employer, for some share of the
      San Tome silver. Sotillo did not despise him for that. The colonel&rsquo;s want
      of moral sense was of a profound and innocent character. It bordered upon
      stupidity, moral stupidity. Nothing that served his ends could appear to
      him really reprehensible. Nevertheless, he despised Dr. Monygham. He had
      for him an immense and satisfactory contempt. He despised him with all his
      heart because he did not mean to let the doctor have any reward at all. He
      despised him, not as a man without faith and honour, but as a fool. Dr.
      Monygham&rsquo;s insight into his character had deceived Sotillo completely.
      Therefore he thought the doctor a fool.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since his arrival in Sulaco the colonel&rsquo;s ideas had undergone some
      modification.
    </p>
    <p>
      He no longer wished for a political career in Montero&rsquo;s administration. He
      had always doubted the safety of that course. Since he had learned from
      the chief engineer that at daylight most likely he would be confronted by
      Pedro Montero his misgivings on that point had considerably increased. The
      guerrillero brother of the general&mdash;the Pedrito of popular speech&mdash;had
      a reputation of his own. He wasn&rsquo;t safe to deal with. Sotillo had vaguely
      planned seizing not only the treasure but the town itself, and then
      negotiating at leisure. But in the face of facts learned from the chief
      engineer (who had frankly disclosed to him the whole situation) his
      audacity, never of a very dashing kind, had been replaced by a most
      cautious hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An army&mdash;an army crossed the mountains under Pedrito already,&rdquo; he
      had repeated, unable to hide his consternation. &ldquo;If it had not been that I
      am given the news by a man of your position I would never have believed
      it. Astonishing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An armed force,&rdquo; corrected the engineer, suavely. His aim was attained.
      It was to keep Sulaco clear of any armed occupation for a few hours
      longer, to let those whom fear impelled leave the town. In the general
      dismay there were families hopeful enough to fly upon the road towards Los
      Hatos, which was left open by the withdrawal of the armed rabble under
      Senores Fuentes and Gamacho, to Rincon, with their enthusiastic welcome
      for Pedro Montero. It was a hasty and risky exodus, and it was said that
      Hernandez, occupying with his band the woods about Los Hatos, was
      receiving the fugitives. That a good many people he knew were
      contemplating such a flight had been well known to the chief engineer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Corbelan&rsquo;s efforts in the cause of that most pious robber had not
      been altogether fruitless. The political chief of Sulaco had yielded at
      the last moment to the urgent entreaties of the priest, had signed a
      provisional nomination appointing Hernandez a general, and calling upon
      him officially in this new capacity to preserve order in the town. The
      fact is that the political chief, seeing the situation desperate, did not
      care what he signed. It was the last official document he signed before he
      left the palace of the Intendencia for the refuge of the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s
      office. But even had he meant his act to be effective it was already too
      late. The riot which he feared and expected broke out in less than an hour
      after Father Corbelan had left him. Indeed, Father Corbelan, who had
      appointed a meeting with Nostromo in the Dominican Convent, where he had
      his residence in one of the cells, never managed to reach the place. From
      the Intendencia he had gone straight on to the Avellanos&rsquo;s house to tell
      his brother-in-law, and though he stayed there no more than half an hour
      he had found himself cut off from his ascetic abode. Nostromo, after
      waiting there for some time, watching uneasily the increasing uproar in
      the street, had made his way to the offices of the Porvenir, and stayed
      there till daylight, as Decoud had mentioned in the letter to his sister.
      Thus the Capataz, instead of riding towards the Los Hatos woods as bearer
      of Hernandez&rsquo;s nomination, had remained in town to save the life of the
      President Dictator, to assist in repressing the outbreak of the mob, and
      at last to sail out with the silver of the mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Father Corbelan, escaping to Hernandez, had the document in his
      pocket, a piece of official writing turning a bandit into a general in a
      memorable last official act of the Ribierist party, whose watchwords were
      honesty, peace, and progress. Probably neither the priest nor the bandit
      saw the irony of it. Father Corbelan must have found messengers to send
      into the town, for early on the second day of the disturbances there were
      rumours of Hernandez being on the road to Los Hatos ready to receive those
      who would put themselves under his protection. A strange-looking horseman,
      elderly and audacious, had appeared in the town, riding slowly while his
      eyes examined the fronts of the houses, as though he had never seen such
      high buildings before. Before the cathedral he had dismounted, and,
      kneeling in the middle of the Plaza, his bridle over his arm and his hat
      lying in front of him on the ground, had bowed his head, crossing himself
      and beating his breast for some little time. Remounting his horse, with a
      fearless but not unfriendly look round the little gathering formed about
      his public devotions, he had asked for the Casa Avellanos. A score of
      hands were extended in answer, with fingers pointing up the Calle de la
      Constitucion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horseman had gone on with only a glance of casual curiosity upwards to
      the windows of the Amarilla Club at the corner. His stentorian voice
      shouted periodically in the empty street, &ldquo;Which is the Casa Avellanos?&rdquo;
       till an answer came from the scared porter, and he disappeared under the
      gate. The letter he was bringing, written by Father Corbelan with a pencil
      by the camp-fire of Hernandez, was addressed to Don Jose, of whose
      critical state the priest was not aware. Antonia read it, and, after
      consulting Charles Gould, sent it on for the information of the gentlemen
      garrisoning the Amarilla Club. For herself, her mind was made up; she
      would rejoin her uncle; she would entrust the last day&mdash;the last
      hours perhaps&mdash;of her father&rsquo;s life to the keeping of the bandit,
      whose existence was a protest against the irresponsible tyranny of all
      parties alike, against the moral darkness of the land. The gloom of Los
      Hatos woods was preferable; a life of hardships in the train of a robber
      band less debasing. Antonia embraced with all her soul her uncle&rsquo;s
      obstinate defiance of misfortune. It was grounded in the belief in the man
      whom she loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his message the Vicar-General answered upon his head for Hernandez&rsquo;s
      fidelity. As to his power, he pointed out that he had remained unsubdued
      for so many years. In that letter Decoud&rsquo;s idea of the new Occidental
      State (whose flourishing and stable condition is a matter of common
      knowledge now) was for the first time made public and used as an argument.
      Hernandez, ex-bandit and the last general of Ribierist creation, was
      confident of being able to hold the tract of country between the woods of
      Los Hatos and the coast range till that devoted patriot, Don Martin
      Decoud, could bring General Barrios back to Sulaco for the reconquest of
      the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven itself wills it. Providence is on our side,&rdquo; wrote Father
      Corbelan; there was no time to reflect upon or to controvert his
      statement; and if the discussion started upon the reading of that letter
      in the Amarilla Club was violent, it was also shortlived. In the general
      bewilderment of the collapse some jumped at the idea with joyful
      astonishment as upon the amazing discovery of a new hope. Others became
      fascinated by the prospect of immediate personal safety for their women
      and children. The majority caught at it as a drowning man catches at a
      straw. Father Corbelan was unexpectedly offering them a refuge from
      Pedrito Montero with his llaneros allied to Senores Fuentes and Gamacho
      with their armed rabble.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the latter part of the afternoon an animated discussion went on in the
      big rooms of the Amarilla Club. Even those members posted at the windows
      with rifles and carbines to guard the end of the street in case of an
      offensive return of the populace shouted their opinions and arguments over
      their shoulders. As dusk fell Don Juste Lopez, inviting those caballeros
      who were of his way of thinking to follow him, withdrew into the corredor,
      where at a little table in the light of two candles he busied himself in
      composing an address, or rather a solemn declaration to be presented to
      Pedrito Montero by a deputation of such members of Assembly as had elected
      to remain in town. His idea was to propitiate him in order to save the
      form at least of parliamentary institutions. Seated before a blank sheet
      of paper, a goose-quill pen in his hand and surged upon from all sides, he
      turned to the right and to the left, repeating with solemn insistence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caballeros, a moment of silence! A moment of silence! We ought to make it
      clear that we bow in all good faith to the accomplished facts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The utterance of that phrase seemed to give him a melancholy satisfaction.
      The hubbub of voices round him was growing strained and hoarse. In the
      sudden pauses the excited grimacing of the faces would sink all at once
      into the stillness of profound dejection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the exodus had begun. Carretas full of ladies and children
      rolled swaying across the Plaza, with men walking or riding by their side;
      mounted parties followed on mules and horses; the poorest were setting out
      on foot, men and women carrying bundles, clasping babies in their arms,
      leading old people, dragging along the bigger children. When Charles
      Gould, after leaving the doctor and the engineer at the Casa Viola,
      entered the town by the harbour gate, all those that had meant to go were
      gone, and the others had barricaded themselves in their houses. In the
      whole dark street there was only one spot of flickering lights and moving
      figures, where the Senor Administrador recognized his wife&rsquo;s carriage
      waiting at the door of the Avellanos&rsquo;s house. He rode up, almost
      unnoticed, and looked on without a word while some of his own servants
      came out of the gate carrying Don Jose Avellanos, who, with closed eyes
      and motionless features, appeared perfectly lifeless. His wife and Antonia
      walked on each side of the improvised stretcher, which was put at once
      into the carriage. The two women embraced; while from the other side of
      the landau Father Corbelan&rsquo;s emissary, with his ragged beard all streaked
      with grey, and high, bronzed cheek-bones, stared, sitting upright in the
      saddle. Then Antonia, dry-eyed, got in by the side of the stretcher, and,
      after making the sign of the cross rapidly, lowered a thick veil upon her
      face. The servants and the three or four neighbours who had come to
      assist, stood back, uncovering their heads. On the box, Ignacio, resigned
      now to driving all night (and to having perhaps his throat cut before
      daylight) looked back surlily over his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drive carefully,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Gould in a tremulous voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, carefully; si nina,&rdquo; he mumbled, chewing his lips, his round leathery
      cheeks quivering. And the landau rolled slowly out of the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will see them as far as the ford,&rdquo; said Charles Gould to his wife. She
      stood on the edge of the sidewalk with her hands clasped lightly, and
      nodded to him as he followed after the carriage. And now the windows of
      the Amarilla Club were dark. The last spark of resistance had died out.
      Turning his head at the corner, Charles Gould saw his wife crossing over
      to their own gate in the lighted patch of the street. One of their
      neighbours, a well-known merchant and landowner of the province, followed
      at her elbow, talking with great gestures. As she passed in all the lights
      went out in the street, which remained dark and empty from end to end.
    </p>
    <p>
      The houses of the vast Plaza were lost in the night. High up, like a star,
      there was a small gleam in one of the towers of the cathedral; and the
      equestrian statue gleamed pale against the black trees of the Alameda,
      like a ghost of royalty haunting the scenes of revolution. The rare
      prowlers they met ranged themselves against the wall. Beyond the last
      houses the carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft cushion of dust, and
      with a greater obscurity a feeling of freshness seemed to fall from the
      foliage of the trees bordering the country road. The emissary from
      Hernandez&rsquo;s camp pushed his horse close to Charles Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caballero,&rdquo; he said in an interested voice, &ldquo;you are he whom they call
      the King of Sulaco, the master of the mine? Is it not so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am the master of the mine,&rdquo; answered Charles Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man cantered for a time in silence, then said, &ldquo;I have a brother, a
      sereno in your service in the San Tome valley. You have proved yourself a
      just man. There has been no wrong done to any one since you called upon
      the people to work in the mountains. My brother says that no official of
      the Government, no oppressor of the Campo, has been seen on your side of
      the stream. Your own officials do not oppress the people in the gorge.
      Doubtless they are afraid of your severity. You are a just man and a
      powerful one,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke in an abrupt, independent tone, but evidently he was
      communicative with a purpose. He told Charles Gould that he had been a
      ranchero in one of the lower valleys, far south, a neighbour of Hernandez
      in the old days, and godfather to his eldest boy; one of those who joined
      him in his resistance to the recruiting raid which was the beginning of
      all their misfortunes. It was he that, when his compadre had been carried
      off, had buried his wife and children, murdered by the soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, senor,&rdquo; he muttered, hoarsely, &ldquo;I and two or three others, the lucky
      ones left at liberty, buried them all in one grave near the ashes of their
      ranch, under the tree that had shaded its roof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was to him, too, that Hernandez came after he had deserted, three years
      afterwards. He had still his uniform on with the sergeant&rsquo;s stripes on the
      sleeve, and the blood of his colonel upon his hands and breast. Three
      troopers followed him, of those who had started in pursuit but had ridden
      on for liberty. And he told Charles Gould how he and a few friends, seeing
      those soldiers, lay in ambush behind some rocks ready to pull the trigger
      on them, when he recognized his compadre and jumped up from cover,
      shouting his name, because he knew that Hernandez could not have been
      coming back on an errand of injustice and oppression. Those three
      soldiers, together with the party who lay behind the rocks, had formed the
      nucleus of the famous band, and he, the narrator, had been the favourite
      lieutenant of Hernandez for many, many years. He mentioned proudly that
      the officials had put a price upon his head, too; but it did not prevent
      it getting sprinkled with grey upon his shoulders. And now he had lived
      long enough to see his compadre made a general.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a burst of muffled laughter. &ldquo;And now from robbers we have become
      soldiers. But look, Caballero, at those who made us soldiers and him a
      general! Look at these people!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ignacio shouted. The light of the carriage lamps, running along the nopal
      hedges that crowned the bank on each side, flashed upon the scared faces
      of people standing aside in the road, sunk deep, like an English country
      lane, into the soft soil of the Campo. They cowered; their eyes glistened
      very big for a second; and then the light, running on, fell upon the
      half-denuded roots of a big tree, on another stretch of nopal hedge,
      caught up another bunch of faces glaring back apprehensively. Three women&mdash;of
      whom one was carrying a child&mdash;and a couple of men in civilian dress&mdash;one
      armed with a sabre and another with a gun&mdash;were grouped about a
      donkey carrying two bundles tied up in blankets. Further on Ignacio
      shouted again to pass a carreta, a long wooden box on two high wheels,
      with the door at the back swinging open. Some ladies in it must have
      recognized the white mules, because they screamed out, &ldquo;Is it you, Dona
      Emilia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the turn of the road the glare of a big fire filled the short stretch
      vaulted over by the branches meeting overhead. Near the ford of a shallow
      stream a roadside rancho of woven rushes and a roof of grass had been set
      on fire by accident, and the flames, roaring viciously, lit up an open
      space blocked with horses, mules, and a distracted, shouting crowd of
      people. When Ignacio pulled up, several ladies on foot assailed the
      carriage, begging Antonia for a seat. To their clamour she answered by
      pointing silently to her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must leave you here,&rdquo; said Charles Gould, in the uproar. The flames
      leaped up sky-high, and in the recoil from the scorching heat across the
      road the stream of fugitives pressed against the carriage. A middle-aged
      lady dressed in black silk, but with a coarse manta over her head and a
      rough branch for a stick in her hand, staggered against the front wheel.
      Two young girls, frightened and silent, were clinging to her arms. Charles
      Gould knew her very well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Misericordia! We are getting terribly bruised in this crowd!&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, smiling up courageously to him. &ldquo;We have started on foot. All
      our servants ran away yesterday to join the democrats. We are going to put
      ourselves under the protection of Father Corbelan, of your sainted uncle,
      Antonia. He has wrought a miracle in the heart of a most merciless robber.
      A miracle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her voice gradually up to a scream as she was borne along by
      the pressure of people getting out of the way of some carts coming up out
      of the ford at a gallop, with loud yells and cracking of whips. Great
      masses of sparks mingled with black smoke flew over the road; the bamboos
      of the walls detonated in the fire with the sound of an irregular
      fusillade. And then the bright blaze sank suddenly, leaving only a red
      dusk crowded with aimless dark shadows drifting in contrary directions;
      the noise of voices seemed to die away with the flame; and the tumult of
      heads, arms, quarrelling, and imprecations passed on fleeing into the
      darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must leave you now,&rdquo; repeated Charles Gould to Antonia. She turned her
      head slowly and uncovered her face. The emissary and compadre of Hernandez
      spurred his horse close up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has not the master of the mine any message to send to Hernandez, the
      master of the Campo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The truth of the comparison struck Charles Gould heavily. In his
      determined purpose he held the mine, and the indomitable bandit held the
      Campo by the same precarious tenure. They were equals before the
      lawlessness of the land. It was impossible to disentangle one&rsquo;s activity
      from its debasing contacts. A close-meshed net of crime and corruption lay
      upon the whole country. An immense and weary discouragement sealed his
      lips for a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a just man,&rdquo; urged the emissary of Hernandez. &ldquo;Look at those
      people who made my compadre a general and have turned us all into
      soldiers. Look at those oligarchs fleeing for life, with only the clothes
      on their backs. My compadre does not think of that, but our followers may
      be wondering greatly, and I would speak for them to you. Listen, senor!
      For many months now the Campo has been our own. We need ask no man for
      anything; but soldiers must have their pay to live honestly when the wars
      are over. It is believed that your soul is so just that a prayer from you
      would cure the sickness of every beast, like the orison of the upright
      judge. Let me have some words from your lips that would act like a charm
      upon the doubts of our partida, where all are men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear what he says?&rdquo; Charles Gould said in English to Antonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive us our misery!&rdquo; she exclaimed, hurriedly. &ldquo;It is your character
      that is the inexhaustible treasure which may save us all yet; your
      character, Carlos, not your wealth. I entreat you to give this man your
      word that you will accept any arrangement my uncle may make with their
      chief. One word. He will want no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the site of the roadside hut there remained nothing but an enormous
      heap of embers, throwing afar a darkening red glow, in which Antonia&rsquo;s
      face appeared deeply flushed with excitement. Charles Gould, with only a
      short hesitation, pronounced the required pledge. He was like a man who
      had ventured on a precipitous path with no room to turn, where the only
      chance of safety is to press forward. At that moment he understood it
      thoroughly as he looked down at Don Jose stretched out, hardly breathing,
      by the side of the erect Antonia, vanquished in a lifelong struggle with
      the powers of moral darkness, whose stagnant depths breed monstrous crimes
      and monstrous illusions. In a few words the emissary from Hernandez
      expressed his complete satisfaction. Stoically Antonia lowered her veil,
      resisting the longing to inquire about Decoud&rsquo;s escape. But Ignacio leered
      morosely over his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a good look at the mules, mi amo,&rdquo; he grumbled. &ldquo;You shall never see
      them again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOUR
    </h2>
    <p>
      Charles Gould turned towards the town. Before him the jagged peaks of the
      Sierra came out all black in the clear dawn. Here and there a muffled
      lepero whisked round the corner of a grass-grown street before the ringing
      hoofs of his horse. Dogs barked behind the walls of the gardens; and with
      the colourless light the chill of the snows seemed to fall from the
      mountains upon the disjointed pavements and the shuttered houses with
      broken cornices and the plaster peeling in patches between the flat
      pilasters of the fronts. The daybreak struggled with the gloom under the
      arcades on the Plaza, with no signs of country people disposing their
      goods for the day&rsquo;s market, piles of fruit, bundles of vegetables
      ornamented with flowers, on low benches under enormous mat umbrellas; with
      no cheery early morning bustle of villagers, women, children, and loaded
      donkeys. Only a few scattered knots of revolutionists stood in the vast
      space, all looking one way from under their slouched hats for some sign of
      news from Rincon. The largest of those groups turned about like one man as
      Charles Gould passed, and shouted, &ldquo;Viva la libertad!&rdquo; after him in a
      menacing tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould rode on, and turned into the archway of his house. In the
      patio littered with straw, a practicante, one of Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s native
      assistants, sat on the ground with his back against the rim of the
      fountain, fingering a guitar discreetly, while two girls of the lower
      class, standing up before him, shuffled their feet a little and waved
      their arms, humming a popular dance tune.
    </p>
    <p>
      Most of the wounded during the two days of rioting had been taken away
      already by their friends and relations, but several figures could be seen
      sitting up balancing their bandaged heads in time to the music. Charles
      Gould dismounted. A sleepy mozo coming out of the bakery door took hold of
      the horse&rsquo;s bridle; the practicante endeavoured to conceal his guitar
      hastily; the girls, unabashed, stepped back smiling; and Charles Gould, on
      his way to the staircase, glanced into a dark corner of the patio at
      another group, a mortally wounded Cargador with a woman kneeling by his
      side; she mumbled prayers rapidly, trying at the same time to force a
      piece of orange between the stiffening lips of the dying man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cruel futility of things stood unveiled in the levity and sufferings
      of that incorrigible people; the cruel futility of lives and of deaths
      thrown away in the vain endeavour to attain an enduring solution of the
      problem. Unlike Decoud, Charles Gould could not play lightly a part in a
      tragic farce. It was tragic enough for him in all conscience, but he could
      see no farcical element. He suffered too much under a conviction of
      irremediable folly. He was too severely practical and too idealistic to
      look upon its terrible humours with amusement, as Martin Decoud, the
      imaginative materialist, was able to do in the dry light of his
      scepticism. To him, as to all of us, the compromises with his conscience
      appeared uglier than ever in the light of failure. His taciturnity,
      assumed with a purpose, had prevented him from tampering openly with his
      thoughts; but the Gould Concession had insidiously corrupted his judgment.
      He might have known, he said to himself, leaning over the balustrade of
      the corredor, that Ribierism could never come to anything. The mine had
      corrupted his judgment by making him sick of bribing and intriguing merely
      to have his work left alone from day to day. Like his father, he did not
      like to be robbed. It exasperated him. He had persuaded himself that,
      apart from higher considerations, the backing up of Don Jose&rsquo;s hopes of
      reform was good business. He had gone forth into the senseless fray as his
      poor uncle, whose sword hung on the wall of his study, had gone forth&mdash;in
      the defence of the commonest decencies of organized society. Only his
      weapon was the wealth of the mine, more far-reaching and subtle than an
      honest blade of steel fitted into a simple brass guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      More dangerous to the wielder, too, this weapon of wealth, double-edged
      with the cupidity and misery of mankind, steeped in all the vices of
      self-indulgence as in a concoction of poisonous roots, tainting the very
      cause for which it is drawn, always ready to turn awkwardly in the hand.
      There was nothing for it now but to go on using it. But he promised
      himself to see it shattered into small bits before he let it be wrenched
      from his grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      After all, with his English parentage and English upbringing, he perceived
      that he was an adventurer in Costaguana, the descendant of adventurers
      enlisted in a foreign legion, of men who had sought fortune in a
      revolutionary war, who had planned revolutions, who had believed in
      revolutions. For all the uprightness of his character, he had something of
      an adventurer&rsquo;s easy morality which takes count of personal risk in the
      ethical appraising of his action. He was prepared, if need be, to blow up
      the whole San Tome mountain sky high out of the territory of the Republic.
      This resolution expressed the tenacity of his character, the remorse of
      that subtle conjugal infidelity through which his wife was no longer the
      sole mistress of his thoughts, something of his father&rsquo;s imaginative
      weakness, and something, too, of the spirit of a buccaneer throwing a
      lighted match into the magazine rather than surrender his ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down below in the patio the wounded Cargador had breathed his last. The
      woman cried out once, and her cry, unexpected and shrill, made all the
      wounded sit up. The practicante scrambled to his feet, and, guitar in
      hand, gazed steadily in her direction with elevated eyebrows. The two
      girls&mdash;sitting now one on each side of their wounded relative, with
      their knees drawn up and long cigars between their lips&mdash;nodded at
      each other significantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, looking down over the balustrade, saw three men dressed
      ceremoniously in black frock-coats with white shirts, and wearing European
      round hats, enter the patio from the street. One of them, head and
      shoulders taller than the two others, advanced with marked gravity,
      leading the way. This was Don Juste Lopez, accompanied by two of his
      friends, members of Assembly, coming to call upon the Administrador of the
      San Tome mine at this early hour. They saw him, too, waved their hands to
      him urgently, walking up the stairs as if in procession.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Juste, astonishingly changed by having shaved off altogether his
      damaged beard, had lost with it nine-tenths of his outward dignity. Even
      at that time of serious pre-occupation Charles Gould could not help noting
      the revealed ineptitude in the aspect of the man. His companions looked
      crestfallen and sleepy. One kept on passing the tip of his tongue over his
      parched lips; the other&rsquo;s eyes strayed dully over the tiled floor of the
      corredor, while Don Juste, standing a little in advance, harangued the
      Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. It was his firm opinion that
      forms had to be observed. A new governor is always visited by deputations
      from the Cabildo, which is the Municipal Council, from the Consulado, the
      commercial Board, and it was proper that the Provincial Assembly should
      send a deputation, too, if only to assert the existence of parliamentary
      institutions. Don Juste proposed that Don Carlos Gould, as the most
      prominent citizen of the province, should join the Assembly&rsquo;s deputation.
      His position was exceptional, his personality known through the length and
      breadth of the whole Republic. Official courtesies must not be neglected,
      if they are gone through with a bleeding heart. The acceptance of
      accomplished facts may save yet the precious vestiges of parliamentary
      institutions. Don Juste&rsquo;s eyes glowed dully; he believed in parliamentary
      institutions&mdash;and the convinced drone of his voice lost itself in the
      stillness of the house like the deep buzzing of some ponderous insect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould had turned round to listen patiently, leaning his elbow on
      the balustrade. He shook his head a little, refusing, almost touched by
      the anxious gaze of the President of the Provincial Assembly. It was not
      Charles Gould&rsquo;s policy to make the San Tome mine a party to any formal
      proceedings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My advice, senores, is that you should wait for your fate in your houses.
      There is no necessity for you to give yourselves up formally into
      Montero&rsquo;s hands. Submission to the inevitable, as Don Juste calls it, is
      all very well, but when the inevitable is called Pedrito Montero there is
      no need to exhibit pointedly the whole extent of your surrender. The fault
      of this country is the want of measure in political life. Flat
      acquiescence in illegality, followed by sanguinary reaction&mdash;that,
      senores, is not the way to a stable and prosperous future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould stopped before the sad bewilderment of the faces, the
      wondering, anxious glances of the eyes. The feeling of pity for those men,
      putting all their trust into words of some sort, while murder and rapine
      stalked over the land, had betrayed him into what seemed empty loquacity.
      Don Juste murmured&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are abandoning us, Don Carlos. . . . And yet, parliamentary
      institutions&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could not finish from grief. For a moment he put his hand over his
      eyes. Charles Gould, in his fear of empty loquacity, made no answer to the
      charge. He returned in silence their ceremonious bows. His taciturnity was
      his refuge. He understood that what they sought was to get the influence
      of the San Tome mine on their side. They wanted to go on a conciliating
      errand to the victor under the wing of the Gould Concession. Other public
      bodies&mdash;the Cabildo, the Consulado&mdash;would be coming, too,
      presently, seeking the support of the most stable, the most effective
      force they had ever known to exist in their province.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, arriving with his sharp, jerky walk, found that the master had
      retired into his own room with orders not to be disturbed on any account.
      But Dr. Monygham was not anxious to see Charles Gould at once. He spent
      some time in a rapid examination of his wounded. He gazed down upon each
      in turn, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger; his steady
      stare met without expression their silently inquisitive look. All these
      cases were doing well; but when he came to the dead Cargador he stopped a
      little longer, surveying not the man who had ceased to suffer, but the
      woman kneeling in silent contemplation of the rigid face, with its pinched
      nostrils and a white gleam in the imperfectly closed eyes. She lifted her
      head slowly, and said in a dull voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not long since he had become a Cargador&mdash;only a few weeks. His
      worship the Capataz had accepted him after many entreaties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not responsible for the great Capataz,&rdquo; muttered the doctor, moving
      off.
    </p>
    <p>
      Directing his course upstairs towards the door of Charles Gould&rsquo;s room,
      the doctor at the last moment hesitated; then, turning away from the
      handle with a shrug of his uneven shoulders, slunk off hastily along the
      corredor in search of Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s camerista.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leonarda told him that the senora had not risen yet. The senora had given
      into her charge the girls belonging to that Italian posadero. She,
      Leonarda, had put them to bed in her own room. The fair girl had cried
      herself to sleep, but the dark one&mdash;the bigger&mdash;had not closed
      her eyes yet. She sat up in bed clutching the sheets right up under her
      chin and staring before her like a little witch. Leonarda did not approve
      of the Viola children being admitted to the house. She made this feeling
      clear by the indifferent tone in which she inquired whether their mother
      was dead yet. As to the senora, she must be asleep. Ever since she had
      gone into her room after seeing the departure of Dona Antonia with her
      dying father, there had been no sound behind her door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, rousing himself out of profound reflection, told her abruptly
      to call her mistress at once. He hobbled off to wait for Mrs. Gould in the
      sala. He was very tired, but too excited to sit down. In this great
      drawing-room, now empty, in which his withered soul had been refreshed
      after many arid years and his outcast spirit had accepted silently the
      toleration of many side-glances, he wandered haphazard amongst the chairs
      and tables till Mrs. Gould, enveloped in a morning wrapper, came in
      rapidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that I never approved of the silver being sent away,&rdquo; the doctor
      began at once, as a preliminary to the narrative of his night&rsquo;s adventures
      in association with Captain Mitchell, the engineer-in-chief, and old
      Viola, at Sotillo&rsquo;s headquarters. To the doctor, with his special
      conception of this political crisis, the removal of the silver had seemed
      an irrational and ill-omened measure. It was as if a general were sending
      the best part of his troops away on the eve of battle upon some recondite
      pretext. The whole lot of ingots might have been concealed somewhere where
      they could have been got at for the purpose of staving off the dangers
      which were menacing the security of the Gould Concession. The
      Administrador had acted as if the immense and powerful prosperity of the
      mine had been founded on methods of probity, on the sense of usefulness.
      And it was nothing of the kind. The method followed had been the only one
      possible. The Gould Concession had ransomed its way through all those
      years. It was a nauseous process. He quite understood that Charles Gould
      had got sick of it and had left the old path to back up that hopeless
      attempt at reform. The doctor did not believe in the reform of Costaguana.
      And now the mine was back again in its old path, with the disadvantage
      that henceforth it had to deal not only with the greed provoked by its
      wealth, but with the resentment awakened by the attempt to free itself
      from its bondage to moral corruption. That was the penalty of failure.
      What made him uneasy was that Charles Gould seemed to him to have weakened
      at the decisive moment when a frank return to the old methods was the only
      chance. Listening to Decoud&rsquo;s wild scheme had been a weakness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor flung up his arms, exclaiming, &ldquo;Decoud! Decoud!&rdquo; He hobbled
      about the room with slight, angry laughs. Many years ago both his ankles
      had been seriously damaged in the course of a certain investigation
      conducted in the castle of Sta. Marta by a commission composed of military
      men. Their nomination had been signified to them unexpectedly at the dead
      of night, with scowling brow, flashing eyes, and in a tempestuous voice,
      by Guzman Bento. The old tyrant, maddened by one of his sudden accesses of
      suspicion, mingled spluttering appeals to their fidelity with imprecations
      and horrible menaces. The cells and casements of the castle on the hill
      had been already filled with prisoners. The commission was charged now
      with the task of discovering the iniquitous conspiracy against the
      Citizen-Saviour of his country.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their dread of the raving tyrant translated itself into a hasty ferocity
      of procedure. The Citizen-Saviour was not accustomed to wait. A conspiracy
      had to be discovered. The courtyards of the castle resounded with the
      clanking of leg-irons, sounds of blows, yells of pain; and the commission
      of high officers laboured feverishly, concealing their distress and
      apprehensions from each other, and especially from their secretary, Father
      Beron, an army chaplain, at that time very much in the confidence of the
      Citizen-Saviour. That priest was a big round-shouldered man, with an
      unclean-looking, overgrown tonsure on the top of his flat head, of a
      dingy, yellow complexion, softly fat, with greasy stains all down the
      front of his lieutenant&rsquo;s uniform, and a small cross embroidered in white
      cotton on his left breast. He had a heavy nose and a pendant lip. Dr.
      Monygham remembered him still. He remembered him against all the force of
      his will striving its utmost to forget. Father Beron had been adjoined to
      the commission by Guzman Bento expressly for the purpose that his
      enlightened zeal should assist them in their labours. Dr. Monygham could
      by no manner of means forget the zeal of Father Beron, or his face, or the
      pitiless, monotonous voice in which he pronounced the words, &ldquo;Will you
      confess now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This memory did not make him shudder, but it had made of him what he was
      in the eyes of respectable people, a man careless of common decencies,
      something between a clever vagabond and a disreputable doctor. But not all
      respectable people would have had the necessary delicacy of sentiment to
      understand with what trouble of mind and accuracy of vision Dr. Monygham,
      medical officer of the San Tome mine, remembered Father Beron, army
      chaplain, and once a secretary of a military commission. After all these
      years Dr. Monygham, in his rooms at the end of the hospital building in
      the San Tome gorge, remembered Father Beron as distinctly as ever. He
      remembered that priest at night, sometimes, in his sleep. On such nights
      the doctor waited for daylight with a candle lighted, and walking the
      whole length of his rooms to and fro, staring down at his bare feet, his
      arms hugging his sides tightly. He would dream of Father Beron sitting at
      the end of a long black table, behind which, in a row, appeared the heads,
      shoulders, and epaulettes of the military members, nibbling the feather of
      a quill pen, and listening with weary and impatient scorn to the
      protestations of some prisoner calling heaven to witness of his innocence,
      till he burst out, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the use of wasting time over that miserable
      nonsense! Let me take him outside for a while.&rdquo; And Father Beron would go
      outside after the clanking prisoner, led away between two soldiers. Such
      interludes happened on many days, many times, with many prisoners. When
      the prisoner returned he was ready to make a full confession, Father Beron
      would declare, leaning forward with that dull, surfeited look which can be
      seen in the eyes of gluttonous persons after a heavy meal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The priest&rsquo;s inquisitorial instincts suffered but little from the want of
      classical apparatus of the Inquisition. At no time of the world&rsquo;s history
      have men been at a loss how to inflict mental and bodily anguish upon
      their fellow-creatures. This aptitude came to them in the growing
      complexity of their passions and the early refinement of their ingenuity.
      But it may safely be said that primeval man did not go to the trouble of
      inventing tortures. He was indolent and pure of heart. He brained his
      neighbour ferociously with a stone axe from necessity and without malice.
      The stupidest mind may invent a rankling phrase or brand the innocent with
      a cruel aspersion. A piece of string and a ramrod; a few muskets in
      combination with a length of hide rope; or even a simple mallet of heavy,
      hard wood applied with a swing to human fingers or to the joints of a
      human body is enough for the infliction of the most exquisite torture. The
      doctor had been a very stubborn prisoner, and, as a natural consequence of
      that &ldquo;bad disposition&rdquo; (so Father Beron called it), his subjugation had
      been very crushing and very complete. That is why the limp in his walk,
      the twist of his shoulders, the scars on his cheeks were so pronounced.
      His confessions, when they came at last, were very complete, too.
      Sometimes on the nights when he walked the floor, he wondered, grinding
      his teeth with shame and rage, at the fertility of his imagination when
      stimulated by a sort of pain which makes truth, honour, selfrespect, and
      life itself matters of little moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      And he could not forget Father Beron with his monotonous phrase, &ldquo;Will you
      confess now?&rdquo; reaching him in an awful iteration and lucidity of meaning
      through the delirious incoherence of unbearable pain. He could not forget.
      But that was not the worst. Had he met Father Beron in the street after
      all these years Dr. Monygham was sure he would have quailed before him.
      This contingency was not to be feared now. Father Beron was dead; but the
      sickening certitude prevented Dr. Monygham from looking anybody in the
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham had become, in a manner, the slave of a ghost. It was
      obviously impossible to take his knowledge of Father Beron home to Europe.
      When making his extorted confessions to the Military Board, Dr. Monygham
      was not seeking to avoid death. He longed for it. Sitting half-naked for
      hours on the wet earth of his prison, and so motionless that the spiders,
      his companions, attached their webs to his matted hair, he consoled the
      misery of his soul with acute reasonings that he had confessed to crimes
      enough for a sentence of death&mdash;that they had gone too far with him
      to let him live to tell the tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as if by a refinement of cruelty, Dr. Monygham was left for months to
      decay slowly in the darkness of his grave-like prison. It was no doubt
      hoped that it would finish him off without the trouble of an execution;
      but Dr. Monygham had an iron constitution. It was Guzman Bento who died,
      not by the knife thrust of a conspirator, but from a stroke of apoplexy,
      and Dr. Monygham was liberated hastily. His fetters were struck off by the
      light of a candle, which, after months of gloom, hurt his eyes so much
      that he had to cover his face with his hands. He was raised up. His heart
      was beating violently with the fear of this liberty. When he tried to walk
      the extraordinary lightness of his feet made him giddy, and he fell down.
      Two sticks were thrust into his hands, and he was pushed out of the
      passage. It was dusk; candles glimmered already in the windows of the
      officers&rsquo; quarters round the courtyard; but the twilight sky dazed him by
      its enormous and overwhelming brilliance. A thin poncho hung over his
      naked, bony shoulders; the rags of his trousers came down no lower than
      his knees; an eighteen months&rsquo; growth of hair fell in dirty grey locks on
      each side of his sharp cheek-bones. As he dragged himself past the
      guard-room door, one of the soldiers, lolling outside, moved by some
      obscure impulse, leaped forward with a strange laugh and rammed a broken
      old straw hat on his head. And Dr. Monygham, after having tottered,
      continued on his way. He advanced one stick, then one maimed foot, then
      the other stick; the other foot followed only a very short distance along
      the ground, toilfully, as though it were almost too heavy to be moved at
      all; and yet his legs under the hanging angles of the poncho appeared no
      thicker than the two sticks in his hands. A ceaseless trembling agitated
      his bent body, all his wasted limbs, his bony head, the conical, ragged
      crown of the sombrero, whose ample flat rim rested on his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      In such conditions of manner and attire did Dr. Monygham go forth to take
      possession of his liberty. And these conditions seemed to bind him
      indissolubly to the land of Costaguana like an awful procedure of
      naturalization, involving him deep in the national life, far deeper than
      any amount of success and honour could have done. They did away with his
      Europeanism; for Dr. Monygham had made himself an ideal conception of his
      disgrace. It was a conception eminently fit and proper for an officer and
      a gentleman. Dr. Monygham, before he went out to Costaguana, had been
      surgeon in one of Her Majesty&rsquo;s regiments of foot. It was a conception
      which took no account of physiological facts or reasonable arguments; but
      it was not stupid for all that. It was simple. A rule of conduct resting
      mainly on severe rejections is necessarily simple. Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s view of
      what it behoved him to do was severe; it was an ideal view, in so much
      that it was the imaginative exaggeration of a correct feeling. It was
      also, in its force, influence, and persistency, the view of an eminently
      loyal nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a great fund of loyalty in Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s nature. He had settled
      it all on Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s head. He believed her worthy of every devotion. At
      the bottom of his heart he felt an angry uneasiness before the prosperity
      of the San Tome mine, because its growth was robbing her of all peace of
      mind. Costaguana was no place for a woman of that kind. What could Charles
      Gould have been thinking of when he brought her out there! It was
      outrageous! And the doctor had watched the course of events with a grim
      and distant reserve which, he imagined, his lamentable history imposed
      upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Loyalty to Mrs. Gould could not, however, leave out of account the safety
      of her husband. The doctor had contrived to be in town at the critical
      time because he mistrusted Charles Gould. He considered him hopelessly
      infected with the madness of revolutions. That is why he hobbled in
      distress in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould on that morning,
      exclaiming, &ldquo;Decoud, Decoud!&rdquo; in a tone of mournful irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, her colour heightened, and with glistening eyes, looked
      straight before her at the sudden enormity of that disaster. The
      finger-tips on one hand rested lightly on a low little table by her side,
      and the arm trembled right up to the shoulder. The sun, which looks late
      upon Sulaco, issuing in all the fulness of its power high up on the sky
      from behind the dazzling snow-edge of Higuerota, had precipitated the
      delicate, smooth, pearly greyness of light, in which the town lies steeped
      during the early hours, into sharp-cut masses of black shade and spaces of
      hot, blinding glare. Three long rectangles of sunshine fell through the
      windows of the sala; while just across the street the front of the
      Avellanos&rsquo;s house appeared very sombre in its own shadow seen through the
      flood of light.
    </p>
    <p>
      A voice said at the door, &ldquo;What of Decoud?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Charles Gould. They had not heard him coming along the corredor.
      His glance just glided over his wife and struck full at the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have brought some news, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham blurted it all out at once, in the rough. For some time after
      he had done, the Administrador of the San Tome mine remained looking at
      him without a word. Mrs. Gould sank into a low chair with her hands lying
      on her lap. A silence reigned between those three motionless persons. Then
      Charles Gould spoke&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must want some breakfast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood aside to let his wife pass first. She caught up her husband&rsquo;s
      hand and pressed it as she went out, raising her handkerchief to her eyes.
      The sight of her husband had brought Antonia&rsquo;s position to her mind, and
      she could not contain her tears at the thought of the poor girl. When she
      rejoined the two men in the diningroom after having bathed her face,
      Charles Gould was saying to the doctor across the table&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, there does not seem any room for doubt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the doctor assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t see myself how we could question that wretched Hirsch&rsquo;s tale.
      It&rsquo;s only too true, I fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat down desolately at the head of the table and looked from one to
      the other. The two men, without absolutely turning their heads away, tried
      to avoid her glance. The doctor even made a show of being hungry; he
      seized his knife and fork, and began to eat with emphasis, as if on the
      stage. Charles Gould made no pretence of the sort; with his elbows raised
      squarely, he twisted both ends of his flaming moustaches&mdash;they were
      so long that his hands were quite away from his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not surprised,&rdquo; he muttered, abandoning his moustaches and throwing
      one arm over the back of his chair. His face was calm with that immobility
      of expression which betrays the intensity of a mental struggle. He felt
      that this accident had brought to a point all the consequences involved in
      his line of conduct, with its conscious and subconscious intentions. There
      must be an end now of this silent reserve, of that air of impenetrability
      behind which he had been safeguarding his dignity. It was the least
      ignoble form of dissembling forced upon him by that parody of civilized
      institutions which offended his intelligence, his uprightness, and his
      sense of right. He was like his father. He had no ironic eye. He was not
      amused at the absurdities that prevail in this world. They hurt him in his
      innate gravity. He felt that the miserable death of that poor Decoud took
      from him his inaccessible position of a force in the background. It
      committed him openly unless he wished to throw up the game&mdash;and that
      was impossible. The material interests required from him the sacrifice of
      his aloofness&mdash;perhaps his own safety too. And he reflected that
      Decoud&rsquo;s separationist plan had not gone to the bottom with the lost
      silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only thing that was not changed was his position towards Mr. Holroyd.
      The head of silver and steel interests had entered into Costaguana affairs
      with a sort of passion. Costaguana had become necessary to his existence;
      in the San Tome mine he had found the imaginative satisfaction which other
      minds would get from drama, from art, or from a risky and fascinating
      sport. It was a special form of the great man&rsquo;s extravagance, sanctioned
      by a moral intention, big enough to flatter his vanity. Even in this
      aberration of his genius he served the progress of the world. Charles
      Gould felt sure of being understood with precision and judged with the
      indulgence of their common passion. Nothing now could surprise or startle
      this great man. And Charles Gould imagined himself writing a letter to San
      Francisco in some such words: &ldquo;. . . . The men at the head of the movement
      are dead or have fled; the civil organization of the province is at an end
      for the present; the Blanco party in Sulaco has collapsed inexcusably, but
      in the characteristic manner of this country. But Barrios, untouched in
      Cayta, remains still available. I am forced to take up openly the plan of
      a provincial revolution as the only way of placing the enormous material
      interests involved in the prosperity and peace of Sulaco in a position of
      permanent safety. . . .&rdquo; That was clear. He saw these words as if written
      in letters of fire upon the wall at which he was gazing abstractedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs Gould watched his abstraction with dread. It was a domestic and
      frightful phenomenon that darkened and chilled the house for her like a
      thundercloud passing over the sun. Charles Gould&rsquo;s fits of abstraction
      depicted the energetic concentration of a will haunted by a fixed idea. A
      man haunted by a fixed idea is insane. He is dangerous even if that idea
      is an idea of justice; for may he not bring the heaven down pitilessly
      upon a loved head? The eyes of Mrs. Gould, watching her husband&rsquo;s profile,
      filled with tears again. And again she seemed to see the despair of the
      unfortunate Antonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would I have done if Charley had been drowned while we were
      engaged?&rdquo; she exclaimed, mentally, with horror. Her heart turned to ice,
      while her cheeks flamed up as if scorched by the blaze of a funeral pyre
      consuming all her earthly affections. The tears burst out of her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Antonia will kill herself!&rdquo; she cried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      This cry fell into the silence of the room with strangely little effect.
      Only the doctor, crumbling up a piece of bread, with his head inclined on
      one side, raised his face, and the few long hairs sticking out of his
      shaggy eyebrows stirred in a slight frown. Dr. Monygham thought quite
      sincerely that Decoud was a singularly unworthy object for any woman&rsquo;s
      affection. Then he lowered his head again, with a curl of his lip, and his
      heart full of tender admiration for Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She thinks of that girl,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;she thinks of the Viola
      children; she thinks of me; of the wounded; of the miners; she always
      thinks of everybody who is poor and miserable! But what will she do if
      Charles gets the worst of it in this infernal scrimmage those confounded
      Avellanos have drawn him into? No one seems to be thinking of her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, staring at the wall, pursued his reflections subtly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall write to Holroyd that the San Tome mine is big enough to take in
      hand the making of a new State. It&rsquo;ll please him. It&rsquo;ll reconcile him to
      the risk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But was Barrios really available? Perhaps. But he was inaccessible. To
      send off a boat to Cayta was no longer possible, since Sotillo was master
      of the harbour, and had a steamer at his disposal. And now, with all the
      democrats in the province up, and every Campo township in a state of
      disturbance, where could he find a man who would make his way successfully
      overland to Cayta with a message, a ten days&rsquo; ride at least; a man of
      courage and resolution, who would avoid arrest or murder, and if arrested
      would faithfully eat the paper? The Capataz de Cargadores would have been
      just such a man. But the Capataz of the Cargadores was no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Charles Gould, withdrawing his eyes from the wall, said gently, &ldquo;That
      Hirsch! What an extraordinary thing! Saved himself by clinging to the
      anchor, did he? I had no idea that he was still in Sulaco. I thought he
      had gone back overland to Esmeralda more than a week ago. He came here
      once to talk to me about his hide business and some other things. I made
      it clear to him that nothing could be done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was afraid to start back on account of Hernandez being about,&rdquo;
       remarked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And but for him we might not have known anything of what has happened,&rdquo;
       marvelled Charles Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould cried out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Antonia must not know! She must not be told. Not now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody&rsquo;s likely to carry the news,&rdquo; remarked the doctor. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s no one&rsquo;s
      interest. Moreover, the people here are afraid of Hernandez as if he were
      the devil.&rdquo; He turned to Charles Gould. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s even awkward, because if you
      wanted to communicate with the refugees you could find no messenger. When
      Hernandez was ranging hundreds of miles away from here the Sulaco populace
      used to shudder at the tales of him roasting his prisoners alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; murmured Charles Gould; &ldquo;Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s Capataz was the only
      man in the town who had seen Hernandez eye to eye. Father Corbelan
      employed him. He opened the communications first. It is a pity that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice was covered by the booming of the great bell of the cathedral.
      Three single strokes, one after another, burst out explosively, dying away
      in deep and mellow vibrations. And then all the bells in the tower of
      every church, convent, or chapel in town, even those that had remained
      shut up for years, pealed out together with a crash. In this furious flood
      of metallic uproar there was a power of suggesting images of strife and
      violence which blanched Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s cheek. Basilio, who had been waiting
      at table, shrinking within himself, clung to the sideboard with chattering
      teeth. It was impossible to hear yourself speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut these windows!&rdquo; Charles Gould yelled at him, angrily. All the other
      servants, terrified at what they took for the signal of a general
      massacre, had rushed upstairs, tumbling over each other, men and women,
      the obscure and generally invisible population of the ground floor on the
      four sides of the patio. The women, screaming &ldquo;Misericordia!&rdquo; ran right
      into the room, and, falling on their knees against the walls, began to
      cross themselves convulsively. The staring heads of men blocked the
      doorway in an instant&mdash;mozos from the stable, gardeners, nondescript
      helpers living on the crumbs of the munificent house&mdash;and Charles
      Gould beheld all the extent of his domestic establishment, even to the
      gatekeeper. This was a half-paralyzed old man, whose long white locks fell
      down to his shoulders: an heirloom taken up by Charles Gould&rsquo;s familial
      piety. He could remember Henry Gould, an Englishman and a Costaguanero of
      the second generation, chief of the Sulaco province; he had been his
      personal mozo years and years ago in peace and war; had been allowed to
      attend his master in prison; had, on the fatal morning, followed the
      firing squad; and, peeping from behind one of the cypresses growing along
      the wall of the Franciscan Convent, had seen, with his eyes starting out
      of his head, Don Enrique throw up his hands and fall with his face in the
      dust. Charles Gould noted particularly the big patriarchal head of that
      witness in the rear of the other servants. But he was surprised to see a
      shrivelled old hag or two, of whose existence within the walls of his
      house he had not been aware. They must have been the mothers, or even the
      grandmothers of some of his people. There were a few children, too, more
      or less naked, crying and clinging to the legs of their elders. He had
      never before noticed any sign of a child in his patio. Even Leonarda, the
      camerista, came in a fright, pushing through, with her spoiled, pouting
      face of a favourite maid, leading the Viola girls by the hand. The
      crockery rattled on table and sideboard, and the whole house seemed to
      sway in the deafening wave of sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      During the night the expectant populace had taken possession of all the
      belfries in the town in order to welcome Pedrito Montero, who was making
      his entry after having slept the night in Rincon. And first came
      straggling in through the land gate the armed mob of all colours,
      complexions, types, and states of raggedness, calling themselves the
      Sulaco National Guard, and commanded by Senor Gamacho. Through the middle
      of the street streamed, like a torrent of rubbish, a mass of straw hats,
      ponchos, gun-barrels, with an enormous green and yellow flag flapping in
      their midst, in a cloud of dust, to the furious beating of drums. The
      spectators recoiled against the walls of the houses shouting their Vivas!
      Behind the rabble could be seen the lances of the cavalry, the &ldquo;army&rdquo; of
      Pedro Montero. He advanced between Senores Fuentes and Gamacho at the head
      of his llaneros, who had accomplished the feat of crossing the Paramos of
      the Higuerota in a snow-storm. They rode four abreast, mounted on
      confiscated Campo horses, clad in the heterogeneous stock of roadside
      stores they had looted hurriedly in their rapid ride through the northern
      part of the province; for Pedro Montero had been in a great hurry to
      occupy Sulaco. The handkerchiefs knotted loosely around their bare throats
      were glaringly new, and all the right sleeves of their cotton shirts had
      been cut off close to the shoulder for greater freedom in throwing the
      lazo. Emaciated greybeards rode by the side of lean dark youths, marked by
      all the hardships of campaigning, with strips of raw beef twined round the
      crowns of their hats, and huge iron spurs fastened to their naked heels.
      Those that in the passes of the mountain had lost their lances had
      provided themselves with the goads used by the Campo cattlemen: slender
      shafts of palm fully ten feet long, with a lot of loose rings jingling
      under the ironshod point. They were armed with knives and revolvers. A
      haggard fearlessness characterized the expression of all these sun-blacked
      countenances; they glared down haughtily with their scorched eyes at the
      crowd, or, blinking upwards insolently, pointed out to each other some
      particular head amongst the women at the windows. When they had ridden
      into the Plaza and caught sight of the equestrian statue of the King
      dazzlingly white in the sunshine, towering enormous and motionless above
      the surges of the crowd, with its eternal gesture of saluting, a murmur of
      surprise ran through their ranks. &ldquo;What is that saint in the big hat?&rdquo;
       they asked each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were a good sample of the cavalry of the plains with which Pedro
      Montero had helped so much the victorious career of his brother the
      general. The influence which that man, brought up in coast towns, acquired
      in a short time over the plainsmen of the Republic can be ascribed only to
      a genius for treachery of so effective a kind that it must have appeared
      to those violent men but little removed from a state of utter savagery, as
      the perfection of sagacity and virtue. The popular lore of all nations
      testifies that duplicity and cunning, together with bodily strength, were
      looked upon, even more than courage, as heroic virtues by primitive
      mankind. To overcome your adversary was the great affair of life. Courage
      was taken for granted. But the use of intelligence awakened wonder and
      respect. Stratagems, providing they did not fail, were honourable; the
      easy massacre of an unsuspecting enemy evoked no feelings but those of
      gladness, pride, and admiration. Not perhaps that primitive men were more
      faithless than their descendants of to-day, but that they went straighter
      to their aim, and were more artless in their recognition of success as the
      only standard of morality.
    </p>
    <p>
      We have changed since. The use of intelligence awakens little wonder and
      less respect. But the ignorant and barbarous plainsmen engaging in civil
      strife followed willingly a leader who often managed to deliver their
      enemies bound, as it were, into their hands. Pedro Montero had a talent
      for lulling his adversaries into a sense of security. And as men learn
      wisdom with extreme slowness, and are always ready to believe promises
      that flatter their secret hopes, Pedro Montero was successful time after
      time. Whether only a servant or some inferior official in the Costaguana
      Legation in Paris, he had rushed back to his country directly he heard
      that his brother had emerged from the obscurity of his frontier
      commandancia. He had managed to deceive by his gift of plausibility the
      chiefs of the Ribierist movement in the capital, and even the acute agent
      of the San Tome mine had failed to understand him thoroughly. At once he
      had obtained an enormous influence over his brother. They were very much
      alike in appearance, both bald, with bunches of crisp hair above their
      ears, arguing the presence of some negro blood. Only Pedro was smaller
      than the general, more delicate altogether, with an ape-like faculty for
      imitating all the outward signs of refinement and distinction, and with a
      parrot-like talent for languages. Both brothers had received some
      elementary instruction by the munificence of a great European traveller,
      to whom their father had been a body-servant during his journeys in the
      interior of the country. In General Montero&rsquo;s case it enabled him to rise
      from the ranks. Pedrito, the younger, incorrigibly lazy and slovenly, had
      drifted aimlessly from one coast town to another, hanging about
      counting-houses, attaching himself to strangers as a sort of
      valet-de-place, picking up an easy and disreputable living. His ability to
      read did nothing for him but fill his head with absurd visions. His
      actions were usually determined by motives so improbable in themselves as
      to escape the penetration of a rational person.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus at first sight the agent of the Gould Concession in Sta. Marta had
      credited him with the possession of sane views, and even with a
      restraining power over the general&rsquo;s everlastingly discontented vanity. It
      could never have entered his head that Pedrito Montero, lackey or inferior
      scribe, lodged in the garrets of the various Parisian hotels where the
      Costaguana Legation used to shelter its diplomatic dignity, had been
      devouring the lighter sort of historical works in the French language,
      such, for instance as the books of Imbert de Saint Amand upon the Second
      Empire. But Pedrito had been struck by the splendour of a brilliant court,
      and had conceived the idea of an existence for himself where, like the Duc
      de Morny, he would associate the command of every pleasure with the
      conduct of political affairs and enjoy power supremely in every way.
      Nobody could have guessed that. And yet this was one of the immediate
      causes of the Monterist Revolution. This will appear less incredible by
      the reflection that the fundamental causes were the same as ever, rooted
      in the political immaturity of the people, in the indolence of the upper
      classes and the mental darkness of the lower.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pedrito Montero saw in the elevation of his brother the road wide open to
      his wildest imaginings. This was what made the Monterist pronunciamiento
      so unpreventable. The general himself probably could have been bought off,
      pacified with flatteries, despatched on a diplomatic mission to Europe. It
      was his brother who had egged him on from first to last. He wanted to
      become the most brilliant statesman of South America. He did not desire
      supreme power. He would have been afraid of its labour and risk, in fact.
      Before all, Pedrito Montero, taught by his European experience, meant to
      acquire a serious fortune for himself. With this object in view he
      obtained from his brother, on the very morrow of the successful battle,
      the permission to push on over the mountains and take possession of
      Sulaco. Sulaco was the land of future prosperity, the chosen land of
      material progress, the only province in the Republic of interest to
      European capitalists. Pedrito Montero, following the example of the Duc de
      Morny, meant to have his share of this prosperity. This is what he meant
      literally. Now his brother was master of the country, whether as
      President, Dictator, or even as Emperor&mdash;why not as an Emperor?&mdash;he
      meant to demand a share in every enterprise&mdash;in railways, in mines,
      in sugar estates, in cotton mills, in land companies, in each and every
      undertaking&mdash;as the price of his protection. The desire to be on the
      spot early was the real cause of the celebrated ride over the mountains
      with some two hundred llaneros, an enterprise of which the dangers had not
      appeared at first clearly to his impatience. Coming from a series of
      victories, it seemed to him that a Montero had only to appear to be master
      of the situation. This illusion had betrayed him into a rashness of which
      he was becoming aware. As he rode at the head of his llaneros he regretted
      that there were so few of them. The enthusiasm of the populace reassured
      him. They yelled &ldquo;Viva Montero! Viva Pedrito!&rdquo; In order to make them still
      more enthusiastic, and from the natural pleasure he had in dissembling, he
      dropped the reins on his horse&rsquo;s neck, and with a tremendous effect of
      familiarity and confidence slipped his hands under the arms of Senores
      Fuentes and Gamacho. In that posture, with a ragged town mozo holding his
      horse by the bridle, he rode triumphantly across the Plaza to the door of
      the Intendencia. Its old gloomy walls seemed to shake in the acclamations
      that rent the air and covered the crashing peals of the cathedral bells.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pedro Montero, the brother of the general, dismounted into a shouting and
      perspiring throng of enthusiasts whom the ragged Nationals were pushing
      back fiercely. Ascending a few steps he surveyed the large crowd gaping at
      him and the bullet-speckled walls of the houses opposite lightly veiled by
      a sunny haze of dust. The word &ldquo;<i>Pourvenir</i>&rdquo; in immense black
      capitals, alternating with broken windows, stared at him across the vast
      space; and he thought with delight of the hour of vengeance, because he
      was very sure of laying his hands upon Decoud. On his left hand, Gamacho,
      big and hot, wiping his hairy wet face, uncovered a set of yellow fangs in
      a grin of stupid hilarity. On his right, Senor Fuentes, small and lean,
      looked on with compressed lips. The crowd stared literally open-mouthed,
      lost in eager stillness, as though they had expected the great
      guerrillero, the famous Pedrito, to begin scattering at once some sort of
      visible largesse. What he began was a speech. He began it with the shouted
      word &ldquo;Citizens!&rdquo; which reached even those in the middle of the Plaza.
      Afterwards the greater part of the citizens remained fascinated by the
      orator&rsquo;s action alone, his tip-toeing, the arms flung above his head with
      the fists clenched, a hand laid flat upon the heart, the silver gleam of
      rolling eyes, the sweeping, pointing, embracing gestures, a hand laid
      familiarly on Gamacho&rsquo;s shoulder; a hand waved formally towards the little
      black-coated person of Senor Fuentes, advocate and politician and a true
      friend of the people. The vivas of those nearest to the orator bursting
      out suddenly propagated themselves irregularly to the confines of the
      crowd, like flames running over dry grass, and expired in the opening of
      the streets. In the intervals, over the swarming Plaza brooded a heavy
      silence, in which the mouth of the orator went on opening and shutting,
      and detached phrases&mdash;&ldquo;The happiness of the people,&rdquo; &ldquo;Sons of the
      country,&rdquo; &ldquo;The entire world, el mundo entiero&rdquo;&mdash;reached even the
      packed steps of the cathedral with a feeble clear ring, thin as the
      buzzing of a mosquito. But the orator struck his breast; he seemed to
      prance between his two supporters. It was the supreme effort of his
      peroration. Then the two smaller figures disappeared from the public gaze
      and the enormous Gamacho, left alone, advanced, raising his hat high above
      his head. Then he covered himself proudly and yelled out, &ldquo;Ciudadanos!&rdquo; A
      dull roar greeted Senor Gamacho, ex-pedlar of the Campo, Commandante of
      the National Guards.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs Pedrito Montero walked about rapidly from one wrecked room of the
      Intendencia to another, snarling incessantly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What stupidity! What destruction!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Senor Fuentes, following, would relax his taciturn disposition to murmur&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all the work of Gamacho and his Nationals;&rdquo; and then, inclining his
      head on his left shoulder, would press together his lips so firmly that a
      little hollow would appear at each corner. He had his nomination for
      Political Chief of the town in his pocket, and was all impatience to enter
      upon his functions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the long audience room, with its tall mirrors all starred by stones,
      the hangings torn down and the canopy over the platform at the upper end
      pulled to pieces, the vast, deep muttering of the crowd and the howling
      voice of Gamacho speaking just below reached them through the shutters as
      they stood idly in dimness and desolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The brute!&rdquo; observed his Excellency Don Pedro Montero through clenched
      teeth. &ldquo;We must contrive as quickly as possible to send him and his
      Nationals out there to fight Hernandez.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The new Gefe Politico only jerked his head sideways, and took a puff at
      his cigarette in sign of his agreement with this method for ridding the
      town of Gamacho and his inconvenient rabble.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pedrito Montero looked with disgust at the absolutely bare floor, and at
      the belt of heavy gilt picture-frames running round the room, out of which
      the remnants of torn and slashed canvases fluttered like dingy rags.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are not barbarians,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was what said his Excellency, the popular Pedrito, the guerrillero
      skilled in the art of laying ambushes, charged by his brother at his own
      demand with the organization of Sulaco on democratic principles. The night
      before, during the consultation with his partisans, who had come out to
      meet him in Rincon, he had opened his intentions to Senor Fuentes&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall organize a popular vote, by yes or no, confiding the destinies
      of our beloved country to the wisdom and valiance of my heroic brother,
      the invincible general. A plebiscite. Do you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Senor Fuentes, puffing out his leathery cheeks, had inclined his head
      slightly to the left, letting a thin, bluish jet of smoke escape through
      his pursed lips. He had understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      His Excellency was exasperated at the devastation. Not a single chair,
      table, sofa, etagere or console had been left in the state rooms of the
      Intendencia. His Excellency, though twitching all over with rage, was
      restrained from bursting into violence by a sense of his remoteness and
      isolation. His heroic brother was very far away. Meantime, how was he
      going to take his siesta? He had expected to find comfort and luxury in
      the Intendencia after a year of hard camp life, ending with the hardships
      and privations of the daring dash upon Sulaco&mdash;upon the province
      which was worth more in wealth and influence than all the rest of the
      Republic&rsquo;s territory. He would get even with Gamacho by-and-by. And Senor
      Gamacho&rsquo;s oration, delectable to popular ears, went on in the heat and
      glare of the Plaza like the uncouth howlings of an inferior sort of devil
      cast into a white-hot furnace. Every moment he had to wipe his streaming
      face with his bare fore-arm; he had flung off his coat, and had turned up
      the sleeves of his shirt high above the elbows; but he kept on his head
      the large cocked hat with white plumes. His ingenuousness cherished this
      sign of his rank as Commandante of the National Guards. Approving and
      grave murmurs greeted his periods. His opinion was that war should be
      declared at once against France, England, Germany, and the United States,
      who, by introducing railways, mining enterprises, colonization, and under
      such other shallow pretences, aimed at robbing poor people of their lands,
      and with the help of these Goths and paralytics, the aristocrats would
      convert them into toiling and miserable slaves. And the leperos, flinging
      about the corners of their dirty white mantas, yelled their approbation.
      General Montero, Gamacho howled with conviction, was the only man equal to
      the patriotic task. They assented to that, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      The morning was wearing on; there were already signs of disruption,
      currents and eddies in the crowd. Some were seeking the shade of the walls
      and under the trees of the Alameda. Horsemen spurred through, shouting;
      groups of sombreros set level on heads against the vertical sun were
      drifting away into the streets, where the open doors of pulperias revealed
      an enticing gloom resounding with the gentle tinkling of guitars. The
      National Guards were thinking of siesta, and the eloquence of Gamacho,
      their chief, was exhausted. Later on, when, in the cooler hours of the
      afternoon, they tried to assemble again for further consideration of
      public affairs, detachments of Montero&rsquo;s cavalry camped on the Alameda
      charged them without parley, at speed, with long lances levelled at their
      flying backs as far as the ends of the streets. The National Guards of
      Sulaco were surprised by this proceeding. But they were not indignant. No
      Costaguanero had ever learned to question the eccentricities of a military
      force. They were part of the natural order of things. This must be, they
      concluded, some kind of administrative measure, no doubt. But the motive
      of it escaped their unaided intelligence, and their chief and orator,
      Gamacho, Commandante of the National Guard, was lying drunk and asleep in
      the bosom of his family. His bare feet were upturned in the shadows
      repulsively, in the manner of a corpse. His eloquent mouth had dropped
      open. His youngest daughter, scratching her head with one hand, with the
      other waved a green bough over his scorched and peeling face.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      The declining sun had shifted the shadows from west to east amongst the
      houses of the town. It had shifted them upon the whole extent of the
      immense Campo, with the white walls of its haciendas on the knolls
      dominating the green distances; with its grass-thatched ranches crouching
      in the folds of ground by the banks of streams; with the dark islands of
      clustered trees on a clear sea of grass, and the precipitous range of the
      Cordillera, immense and motionless, emerging from the billows of the lower
      forests like the barren coast of a land of giants. The sunset rays
      striking the snow-slope of Higuerota from afar gave it an air of rosy
      youth, while the serrated mass of distant peaks remained black, as if
      calcined in the fiery radiance. The undulating surface of the forests
      seemed powdered with pale gold dust; and away there, beyond Rincon, hidden
      from the town by two wooded spurs, the rocks of the San Tome gorge, with
      the flat wall of the mountain itself crowned by gigantic ferns, took on
      warm tones of brown and yellow, with red rusty streaks, and the dark green
      clumps of bushes rooted in crevices. From the plain the stamp sheds and
      the houses of the mine appeared dark and small, high up, like the nests of
      birds clustered on the ledges of a cliff. The zigzag paths resembled faint
      tracings scratched on the wall of a cyclopean blockhouse. To the two
      serenos of the mine on patrol duty, strolling, carbine in hand, and
      watchful eyes, in the shade of the trees lining the stream near the
      bridge, Don Pepe, descending the path from the upper plateau, appeared no
      bigger than a large beetle.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his air of aimless, insect-like going to and fro upon the face of the
      rock, Don Pepe&rsquo;s figure kept on descending steadily, and, when near the
      bottom, sank at last behind the roofs of store-houses, forges, and
      workshops. For a time the pair of serenos strolled back and forth before
      the bridge, on which they had stopped a horseman holding a large white
      envelope in his hand. Then Don Pepe, emerging in the village street from
      amongst the houses, not a stone&rsquo;s throw from the frontier bridge,
      approached, striding in wide dark trousers tucked into boots, a white
      linen jacket, sabre at his side, and revolver at his belt. In this
      disturbed time nothing could find the Senor Gobernador with his boots off,
      as the saying is.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a slight nod from one of the serenos, the man, a messenger from the
      town, dismounted, and crossed the bridge, leading his horse by the bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe received the letter from his other hand, slapped his left side
      and his hips in succession, feeling for his spectacle case. After settling
      the heavy silvermounted affair astride his nose, and adjusting it
      carefully behind his ears, he opened the envelope, holding it up at about
      a foot in front of his eyes. The paper he pulled out contained some three
      lines of writing. He looked at them for a long time. His grey moustache
      moved slightly up and down, and the wrinkles, radiating at the corners of
      his eyes, ran together. He nodded serenely. &ldquo;Bueno,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There is no
      answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, in his quiet, kindly way, he engaged in a cautious conversation with
      the man, who was willing to talk cheerily, as if something lucky had
      happened to him recently. He had seen from a distance Sotillo&rsquo;s infantry
      camped along the shore of the harbour on each side of the Custom House.
      They had done no damage to the buildings. The foreigners of the railway
      remained shut up within the yards. They were no longer anxious to shoot
      poor people. He cursed the foreigners; then he reported Montero&rsquo;s entry
      and the rumours of the town. The poor were going to be made rich now. That
      was very good. More he did not know, and, breaking into propitiatory
      smiles, he intimated that he was hungry and thirsty. The old major
      directed him to go to the alcalde of the first village. The man rode off,
      and Don Pepe, striding slowly in the direction of a little wooden belfry,
      looked over a hedge into a little garden, and saw Father Roman sitting in
      a white hammock slung between two orange trees in front of the presbytery.
    </p>
    <p>
      An enormous tamarind shaded with its dark foliage the whole white
      framehouse. A young Indian girl with long hair, big eyes, and small hands
      and feet, carried out a wooden chair, while a thin old woman, crabbed and
      vigilant, watched her all the time from the verandah.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe sat down in the chair and lighted a cigar; the priest drew in an
      immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm. On his
      reddish-brown face, worn, hollowed as if crumbled, the eyes, fresh and
      candid, sparkled like two black diamonds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe, in a mild and humorous voice, informed Father Roman that Pedrito
      Montero, by the hand of Senor Fuentes, had asked him on what terms he
      would surrender the mine in proper working order to a legally constituted
      commission of patriotic citizens, escorted by a small military force. The
      priest cast his eyes up to heaven. However, Don Pepe continued, the mozo
      who brought the letter said that Don Carlos Gould was alive, and so far
      unmolested.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Roman expressed in a few words his thankfulness at hearing of the
      Senor Administrador&rsquo;s safety.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hour of oration had gone by in the silvery ringing of a bell in the
      little belfry. The belt of forest closing the entrance of the valley stood
      like a screen between the low sun and the street of the village. At the
      other end of the rocky gorge, between the walls of basalt and granite, a
      forest-clad mountain, hiding all the range from the San Tome dwellers,
      rose steeply, lighted up and leafy to the very top. Three small rosy
      clouds hung motionless overhead in the great depth of blue. Knots of
      people sat in the street between the wattled huts. Before the casa of the
      alcalde, the foremen of the night-shift, already assembled to lead their
      men, squatted on the ground in a circle of leather skull-caps, and, bowing
      their bronze backs, were passing round the gourd of mate. The mozo from
      the town, having fastened his horse to a wooden post before the door, was
      telling them the news of Sulaco as the blackened gourd of the decoction
      passed from hand to hand. The grave alcalde himself, in a white waistcloth
      and a flowered chintz gown with sleeves, open wide upon his naked stout
      person with an effect of a gaudy bathing robe, stood by, wearing a rough
      beaver hat at the back of his head, and grasping a tall staff with a
      silver knob in his hand. These insignia of his dignity had been conferred
      upon him by the Administration of the mine, the fountain of honour, of
      prosperity, and peace. He had been one of the first immigrants into this
      valley; his sons and sons-in-law worked within the mountain which seemed
      with its treasures to pour down the thundering ore shoots of the upper
      mesa, the gifts of well-being, security, and justice upon the toilers. He
      listened to the news from the town with curiosity and indifference, as if
      concerning another world than his own. And it was true that they appeared
      to him so. In a very few years the sense of belonging to a powerful
      organization had been developed in these harassed, half-wild Indians. They
      were proud of, and attached to, the mine. It had secured their confidence
      and belief. They invested it with a protecting and invincible virtue as
      though it were a fetish made by their own hands, for they were ignorant,
      and in other respects did not differ appreciably from the rest of mankind
      which puts infinite trust in its own creations. It never entered the
      alcalde&rsquo;s head that the mine could fail in its protection and force.
      Politics were good enough for the people of the town and the Campo. His
      yellow, round face, with wide nostrils, and motionless in expression,
      resembled a fierce full moon. He listened to the excited vapourings of the
      mozo without misgivings, without surprise, without any active sentiment
      whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Padre Roman sat dejectedly balancing himself, his feet just touching the
      ground, his hands gripping the edge of the hammock. With less confidence,
      but as ignorant as his flock, he asked the major what did he think was
      going to happen now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe, bolt upright in the chair, folded his hands peacefully on the
      hilt of his sword, standing perpendicular between his thighs, and answered
      that he did not know. The mine could be defended against any force likely
      to be sent to take possession. On the other hand, from the arid character
      of the valley, when the regular supplies from the Campo had been cut off,
      the population of the three villages could be starved into submission. Don
      Pepe exposed these contingencies with serenity to Father Roman, who, as an
      old campaigner, was able to understand the reasoning of a military man.
      They talked with simplicity and directness. Father Roman was saddened at
      the idea of his flock being scattered or else enslaved. He had no
      illusions as to their fate, not from penetration, but from long experience
      of political atrocities, which seemed to him fatal and unavoidable in the
      life of a State. The working of the usual public institutions presented
      itself to him most distinctly as a series of calamities overtaking private
      individuals and flowing logically from each other through hate, revenge,
      folly, and rapacity, as though they had been part of a divine
      dispensation. Father Roman&rsquo;s clear-sightedness was served by an uninformed
      intelligence; but his heart, preserving its tenderness amongst scenes of
      carnage, spoliation, and violence, abhorred these calamities the more as
      his association with the victims was closer. He entertained towards the
      Indians of the valley feelings of paternal scorn. He had been marrying,
      baptizing, confessing, absolving, and burying the workers of the San Tome
      mine with dignity and unction for five years or more; and he believed in
      the sacredness of these ministrations, which made them his own in a
      spiritual sense. They were dear to his sacerdotal supremacy. Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s
      earnest interest in the concerns of these people enhanced their importance
      in the priest&rsquo;s eyes, because it really augmented his own. When talking
      over with her the innumerable Marias and Brigidas of the villages, he felt
      his own humanity expand. Padre Roman was incapable of fanaticism to an
      almost reprehensible degree. The English senora was evidently a heretic;
      but at the same time she seemed to him wonderful and angelic. Whenever
      that confused state of his feelings occurred to him, while strolling, for
      instance, his breviary under his arm, in the wide shade of the tamarind,
      he would stop short to inhale with a strong snuffling noise a large
      quantity of snuff, and shake his head profoundly. At the thought of what
      might befall the illustrious senora presently, he became gradually
      overcome with dismay. He voiced it in an agitated murmur. Even Don Pepe
      lost his serenity for a moment. He leaned forward stiffly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Padre. The very fact that those thieving macaques in Sulaco are
      trying to find out the price of my honour proves that Senor Don Carlos and
      all in the Casa Gould are safe. As to my honour, that also is safe, as
      every man, woman, and child knows. But the negro Liberals who have
      snatched the town by surprise do not know that. Bueno. Let them sit and
      wait. While they wait they can do no harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he regained his composure. He regained it easily, because whatever
      happened his honour of an old officer of Paez was safe. He had promised
      Charles Gould that at the approach of an armed force he would defend the
      gorge just long enough to give himself time to destroy scientifically the
      whole plant, buildings, and workshops of the mine with heavy charges of
      dynamite; block with ruins the main tunnel, break down the pathways, blow
      up the dam of the water-power, shatter the famous Gould Concession into
      fragments, flying sky high out of a horrified world. The mine had got hold
      of Charles Gould with a grip as deadly as ever it had laid upon his
      father. But this extreme resolution had seemed to Don Pepe the most
      natural thing in the world. His measures had been taken with judgment.
      Everything was prepared with a careful completeness. And Don Pepe folded
      his hands pacifically on his sword hilt, and nodded at the priest. In his
      excitement, Father Roman had flung snuff in handfuls at his face, and, all
      besmeared with tobacco, round-eyed, and beside himself, had got out of the
      hammock to walk about, uttering exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Pepe stroked his grey and pendant moustache, whose fine ends hung far
      below the clean-cut line of his jaw, and spoke with a conscious pride in
      his reputation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, Padre, I don&rsquo;t know what will happen. But I know that as long as I am
      here Don Carlos can speak to that macaque, Pedrito Montero, and threaten
      the destruction of the mine with perfect assurance that he will be taken
      seriously. For people know me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He began to turn the cigar in his lips a little nervously, and went on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is talk&mdash;good for the politicos. I am a military man. I do
      not know what may happen. But I know what ought to be done&mdash;the mine
      should march upon the town with guns, axes, knives tied up to sticks&mdash;por
      Dios. That is what should be done. Only&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His folded hands twitched on the hilt. The cigar turned faster in the
      corner of his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who should lead but I? Unfortunately&mdash;observe&mdash;I have given
      my word of honour to Don Carlos not to let the mine fall into the hands of
      these thieves. In war&mdash;you know this, Padre&mdash;the fate of battles
      is uncertain, and whom could I leave here to act for me in case of defeat?
      The explosives are ready. But it would require a man of high honour, of
      intelligence, of judgment, of courage, to carry out the prepared
      destruction. Somebody I can trust with my honour as I can trust myself.
      Another old officer of Paez, for instance. Or&mdash;or&mdash;perhaps one
      of Paez&rsquo;s old chaplains would do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up, long, lank, upright, hard, with his martial moustache and the
      bony structure of his face, from which the glance of the sunken eyes
      seemed to transfix the priest, who stood still, an empty wooden snuff-box
      held upside down in his hand, and glared back, speechless, at the governor
      of the mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      At about that time, in the Intendencia of Sulaco, Charles Gould was
      assuring Pedrito Montero, who had sent a request for his presence there,
      that he would never let the mine pass out of his hands for the profit of a
      Government who had robbed him of it. The Gould Concession could not be
      resumed. His father had not desired it. The son would never surrender it.
      He would never surrender it alive. And once dead, where was the power
      capable of resuscitating such an enterprise in all its vigour and wealth
      out of the ashes and ruin of destruction? There was no such power in the
      country. And where was the skill and capital abroad that would condescend
      to touch such an ill-omened corpse? Charles Gould talked in the impassive
      tone which had for many years served to conceal his anger and contempt. He
      suffered. He was disgusted with what he had to say. It was too much like
      heroics. In him the strictly practical instinct was in profound discord
      with the almost mystic view he took of his right. The Gould Concession was
      symbolic of abstract justice. Let the heavens fall. But since the San Tome
      mine had developed into world-wide fame his threat had enough force and
      effectiveness to reach the rudimentary intelligence of Pedro Montero,
      wrapped up as it was in the futilities of historical anecdotes. The Gould
      Concession was a serious asset in the country&rsquo;s finance, and, what was
      more, in the private budgets of many officials as well. It was
      traditional. It was known. It was said. It was credible. Every Minister of
      Interior drew a salary from the San Tome mine. It was natural. And Pedrito
      intended to be Minister of the Interior and President of the Council in
      his brother&rsquo;s Government. The Duc de Morny had occupied those high posts
      during the Second French Empire with conspicuous advantage to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      A table, a chair, a wooden bedstead had been procured for His Excellency,
      who, after a short siesta, rendered absolutely necessary by the labours
      and the pomps of his entry into Sulaco, had been getting hold of the
      administrative machine by making appointments, giving orders, and signing
      proclamations. Alone with Charles Gould in the audience room, His
      Excellency managed with his well-known skill to conceal his annoyance and
      consternation. He had begun at first to talk loftily of confiscation, but
      the want of all proper feeling and mobility in the Senor Administrador&rsquo;s
      features ended by affecting adversely his power of masterful expression.
      Charles Gould had repeated: &ldquo;The Government can certainly bring about the
      destruction of the San Tome mine if it likes; but without me it can do
      nothing else.&rdquo; It was an alarming pronouncement, and well calculated to
      hurt the sensibilities of a politician whose mind is bent upon the spoils
      of victory. And Charles Gould said also that the destruction of the San
      Tome mine would cause the ruin of other undertakings, the withdrawal of
      European capital, the withholding, most probably, of the last instalment
      of the foreign loan. That stony fiend of a man said all these things
      (which were accessible to His Excellency&rsquo;s intelligence) in a coldblooded
      manner which made one shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long course of reading historical works, light and gossipy in tone,
      carried out in garrets of Parisian hotels, sprawling on an untidy bed, to
      the neglect of his duties, menial or otherwise, had affected the manners
      of Pedro Montero. Had he seen around him the splendour of the old
      Intendencia, the magnificent hangings, the gilt furniture ranged along the
      walls; had he stood upon a dais on a noble square of red carpet, he would
      have probably been very dangerous from a sense of success and elevation.
      But in this sacked and devastated residence, with the three pieces of
      common furniture huddled up in the middle of the vast apartment, Pedrito&rsquo;s
      imagination was subdued by a feeling of insecurity and impermanence. That
      feeling and the firm attitude of Charles Gould who had not once, so far,
      pronounced the word &ldquo;Excellency,&rdquo; diminished him in his own eyes. He
      assumed the tone of an enlightened man of the world, and begged Charles
      Gould to dismiss from his mind every cause for alarm. He was now
      conversing, he reminded him, with the brother of the master of the
      country, charged with a reorganizing mission. The trusted brother of the
      master of the country, he repeated. Nothing was further from the thoughts
      of that wise and patriotic hero than ideas of destruction. &ldquo;I entreat you,
      Don Carlos, not to give way to your anti-democratic prejudices,&rdquo; he cried,
      in a burst of condescending effusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pedrito Montero surprised one at first sight by the vast development of
      his bald forehead, a shiny yellow expanse between the crinkly coal-black
      tufts of hair without any lustre, the engaging form of his mouth, and an
      unexpectedly cultivated voice. But his eyes, very glistening as if freshly
      painted on each side of his hooked nose, had a round, hopeless, birdlike
      stare when opened fully. Now, however, he narrowed them agreeably,
      throwing his square chin up and speaking with closed teeth slightly
      through the nose, with what he imagined to be the manner of a grand
      seigneur.
    </p>
    <p>
      In that attitude, he declared suddenly that the highest expression of
      democracy was Caesarism: the imperial rule based upon the direct popular
      vote. Caesarism was conservative. It was strong. It recognized the
      legitimate needs of democracy which requires orders, titles, and
      distinctions. They would be showered upon deserving men. Caesarism was
      peace. It was progressive. It secured the prosperity of a country. Pedrito
      Montero was carried away. Look at what the Second Empire had done for
      France. It was a regime which delighted to honour men of Don Carlos&rsquo;s
      stamp. The Second Empire fell, but that was because its chief was devoid
      of that military genius which had raised General Montero to the pinnacle
      of fame and glory. Pedrito elevated his hand jerkily to help the idea of
      pinnacle, of fame. &ldquo;We shall have many talks yet. We shall understand each
      other thoroughly, Don Carlos!&rdquo; he cried in a tone of fellowship.
      Republicanism had done its work. Imperial democracy was the power of the
      future. Pedrito, the guerrillero, showing his hand, lowered his voice
      forcibly. A man singled out by his fellow-citizens for the honourable
      nickname of El Rey de Sulaco could not but receive a full recognition from
      an imperial democracy as a great captain of industry and a person of
      weighty counsel, whose popular designation would be soon replaced by a
      more solid title. &ldquo;Eh, Don Carlos? No! What do you say? Conde de Sulaco&mdash;Eh?&mdash;or
      marquis . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ceased. The air was cool on the Plaza, where a patrol of cavalry rode
      round and round without penetrating into the streets, which resounded with
      shouts and the strumming of guitars issuing from the open doors of
      pulperias. The orders were not to interfere with the enjoyments of the
      people. And above the roofs, next to the perpendicular lines of the
      cathedral towers the snowy curve of Higuerota blocked a large space of
      darkening blue sky before the windows of the Intendencia. After a time
      Pedrito Montero, thrusting his hand in the bosom of his coat, bowed his
      head with slow dignity. The audience was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould on going out passed his hand over his forehead as if to
      disperse the mists of an oppressive dream, whose grotesque extravagance
      leaves behind a subtle sense of bodily danger and intellectual decay. In
      the passages and on the staircases of the old palace Montero&rsquo;s troopers
      lounged about insolently, smoking and making way for no one; the clanking
      of sabres and spurs resounded all over the building. Three silent groups
      of civilians in severe black waited in the main gallery, formal and
      helpless, a little huddled up, each keeping apart from the others, as if
      in the exercise of a public duty they had been overcome by a desire to
      shun the notice of every eye. These were the deputations waiting for their
      audience. The one from the Provincial Assembly, more restless and uneasy
      in its corporate expression, was overtopped by the big face of Don Juste
      Lopez, soft and white, with prominent eyelids and wreathed in impenetrable
      solemnity as if in a dense cloud. The President of the Provincial
      Assembly, coming bravely to save the last shred of parliamentary
      institutions (on the English model), averted his eyes from the
      Administrador of the San Tome mine as a dignified rebuke of his little
      faith in that only saving principle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mournful severity of that reproof did not affect Charles Gould, but he
      was sensible to the glances of the others directed upon him without
      reproach, as if only to read their own fate upon his face. All of them had
      talked, shouted, and declaimed in the great sala of the Casa Gould. The
      feeling of compassion for those men, struck with a strange impotence in
      the toils of moral degradation, did not induce him to make a sign. He
      suffered from his fellowship in evil with them too much. He crossed the
      Plaza unmolested. The Amarilla Club was full of festive ragamuffins. Their
      frowsy heads protruded from every window, and from within came drunken
      shouts, the thumping of feet, and the twanging of harps. Broken bottles
      strewed the pavement below. Charles Gould found the doctor still in his
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham came away from the crack in the shutter through which he had
      been watching the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! You are back at last!&rdquo; he said in a tone of relief. &ldquo;I have been
      telling Mrs. Gould that you were perfectly safe, but I was not by any
      means certain that the fellow would have let you go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither was I,&rdquo; confessed Charles Gould, laying his hat on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have to take action.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The silence of Charles Gould seemed to admit that this was the only
      course. This was as far as Charles Gould was accustomed to go towards
      expressing his intentions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you did not warn Montero of what you mean to do,&rdquo; the doctor said,
      anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tried to make him see that the existence of the mine was bound up with
      my personal safety,&rdquo; continued Charles Gould, looking away from the
      doctor, and fixing his eyes upon the water-colour sketch upon the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He believed you?&rdquo; the doctor asked, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows!&rdquo; said Charles Gould. &ldquo;I owed it to my wife to say that much.
      He is well enough informed. He knows that I have Don Pepe there. Fuentes
      must have told him. They know that the old major is perfectly capable of
      blowing up the San Tome mine without hesitation or compunction. Had it not
      been for that I don&rsquo;t think I&rsquo;d have left the Intendencia a free man. He
      would blow everything up from loyalty and from hate&mdash;from hate of
      these Liberals, as they call themselves. Liberals! The words one knows so
      well have a nightmarish meaning in this country. Liberty, democracy,
      patriotism, government&mdash;all of them have a flavour of folly and
      murder. Haven&rsquo;t they, doctor? . . . I alone can restrain Don Pepe. If they
      were to&mdash;to do away with me, nothing could prevent him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will try to tamper with him,&rdquo; the doctor suggested, thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very possible,&rdquo; Charles Gould said very low, as if speaking to
      himself, and still gazing at the sketch of the San Tome gorge upon the
      wall. &ldquo;Yes, I expect they will try that.&rdquo; Charles Gould looked for the
      first time at the doctor. &ldquo;It would give me time,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly,&rdquo; said Dr. Monygham, suppressing his excitement. &ldquo;Especially if
      Don Pepe behaves diplomatically. Why shouldn&rsquo;t he give them some hope of
      success? Eh? Otherwise you wouldn&rsquo;t gain so much time. Couldn&rsquo;t he be
      instructed to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Gould, looking at the doctor steadily, shook his head, but the
      doctor continued with a certain amount of fire&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, to enter into negotiations for the surrender of the mine. It is a
      good notion. You would mature your plan. Of course, I don&rsquo;t ask what it
      is. I don&rsquo;t want to know. I would refuse to listen to you if you tried to
      tell me. I am not fit for confidences.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What nonsense!&rdquo; muttered Charles Gould, with displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      He disapproved of the doctor&rsquo;s sensitiveness about that far-off episode of
      his life. So much memory shocked Charles Gould. It was like morbidness.
      And again he shook his head. He refused to tamper with the open rectitude
      of Don Pepe&rsquo;s conduct, both from taste and from policy. Instructions would
      have to be either verbal or in writing. In either case they ran the risk
      of being intercepted. It was by no means certain that a messenger could
      reach the mine; and, besides, there was no one to send. It was on the tip
      of Charles&rsquo;s tongue to say that only the late Capataz de Cargadores could
      have been employed with some chance of success and the certitude of
      discretion. But he did not say that. He pointed out to the doctor that it
      would have been bad policy. Directly Don Pepe let it be supposed that he
      could be bought over, the Administrador&rsquo;s personal safety and the safety
      of his friends would become endangered. For there would be then no reason
      for moderation. The incorruptibility of Don Pepe was the essential and
      restraining fact. The doctor hung his head and admitted that in a way it
      was so.
    </p>
    <p>
      He couldn&rsquo;t deny to himself that the reasoning was sound enough. Don
      Pepe&rsquo;s usefulness consisted in his unstained character. As to his own
      usefulness, he reflected bitterly it was also his own character. He
      declared to Charles Gould that he had the means of keeping Sotillo from
      joining his forces with Montero, at least for the present.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had had all this silver here,&rdquo; the doctor said, &ldquo;or even if it had
      been known to be at the mine, you could have bribed Sotillo to throw off
      his recent Monterism. You could have induced him either to go away in his
      steamer or even to join you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not that last,&rdquo; Charles Gould declared, firmly. &ldquo;What could one
      do with a man like that, afterwards&mdash;tell me, doctor? The silver is
      gone, and I am glad of it. It would have been an immediate and strong
      temptation. The scramble for that visible plunder would have precipitated
      a disastrous ending. I would have had to defend it, too. I am glad we&rsquo;ve
      removed it&mdash;even if it is lost. It would have been a danger and a
      curse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he is right,&rdquo; the doctor, an hour later, said hurriedly to Mrs.
      Gould, whom he met in the corridor. &ldquo;The thing is done, and the shadow of
      the treasure may do just as well as the substance. Let me try to serve you
      to the whole extent of my evil reputation. I am off now to play my game of
      betrayal with Sotillo, and keep him off the town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She put out both her hands impulsively. &ldquo;Dr. Monygham, you are running a
      terrible risk,&rdquo; she whispered, averting from his face her eyes, full of
      tears, for a short glance at the door of her husband&rsquo;s room. She pressed
      both his hands, and the doctor stood as if rooted to the spot, looking
      down at her, and trying to twist his lips into a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I know you will defend my memory,&rdquo; he uttered at last, and ran
      tottering down the stairs across the patio, and out of the house. In the
      street he kept up a great pace with his smart hobbling walk, a case of
      instruments under his arm. He was known for being loco. Nobody interfered
      with him. From under the seaward gate, across the dusty, arid plain,
      interspersed with low bushes, he saw, more than a mile away, the ugly
      enormity of the Custom House, and the two or three other buildings which
      at that time constituted the seaport of Sulaco. Far away to the south
      groves of palm trees edged the curve of the harbour shore. The distant
      peaks of the Cordillera had lost their identity of clearcut shapes in the
      steadily deepening blue of the eastern sky. The doctor walked briskly. A
      darkling shadow seemed to fall upon him from the zenith. The sun had set.
      For a time the snows of Higuerota continued to glow with the reflected
      glory of the west. The doctor, holding a straight course for the Custom
      House, appeared lonely, hopping amongst the dark bushes like a tall bird
      with a broken wing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tints of purple, gold, and crimson were mirrored in the clear water of the
      harbour. A long tongue of land, straight as a wall, with the grass-grown
      ruins of the fort making a sort of rounded green mound, plainly visible
      from the inner shore, closed its circuit; while beyond the Placid Gulf
      repeated those splendours of colouring on a greater scale and with a more
      sombre magnificence. The great mass of cloud filling the head of the gulf
      had long red smears amongst its convoluted folds of grey and black, as of
      a floating mantle stained with blood. The three Isabels, overshadowed and
      clear cut in a great smoothness confounding the sea and sky, appeared
      suspended, purple-black, in the air. The little wavelets seemed to be
      tossing tiny red sparks upon the sandy beaches. The glassy bands of water
      along the horizon gave out a fiery red glow, as if fire and water had been
      mingled together in the vast bed of the ocean.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last the conflagration of sea and sky, lying embraced and still in a
      flaming contact upon the edge of the world, went out. The red sparks in
      the water vanished together with the stains of blood in the black mantle
      draping the sombre head of the Placid Gulf; a sudden breeze sprang up and
      died out after rustling heavily the growth of bushes on the ruined
      earthwork of the fort. Nostromo woke up from a fourteen hours&rsquo; sleep, and
      arose full length from his lair in the long grass. He stood knee deep
      amongst the whispering undulations of the green blades with the lost air
      of a man just born into the world. Handsome, robust, and supple, he threw
      back his head, flung his arms open, and stretched himself with a slow
      twist of the waist and a leisurely growling yawn of white teeth, as
      natural and free from evil in the moment of waking as a magnificent and
      unconscious wild beast. Then, in the suddenly steadied glance fixed upon
      nothing from under a thoughtful frown, appeared the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHT
    </h2>
    <p>
      After landing from his swim Nostromo had scrambled up, all dripping, into
      the main quadrangle of the old fort; and there, amongst ruined bits of
      walls and rotting remnants of roofs and sheds, he had slept the day
      through. He had slept in the shadow of the mountains, in the white blaze
      of noon, in the stillness and solitude of that overgrown piece of land
      between the oval of the harbour and the spacious semi-circle of the gulf.
      He lay as if dead. A rey-zamuro, appearing like a tiny black speck in the
      blue, stooped, circling prudently with a stealthiness of flight startling
      in a bird of that great size. The shadow of his pearly-white body, of his
      black-tipped wings, fell on the grass no more silently than he alighted
      himself on a hillock of rubbish within three yards of that man, lying as
      still as a corpse. The bird stretched his bare neck, craned his bald head,
      loathsome in the brilliance of varied colouring, with an air of voracious
      anxiety towards the promising stillness of that prostrate body. Then,
      sinking his head deeply into his soft plumage, he settled himself to wait.
      The first thing upon which Nostromo&rsquo;s eyes fell on waking was this patient
      watcher for the signs of death and corruption. When the man got up the
      vulture hopped away in great, side-long, fluttering jumps. He lingered for
      a while, morose and reluctant, before he rose, circling noiselessly with a
      sinister droop of beak and claws.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long after he had vanished, Nostromo, lifting his eyes up to the sky,
      muttered, &ldquo;I am not dead yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores had lived in splendour and publicity
      up to the very moment, as it were, when he took charge of the lighter
      containing the treasure of silver ingots.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last act he had performed in Sulaco was in complete harmony with his
      vanity, and as such perfectly genuine. He had given his last dollar to an
      old woman moaning with the grief and fatigue of a dismal search under the
      arch of the ancient gate. Performed in obscurity and without witnesses, it
      had still the characteristics of splendour and publicity, and was in
      strict keeping with his reputation. But this awakening in solitude, except
      for the watchful vulture, amongst the ruins of the fort, had no such
      characteristics. His first confused feeling was exactly this&mdash;that it
      was not in keeping. It was more like the end of things. The necessity of
      living concealed somehow, for God knows how long, which assailed him on
      his return to consciousness, made everything that had gone before for
      years appear vain and foolish, like a flattering dream come suddenly to an
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      He climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart, and, putting aside the
      bushes, looked upon the harbour. He saw a couple of ships at anchor upon
      the sheet of water reflecting the last gleams of light, and Sotillo&rsquo;s
      steamer moored to the jetty. And behind the pale long front of the Custom
      House, there appeared the extent of the town like a grove of thick timber
      on the plain with a gateway in front, and the cupolas, towers, and
      miradors rising above the trees, all dark, as if surrendered already to
      the night. The thought that it was no longer open to him to ride through
      the streets, recognized by everyone, great and little, as he used to do
      every evening on his way to play monte in the posada of the Mexican
      Domingo; or to sit in the place of honour, listening to songs and looking
      at dances, made it appear to him as a town that had no existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a long time he gazed on, then let the parted bushes spring back, and,
      crossing over to the other side of the fort, surveyed the vaster emptiness
      of the great gulf. The Isabels stood out heavily upon the narrowing long
      band of red in the west, which gleamed low between their black shapes, and
      the Capataz thought of Decoud alone there with the treasure. That man was
      the only one who cared whether he fell into the hands of the Monterists or
      not, the Capataz reflected bitterly. And that merely would be an anxiety
      for his own sake. As to the rest, they neither knew nor cared. What he had
      heard Giorgio Viola say once was very true. Kings, ministers, aristocrats,
      the rich in general, kept the people in poverty and subjection; they kept
      them as they kept dogs, to fight and hunt for their service.
    </p>
    <p>
      The darkness of the sky had descended to the line of the horizon,
      enveloping the whole gulf, the islets, and the lover of Antonia alone with
      the treasure on the Great Isabel. The Capataz, turning his back on these
      things invisible and existing, sat down and took his face between his
      fists. He felt the pinch of poverty for the first time in his life. To
      find himself without money after a run of bad luck at monte in the low,
      smoky room of Domingo&rsquo;s posada, where the fraternity of Cargadores
      gambled, sang, and danced of an evening; to remain with empty pockets
      after a burst of public generosity to some peyne d&rsquo;oro girl or other (for
      whom he did not care), had none of the humiliation of destitution. He
      remained rich in glory and reputation. But since it was no longer possible
      for him to parade the streets of the town, and be hailed with respect in
      the usual haunts of his leisure, this sailor felt himself destitute
      indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      His mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sleep and extremely anxious
      thinking, as it had never been dry before. It may be said that Nostromo
      tasted the dust and ashes of the fruit of life into which he had bitten
      deeply in his hunger for praise. Without removing his head from between
      his fists, he tried to spit before him&mdash;&ldquo;Tfui&rdquo;&mdash;and muttered a
      curse upon the selfishness of all the rich people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since everything seemed lost in Sulaco (and that was the feeling of his
      waking), the idea of leaving the country altogether had presented itself
      to Nostromo. At that thought he had seen, like the beginning of another
      dream, a vision of steep and tideless shores, with dark pines on the
      heights and white houses low down near a very blue sea. He saw the quays
      of a big port, where the coasting feluccas, with their lateen sails
      outspread like motionless wings, enter gliding silently between the end of
      long moles of squared blocks that project angularly towards each other,
      hugging a cluster of shipping to the superb bosom of a hill covered with
      palaces. He remembered these sights not without some filial emotion,
      though he had been habitually and severely beaten as a boy on one of these
      feluccas by a short-necked, shaven Genoese, with a deliberate and
      distrustful manner, who (he firmly believed) had cheated him out of his
      orphan&rsquo;s inheritance. But it is mercifully decreed that the evils of the
      past should appear but faintly in retrospect. Under the sense of
      loneliness, abandonment, and failure, the idea of return to these things
      appeared tolerable. But, what? Return? With bare feet and head, with one
      check shirt and a pair of cotton calzoneros for all worldly possessions?
    </p>
    <p>
      The renowned Capataz, his elbows on his knees and a fist dug into each
      cheek, laughed with self-derision, as he had spat with disgust, straight
      out before him into the night. The confused and intimate impressions of
      universal dissolution which beset a subjective nature at any strong check
      to its ruling passion had a bitterness approaching that of death itself.
      He was simple. He was as ready to become the prey of any belief,
      superstition, or desire as a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      The facts of his situation he could appreciate like a man with a distinct
      experience of the country. He saw them clearly. He was as if sobered after
      a long bout of intoxication. His fidelity had been taken advantage of. He
      had persuaded the body of Cargadores to side with the Blancos against the
      rest of the people; he had had interviews with Don Jose; he had been made
      use of by Father Corbelan for negotiating with Hernandez; it was known
      that Don Martin Decoud had admitted him to a sort of intimacy, so that he
      had been free of the offices of the Porvenir. All these things had
      flattered him in the usual way. What did he care about their politics?
      Nothing at all. And at the end of it all&mdash;Nostromo here and Nostromo
      there&mdash;where is Nostromo? Nostromo can do this and that&mdash;work
      all day and ride all night&mdash;behold! he found himself a marked
      Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for instance, would choose to
      take, now the Montero party, had, after all, mastered the town. The
      Europeans had given up; the Caballeros had given up. Don Martin had indeed
      explained it was only temporary&mdash;that he was going to bring Barrios
      to the rescue. Where was that now&mdash;with Don Martin (whose ironic
      manner of talk had always made the Capataz feel vaguely uneasy) stranded
      on the Great Isabel? Everybody had given up. Even Don Carlos had given up.
      The hurried removal of the treasure out to sea meant nothing else than
      that. The Capataz de Cargadores, on a revulsion of subjectiveness,
      exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all his world without faith and
      courage. He had been betrayed!
    </p>
    <p>
      With the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of his silence and
      immobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowded around the
      white, misty sheen of Higuerota, Nostromo laughed aloud again, sprang
      abruptly to his feet, and stood still. He must go. But where?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no mistake. They keep us and encourage us as if we were dogs
      born to fight and hunt for them. The vecchio is right,&rdquo; he said, slowly
      and scathingly. He remembered old Giorgio taking his pipe out of his mouth
      to throw these words over his shoulder at the cafe, full of engine-drivers
      and fitters from the railway workshops. This image fixed his wavering
      purpose. He would try to find old Giorgio if he could. God knows what
      might have happened to him! He made a few steps, then stopped again and
      shook his head. To the left and right, in front and behind him, the
      scrubby bush rustled mysteriously in the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teresa was right, too,&rdquo; he added in a low tone touched with awe. He
      wondered whether she was dead in her anger with him or still alive. As if
      in answer to this thought, half of remorse and half of hope, with a soft
      flutter and oblique flight, a big owl, whose appalling cry: &ldquo;Ya-acabo!
      Ya-acabo!&mdash;it is finished; it is finished&rdquo;&mdash;announces calamity
      and death in the popular belief, drifted vaguely like a large dark ball
      across his path. In the downfall of all the realities that made his force,
      he was affected by the superstition, and shuddered slightly. Signora
      Teresa must have died, then. It could mean nothing else. The cry of the
      ill-omened bird, the first sound he was to hear on his return, was a
      fitting welcome for his betrayed individuality. The unseen powers which he
      had offended by refusing to bring a priest to a dying woman were lifting
      up their voice against him. She was dead. With admirable and human
      consistency he referred everything to himself. She had been a woman of
      good counsel always. And the bereaved old Giorgio remained stunned by his
      loss just as he was likely to require the advice of his sagacity. The blow
      would render the dreamy old man quite stupid for a time.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Captain Mitchell, Nostromo, after the manner of trusted
      subordinates, considered him as a person fitted by education perhaps to
      sign papers in an office and to give orders, but otherwise of no use
      whatever, and something of a fool. The necessity of winding round his
      little finger, almost daily, the pompous and testy self-importance of the
      old seaman had grown irksome with use to Nostromo. At first it had given
      him an inward satisfaction. But the necessity of overcoming small
      obstacles becomes wearisome to a self-confident personality as much by the
      certitude of success as by the monotony of effort. He mistrusted his
      superior&rsquo;s proneness to fussy action. That old Englishman had no judgment,
      he said to himself. It was useless to suppose that, acquainted with the
      true state of the case, he would keep it to himself. He would talk of
      doing impracticable things. Nostromo feared him as one would fear saddling
      one&rsquo;s self with some persistent worry. He had no discretion. He would
      betray the treasure. And Nostromo had made up his mind that the treasure
      should not be betrayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The word had fixed itself tenaciously in his intelligence. His imagination
      had seized upon the clear and simple notion of betrayal to account for the
      dazed feeling of enlightenment as to being done for, of having
      inadvertently gone out of his existence on an issue in which his
      personality had not been taken into account. A man betrayed is a man
      destroyed. Signora Teresa (may God have her soul!) had been right. He had
      never been taken into account. Destroyed! Her white form sitting up bowed
      in bed, the falling black hair, the wide-browed suffering face raised to
      him, the anger of her denunciations appeared to him now majestic with the
      awfulness of inspiration and of death. For it was not for nothing that the
      evil bird had uttered its lamentable shriek over his head. She was dead&mdash;may
      God have her soul!
    </p>
    <p>
      Sharing in the anti-priestly freethought of the masses, his mind used the
      pious formula from the superficial force of habit, but with a deep-seated
      sincerity. The popular mind is incapable of scepticism; and that
      incapacity delivers their helpless strength to the wiles of swindlers and
      to the pitiless enthusiasms of leaders inspired by visions of a high
      destiny. She was dead. But would God consent to receive her soul? She had
      died without confession or absolution, because he had not been willing to
      spare her another moment of his time. His scorn of priests as priests
      remained; but after all, it was impossible to know whether what they
      affirmed was not true. Power, punishment, pardon, are simple and credible
      notions. The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, deprived of certain simple
      realities, such as the admiration of women, the adulation of men, the
      admired publicity of his life, was ready to feel the burden of
      sacrilegious guilt descend upon his shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bareheaded, in a thin shirt and drawers, he felt the lingering warmth of
      the fine sand under the soles of his feet. The narrow strand gleamed far
      ahead in a long curve, defining the outline of this wild side of the
      harbour. He flitted along the shore like a pursued shadow between the
      sombre palm-groves and the sheet of water lying as still as death on his
      right hand. He strode with headlong haste in the silence and solitude as
      though he had forgotten all prudence and caution. But he knew that on this
      side of the water he ran no risk of discovery. The only inhabitant was a
      lonely, silent, apathetic Indian in charge of the palmarias, who brought
      sometimes a load of cocoanuts to the town for sale. He lived without a
      woman in an open shed, with a perpetual fire of dry sticks smouldering
      near an old canoe lying bottom up on the beach. He could be easily
      avoided.
    </p>
    <p>
      The barking of the dogs about that man&rsquo;s ranche was the first thing that
      checked his speed. He had forgotten the dogs. He swerved sharply, and
      plunged into the palm-grove, as into a wilderness of columns in an immense
      hall, whose dense obscurity seemed to whisper and rustle faintly high
      above his head. He traversed it, entered a ravine, and climbed to the top
      of a steep ridge free of trees and bushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      From there, open and vague in the starlight, he saw the plain between the
      town and the harbour. In the woods above some night-bird made a strange
      drumming noise. Below beyond the palmaria on the beach, the Indian&rsquo;s dogs
      continued to bark uproariously. He wondered what had upset them so much,
      and, peering down from his elevation, was surprised to detect
      unaccountable movements of the ground below, as if several oblong pieces
      of the plain had been in motion. Those dark, shifting patches, alternately
      catching and eluding the eye, altered their place always away from the
      harbour, with a suggestion of consecutive order and purpose. A light
      dawned upon him. It was a column of infantry on a night march towards the
      higher broken country at the foot of the hills. But he was too much in the
      dark about everything for wonder and speculation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the ridge and
      found himself in the open solitude, between the harbour and the town. Its
      spaciousness, extended indefinitely by an effect of obscurity, rendered
      more sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower. No one
      waited for him; no one thought of him; no one expected or wished his
      return. &ldquo;Betrayed! Betrayed!&rdquo; he muttered to himself. No one cared. He
      might have been drowned by this time. No one would have cared&mdash;unless,
      perhaps, the children, he thought to himself. But they were with the
      English signora, and not thinking of him at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wavered in his purpose of making straight for the Casa Viola. To what
      end? What could he expect there? His life seemed to fail him in all its
      details, even to the scornful reproaches of Teresa. He was aware painfully
      of his reluctance. Was it that remorse which she had prophesied with, what
      he saw now, was her last breath?
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, he had deviated from the straight course, inclining by a sort of
      instinct to the right, towards the jetty and the harbour, the scene of his
      daily labours. The great length of the Custom House loomed up all at once
      like the wall of a factory. Not a soul challenged his approach, and his
      curiosity became excited as he passed cautiously towards the front by the
      unexpected sight of two lighted windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had the fascination of a lonely vigil kept by some mysterious watcher
      up there, those two windows shining dimly upon the harbour in the whole
      vast extent of the abandoned building. The solitude could almost be felt.
      A strong smell of wood smoke hung about in a thin haze, which was faintly
      perceptible to his raised eyes against the glitter of the stars. As he
      advanced in the profound silence, the shrilling of innumerable cicalas in
      the dry grass seemed positively deafening to his strained ears. Slowly,
      step by step, he found himself in the great hall, sombre and full of acrid
      smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fire built against the staircase had burnt down impotently to a low heap
      of embers. The hard wood had failed to catch; only a few steps at the
      bottom smouldered, with a creeping glow of sparks defining their charred
      edges. At the top he saw a streak of light from an open door. It fell upon
      the vast landing, all foggy with a slow drift of smoke. That was the room.
      He climbed the stairs, then checked himself, because he had seen within
      the shadow of a man cast upon one of the walls. It was a shapeless,
      high-shouldered shadow of somebody standing still, with lowered head, out
      of his line of sight. The Capataz, remembering that he was totally
      unarmed, stepped aside, and, effacing himself upright in a dark corner,
      waited with his eyes fixed on the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole enormous ruined barrack of a place, unfinished, without ceilings
      under its lofty roof, was pervaded by the smoke swaying to and fro in the
      faint cross draughts playing in the obscurity of many lofty rooms and
      barnlike passages. Once one of the swinging shutters came against the wall
      with a single sharp crack, as if pushed by an impatient hand. A piece of
      paper scurried out from somewhere, rustling along the landing. The man,
      whoever he was, did not darken the lighted doorway. Twice the Capataz,
      advancing a couple of steps out of his corner, craned his neck in the hope
      of catching sight of what he could be at, so quietly, in there. But every
      time he saw only the distorted shadow of broad shoulders and bowed head.
      He was doing apparently nothing, and stirred not from the spot, as though
      he were meditating&mdash;or, perhaps, reading a paper. And not a sound
      issued from the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more the Capataz stepped back. He wondered who it was&mdash;some
      Monterist? But he dreaded to show himself. To discover his presence on
      shore, unless after many days, would, he believed, endanger the treasure.
      With his own knowledge possessing his whole soul, it seemed impossible
      that anybody in Sulaco should fail to jump at the right surmise. After a
      couple of weeks or so it would be different. Who could tell he had not
      returned overland from some port beyond the limits of the Republic? The
      existence of the treasure confused his thoughts with a peculiar sort of
      anxiety, as though his life had become bound up with it. It rendered him
      timorous for a moment before that enigmatic, lighted door. Devil take the
      fellow! He did not want to see him. There would be nothing to learn from
      his face, known or unknown. He was a fool to waste his time there in
      waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Less than five minutes after entering the place the Capataz began his
      retreat. He got away down the stairs with perfect success, gave one upward
      look over his shoulder at the light on the landing, and ran stealthily
      across the hall. But at the very moment he was turning out of the great
      door, with his mind fixed upon escaping the notice of the man upstairs,
      somebody he had not heard coming briskly along the front ran full into
      him. Both muttered a stifled exclamation of surprise, and leaped back and
      stood still, each indistinct to the other. Nostromo was silent. The other
      man spoke first, in an amazed and deadened tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Already Nostromo had seemed to recognize Dr. Monygham. He had no doubt
      now. He hesitated the space of a second. The idea of bolting without a
      word presented itself to his mind. No use! An inexplicable repugnance to
      pronounce the name by which he was known kept him silent a little longer.
      At last he said in a low voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Cargador.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked up to the other. Dr. Monygham had received a shock. He flung his
      arms up and cried out his wonder aloud, forgetting himself before the
      marvel of this meeting. Nostromo angrily warned him to moderate his voice.
      The Custom House was not so deserted as it looked. There was somebody in
      the lighted room above.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no more evanescent quality in an accomplished fact than its
      wonderfulness. Solicited incessantly by the considerations affecting its
      fears and desires, the human mind turns naturally away from the marvellous
      side of events. And it was in the most natural way possible that the
      doctor asked this man whom only two minutes before he believed to have
      been drowned in the gulf&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have seen somebody up there? Have you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have not seen him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then how do you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was running away from his shadow when we met.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His shadow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. His shadow in the lighted room,&rdquo; said Nostromo, in a contemptuous
      tone. Leaning back with folded arms at the foot of the immense building,
      he dropped his head, biting his lips slightly, and not looking at the
      doctor. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he thought to himself, &ldquo;he will begin asking me about the
      treasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the doctor&rsquo;s thoughts were concerned with an event not as marvellous
      as Nostromo&rsquo;s appearance, but in itself much less clear. Why had Sotillo
      taken himself off with his whole command with this suddenness and secrecy?
      What did this move portend? However, it dawned upon the doctor that the
      man upstairs was one of the officers left behind by the disappointed
      colonel to communicate with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe he is waiting for me,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must see. Do not go away yet, Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go away where?&rdquo; muttered Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      Already the doctor had left him. He remained leaning against the wall,
      staring at the dark water of the harbour; the shrilling of cicalas filled
      his ears. An invincible vagueness coming over his thoughts took from them
      all power to determine his will.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Capataz! Capataz!&rdquo; the doctor&rsquo;s voice called urgently from above.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sense of betrayal and ruin floated upon his sombre indifference as
      upon a sluggish sea of pitch. But he stepped out from under the wall, and,
      looking up, saw Dr. Monygham leaning out of a lighted window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come up and see what Sotillo has done. You need not fear the man up
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He answered by a slight, bitter laugh. Fear a man! The Capataz of the
      Sulaco Cargadores fear a man! It angered him that anybody should suggest
      such a thing. It angered him to be disarmed and skulking and in danger
      because of the accursed treasure, which was of so little account to the
      people who had tied it round his neck. He could not shake off the worry of
      it. To Nostromo the doctor represented all these people. . . . And he had
      never even asked after it. Not a word of inquiry about the most desperate
      undertaking of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thinking these thoughts, Nostromo passed again through the cavernous hall,
      where the smoke was considerably thinned, and went up the stairs, not so
      warm to his feet now, towards the streak of light at the top. The doctor
      appeared in it for a moment, agitated and impatient.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come up! Come up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the moment of crossing the doorway the Capataz experienced a shock of
      surprise. The man had not moved. He saw his shadow in the same place. He
      started, then stepped in with a feeling of being about to solve a mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was very simple. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, against the
      light of two flaring and guttering candles, through a blue, pungent, thin
      haze which made his eyes smart, he saw the man standing, as he had
      imagined him, with his back to the door, casting an enormous and distorted
      shadow upon the wall. Swifter than a flash of lightning followed the
      impression of his constrained, toppling attitude&mdash;the shoulders
      projecting forward, the head sunk low upon the breast. Then he
      distinguished the arms behind his back, and wrenched so terribly that the
      two clenched fists, lashed together, had been forced up higher than the
      shoulder-blades. From there his eyes traced in one instantaneous glance
      the hide rope going upwards from the tied wrists over a heavy beam and
      down to a staple in the wall. He did not want to look at the rigid legs,
      at the feet hanging down nervelessly, with their bare toes some six inches
      above the floor, to know that the man had been given the estrapade till he
      had swooned. His first impulse was to dash forward and sever the rope at
      one blow. He felt for his knife. He had no knife&mdash;not even a knife.
      He stood quivering, and the doctor, perched on the edge of the table,
      facing thoughtfully the cruel and lamentable sight, his chin in his hand,
      uttered, without stirring&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tortured&mdash;and shot dead through the breast&mdash;getting cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This information calmed the Capataz. One of the candles flickering in the
      socket went out. &ldquo;Who did this?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sotillo, I tell you. Who else? Tortured&mdash;of course. But why shot?&rdquo;
       The doctor looked fixedly at Nostromo, who shrugged his shoulders
      slightly. &ldquo;And mark, shot suddenly, on impulse. It is evident. I wish I
      had his secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had advanced, and stooped slightly to look. &ldquo;I seem to have seen
      that face somewhere,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor turned his eyes upon him again. &ldquo;I may yet come to envying his
      fate. What do you think of that, Capataz, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Nostromo did not even hear these words. Seizing the remaining light,
      he thrust it under the drooping head. The doctor sat oblivious, with a
      lost gaze. Then the heavy iron candlestick, as if struck out of Nostromo&rsquo;s
      hand, clattered on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; exclaimed the doctor, looking up with a start. He could hear the
      Capataz stagger against the table and gasp. In the sudden extinction of
      the light within, the dead blackness sealing the window-frames became
      alive with stars to his sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, of course,&rdquo; the doctor muttered to himself in English. &ldquo;Enough
      to make him jump out of his skin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo&rsquo;s heart seemed to force itself into his throat. His head swam.
      Hirsch! The man was Hirsch! He held on tight to the edge of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he was hiding in the lighter,&rdquo; he almost shouted His voice fell. &ldquo;In
      the lighter, and&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Sotillo brought him in,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;He is no more startling to
      you than you were to me. What I want to know is how he induced some
      compassionate soul to shoot him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So Sotillo knows&mdash;&rdquo; began Nostromo, in a more equable voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything!&rdquo; interrupted the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz was heard striking the table with his fist. &ldquo;Everything? What
      are you saying, there? Everything? Know everything? It is impossible!
      Everything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. What do you mean by impossible? I tell you I have heard this
      Hirsch questioned last night, here, in this very room. He knew your name,
      Decoud&rsquo;s name, and all about the loading of the silver. . . . The lighter
      was cut in two. He was grovelling in abject terror before Sotillo, but he
      remembered that much. What do you want more? He knew least about himself.
      They found him clinging to their anchor. He must have caught at it just as
      the lighter went to the bottom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Went to the bottom?&rdquo; repeated Nostromo, slowly. &ldquo;Sotillo believes that?
      Bueno!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, a little impatiently, was unable to imagine what else could
      anybody believe. Yes, Sotillo believed that the lighter was sunk, and the
      Capataz de Cargadores, together with Martin Decoud and perhaps one or two
      other political fugitives, had been drowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you well, senor doctor,&rdquo; remarked Nostromo at that point, &ldquo;that
      Sotillo did not know everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh? What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did not know I was not dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither did we.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you did not care&mdash;none of you caballeros on the wharf&mdash;once
      you got off a man of flesh and blood like yourselves on a fool&rsquo;s business
      that could not end well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You forget, Capataz, I was not on the wharf. And I did not think well of
      the business. So you need not taunt me. I tell you what, man, we had but
      little leisure to think of the dead. Death stands near behind us all. You
      were gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went, indeed!&rdquo; broke in Nostromo. &ldquo;And for the sake of what&mdash;tell
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is your own affair,&rdquo; the doctor said, roughly. &ldquo;Do not ask me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their flowing murmurs paused in the dark. Perched on the edge of the table
      with slightly averted faces, they felt their shoulders touch, and their
      eyes remained directed towards an upright shape nearly lost in the
      obscurity of the inner part of the room, that with projecting head and
      shoulders, in ghastly immobility, seemed intent on catching every word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Muy bien!&rdquo; Nostromo muttered at last. &ldquo;So be it. Teresa was right. It is
      my own affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Teresa is dead,&rdquo; remarked the doctor, absently, while his mind followed a
      new line of thought suggested by what might have been called Nostromo&rsquo;s
      return to life. &ldquo;She died, the poor woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without a priest?&rdquo; the Capataz asked, anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a question! Who could have got a priest for her last night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May God keep her soul!&rdquo; ejaculated Nostromo, with a gloomy and hopeless
      fervour which had no time to surprise Dr. Monygham, before, reverting to
      their previous conversation, he continued in a sinister tone, &ldquo;Si, senor
      doctor. As you were saying, it is my own affair. A very desperate affair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are no two men in this part of the world that could have saved
      themselves by swimming as you have done,&rdquo; the doctor said, admiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      And again there was silence between those two men. They were both
      reflecting, and the diversity of their natures made their thoughts born
      from their meeting swing afar from each other. The doctor, impelled to
      risky action by his loyalty to the Goulds, wondered with thankfulness at
      the chain of accident which had brought that man back where he would be of
      the greatest use in the work of saving the San Tome mine. The doctor was
      loyal to the mine. It presented itself to his fifty-years&rsquo; old eyes in the
      shape of a little woman in a soft dress with a long train, with a head
      attractively overweighted by a great mass of fair hair and the delicate
      preciousness of her inner worth, partaking of a gem and a flower, revealed
      in every attitude of her person. As the dangers thickened round the San
      Tome mine this illusion acquired force, permanency, and authority. It
      claimed him at last! This claim, exalted by a spiritual detachment from
      the usual sanctions of hope and reward, made Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s thinking,
      acting, individuality extremely dangerous to himself and to others, all
      his scruples vanishing in the proud feeling that his devotion was the only
      thing that stood between an admirable woman and a frightful disaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a sort of intoxication which made him utterly indifferent to
      Decoud&rsquo;s fate, but left his wits perfectly clear for the appreciation of
      Decoud&rsquo;s political idea. It was a good idea&mdash;and Barrios was the only
      instrument of its realization. The doctor&rsquo;s soul, withered and shrunk by
      the shame of a moral disgrace, became implacable in the expansion of its
      tenderness. Nostromo&rsquo;s return was providential. He did not think of him
      humanely, as of a fellow-creature just escaped from the jaws of death. The
      Capataz for him was the only possible messenger to Cayta. The very man.
      The doctor&rsquo;s misanthropic mistrust of mankind (the bitterer because based
      on personal failure) did not lift him sufficiently above common
      weaknesses. He was under the spell of an established reputation. Trumpeted
      by Captain Mitchell, grown in repetition, and fixed in general assent,
      Nostromo&rsquo;s faithfulness had never been questioned by Dr. Monygham as a
      fact. It was not likely to be questioned now he stood in desperate need of
      it himself. Dr. Monygham was human; he accepted the popular conception of
      the Capataz&rsquo;s incorruptibility simply because no word or fact had ever
      contradicted a mere affirmation. It seemed to be a part of the man, like
      his whiskers or his teeth. It was impossible to conceive him otherwise.
      The question was whether he would consent to go on such a dangerous and
      desperate errand. The doctor was observant enough to have become aware
      from the first of something peculiar in the man&rsquo;s temper. He was no doubt
      sore about the loss of the silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be necessary to take him into my fullest confidence,&rdquo; he said to
      himself, with a certain acuteness of insight into the nature he had to
      deal with.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Nostromo&rsquo;s side the silence had been full of black irresolution, anger,
      and mistrust. He was the first to break it, however.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The swimming was no great matter,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is what went before&mdash;and
      what comes after that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not quite finish what he meant to say, breaking off short, as
      though his thought had butted against a solid obstacle. The doctor&rsquo;s mind
      pursued its own schemes with Machiavellian subtlety. He said as
      sympathetically as he was able&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is unfortunate, Capataz. But no one would think of blaming you. Very
      unfortunate. To begin with, the treasure ought never to have left the
      mountain. But it was Decoud who&mdash;however, he is dead. There is no
      need to talk of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; assented Nostromo, as the doctor paused, &ldquo;there is no need to talk
      of dead men. But I am not dead yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are all right. Only a man of your intrepidity could have saved
      himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In this Dr. Monygham was sincere. He esteemed highly the intrepidity of
      that man, whom he valued but little, being disillusioned as to mankind in
      general, because of the particular instance in which his own manhood had
      failed. Having had to encounter singlehanded during his period of eclipse
      many physical dangers, he was well aware of the most dangerous element
      common to them all: of the crushing, paralyzing sense of human littleness,
      which is what really defeats a man struggling with natural forces, alone,
      far from the eyes of his fellows. He was eminently fit to appreciate the
      mental image he made for himself of the Capataz, after hours of tension
      and anxiety, precipitated suddenly into an abyss of waters and darkness,
      without earth or sky, and confronting it not only with an undismayed mind,
      but with sensible success. Of course, the man was an incomparable swimmer,
      that was known, but the doctor judged that this instance testified to a
      still greater intrepidity of spirit. It was pleasing to him; he augured
      well from it for the success of the arduous mission with which he meant to
      entrust the Capataz so marvellously restored to usefulness. And in a tone
      vaguely gratified, he observed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been terribly dark!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was the worst darkness of the Golfo,&rdquo; the Capataz assented, briefly.
      He was mollified by what seemed a sign of some faint interest in such
      things as had befallen him, and dropped a few descriptive phrases with an
      affected and curt nonchalance. At that moment he felt communicative. He
      expected the continuance of that interest which, whether accepted or
      rejected, would have restored to him his personality&mdash;the only thing
      lost in that desperate affair. But the doctor, engrossed by a desperate
      adventure of his own, was terrible in the pursuit of his idea. He let an
      exclamation of regret escape him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could almost wish you had shouted and shown a light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This unexpected utterance astounded the Capataz by its character of
      cold-blooded atrocity. It was as much as to say, &ldquo;I wish you had shown
      yourself a coward; I wish you had had your throat cut for your pains.&rdquo;
       Naturally he referred it to himself, whereas it related only to the
      silver, being uttered simply and with many mental reservations. Surprise
      and rage rendered him speechless, and the doctor pursued, practically
      unheard by Nostromo, whose stirred blood was beating violently in his
      ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For I am convinced Sotillo in possession of the silver would have turned
      short round and made for some small port abroad. Economically it would
      have been wasteful, but still less wasteful than having it sunk. It was
      the next best thing to having it at hand in some safe place, and using
      part of it to buy up Sotillo. But I doubt whether Don Carlos would have
      ever made up his mind to it. He is not fit for Costaguana, and that is a
      fact, Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz had mastered the fury that was like a tempest in his ears in
      time to hear the name of Don Carlos. He seemed to have come out of it a
      changed man&mdash;a man who spoke thoughtfully in a soft and even voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And would Don Carlos have been content if I had surrendered this
      treasure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not wonder if they were all of that way of thinking now,&rdquo; the
      doctor said, grimly. &ldquo;I was never consulted. Decoud had it his own way.
      Their eyes are opened by this time, I should think. I for one know that if
      that silver turned up this moment miraculously ashore I would give it to
      Sotillo. And, as things stand, I would be approved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turned up miraculously,&rdquo; repeated the Capataz very low; then raised his
      voice. &ldquo;That, senor, would be a greater miracle than any saint could
      perform.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you, Capataz,&rdquo; said the doctor, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went on to develop his view of Sotillo&rsquo;s dangerous influence upon the
      situation. And the Capataz, listening as if in a dream, felt himself of as
      little account as the indistinct, motionless shape of the dead man whom he
      saw upright under the beam, with his air of listening also, disregarded,
      forgotten, like a terrible example of neglect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it for an unconsidered and foolish whim that they came to me, then?&rdquo;
       he interrupted suddenly. &ldquo;Had I not done enough for them to be of some
      account, por Dios? Is it that the hombres finos&mdash;the gentlemen&mdash;need
      not think as long as there is a man of the people ready to risk his body
      and soul? Or, perhaps, we have no souls&mdash;like dogs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was Decoud, too, with his plan,&rdquo; the doctor reminded him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si! And the rich man in San Francisco who had something to do with that
      treasure, too&mdash;what do I know? No! I have heard too many things. It
      seems to me that everything is permitted to the rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand, Capataz,&rdquo; the doctor began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What Capataz?&rdquo; broke in Nostromo, in a forcible but even voice. &ldquo;The
      Capataz is undone, destroyed. There is no Capataz. Oh, no! You will find
      the Capataz no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, this is childish!&rdquo; remonstrated the doctor; and the other calmed
      down suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been indeed like a little child,&rdquo; he muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      And as his eyes met again the shape of the murdered man suspended in his
      awful immobility, which seemed the uncomplaining immobility of attention,
      he asked, wondering gently&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did Sotillo give the estrapade to this pitiful wretch? Do you know?
      No torture could have been worse than his fear. Killing I can understand.
      His anguish was intolerable to behold. But why should he torment him like
      this? He could tell no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; he could tell nothing more. Any sane man would have seen that. He had
      told him everything. But I tell you what it is, Capataz. Sotillo would not
      believe what he was told. Not everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it he would not believe? I cannot understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can, because I have seen the man. He refuses to believe that the
      treasure is lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; the Capataz cried out in a discomposed tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That startles you&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to understand, senor,&rdquo; Nostromo went on in a deliberate and, as it
      were, watchful tone, &ldquo;that Sotillo thinks the treasure has been saved by
      some means?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! no! That would be impossible,&rdquo; said the doctor, with conviction; and
      Nostromo emitted a grunt in the dark. &ldquo;That would be impossible. He thinks
      that the silver was no longer in the lighter when she was sunk. He has
      convinced himself that the whole show of getting it away to sea is a mere
      sham got up to deceive Gamacho and his Nationals, Pedrito Montero, Senor
      Fuentes, our new Gefe Politico, and himself, too. Only, he says, he is no
      such fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he is devoid of sense. He is the greatest imbecile that ever called
      himself a colonel in this country of evil,&rdquo; growled Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is no more unreasonable than many sensible men,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;He
      has convinced himself that the treasure can be found because he desires
      passionately to possess himself of it. And he is also afraid of his
      officers turning upon him and going over to Pedrito, whom he has not the
      courage either to fight or trust. Do you see that, Capataz? He need fear
      no desertion as long as some hope remains of that enormous plunder turning
      up. I have made it my business to keep this very hope up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have?&rdquo; the Capataz de Cargadores repeated cautiously. &ldquo;Well, that is
      wonderful. And how long do you think you are going to keep it up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long as I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does that mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can tell you exactly. As long as I live,&rdquo; the doctor retorted in a
      stubborn voice. Then, in a few words, he described the story of his arrest
      and the circumstances of his release. &ldquo;I was going back to that silly
      scoundrel when we met,&rdquo; he concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had listened with profound attention. &ldquo;You have made up your
      mind, then, to a speedy death,&rdquo; he muttered through his clenched teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, my illustrious Capataz,&rdquo; the doctor said, testily. &ldquo;You are not
      the only one here who can look an ugly death in the face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt,&rdquo; mumbled Nostromo, loud enough to be overheard. &ldquo;There may be
      even more than two fools in this place. Who knows?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is my affair,&rdquo; said the doctor, curtly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As taking out the accursed silver to sea was my affair,&rdquo; retorted
      Nostromo. &ldquo;I see. Bueno! Each of us has his reasons. But you were the last
      man I conversed with before I started, and you talked to me as if I were a
      fool.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had a great distaste for the doctor&rsquo;s sardonic treatment of his
      great reputation. Decoud&rsquo;s faintly ironic recognition used to make him
      uneasy; but the familiarity of a man like Don Martin was flattering,
      whereas the doctor was a nobody. He could remember him a penniless
      outcast, slinking about the streets of Sulaco, without a single friend or
      acquaintance, till Don Carlos Gould took him into the service of the mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be very wise,&rdquo; he went on, thoughtfully, staring into the
      obscurity of the room, pervaded by the gruesome enigma of the tortured and
      murdered Hirsch. &ldquo;But I am not such a fool as when I started. I have
      learned one thing since, and that is that you are a dangerous man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham was too startled to do more than exclaim&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he could speak he would say the same thing,&rdquo; pursued Nostromo, with a
      nod of his shadowy head silhouetted against the starlit window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand you,&rdquo; said Dr. Monygham, faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No? Perhaps, if you had not confirmed Sotillo in his madness, he would
      have been in no haste to give the estrapade to that miserable Hirsch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor started at the suggestion. But his devotion, absorbing all his
      sensibilities, had left his heart steeled against remorse and pity. Still,
      for complete relief, he felt the necessity of repelling it loudly and
      contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! You dare to tell me that, with a man like Sotillo. I confess I did
      not give a thought to Hirsch. If I had it would have been useless. Anybody
      can see that the luckless wretch was doomed from the moment he caught hold
      of the anchor. He was doomed, I tell you! Just as I myself am doomed&mdash;most
      probably.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This is what Dr. Monygham said in answer to Nostromo&rsquo;s remark, which was
      plausible enough to prick his conscience. He was not a callous man. But
      the necessity, the magnitude, the importance of the task he had taken upon
      himself dwarfed all merely humane considerations. He had undertaken it in
      a fanatical spirit. He did not like it. To lie, to deceive, to circumvent
      even the basest of mankind was odious to him. It was odious to him by
      training, instinct, and tradition. To do these things in the character of
      a traitor was abhorrent to his nature and terrible to his feelings. He had
      made that sacrifice in a spirit of abasement. He had said to himself
      bitterly, &ldquo;I am the only one fit for that dirty work.&rdquo; And he believed
      this. He was not subtle. His simplicity was such that, though he had no
      sort of heroic idea of seeking death, the risk, deadly enough, to which he
      exposed himself, had a sustaining and comforting effect. To that spiritual
      state the fate of Hirsch presented itself as part of the general atrocity
      of things. He considered that episode practically. What did it mean? Was
      it a sign of some dangerous change in Sotillo&rsquo;s delusion? That the man
      should have been killed like this was what the doctor could not
      understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But why shot?&rdquo; he murmured to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo kept very still.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Distracted between doubts and hopes, dismayed by the sound of bells
      pealing out the arrival of Pedrito Montero, Sotillo had spent the morning
      in battling with his thoughts; a contest to which he was unequal, from the
      vacuity of his mind and the violence of his passions. Disappointment,
      greed, anger, and fear made a tumult, in the colonel&rsquo;s breast louder than
      the din of bells in the town. Nothing he had planned had come to pass.
      Neither Sulaco nor the silver of the mine had fallen into his hands. He
      had performed no military exploit to secure his position, and had obtained
      no enormous booty to make off with. Pedrito Montero, either as friend or
      foe, filled him with dread. The sound of bells maddened him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Imagining at first that he might be attacked at once, he had made his
      battalion stand to arms on the shore. He walked to and fro all the length
      of the room, stopping sometimes to gnaw the finger-tips of his right hand
      with a lurid sideways glare fixed on the floor; then, with a sullen,
      repelling glance all round, he would resume his tramping in savage
      aloofness. His hat, horsewhip, sword, and revolver were lying on the
      table. His officers, crowding the window giving the view of the town gate,
      disputed amongst themselves the use of his field-glass bought last year on
      long credit from Anzani. It passed from hand to hand, and the possessor
      for the time being was besieged by anxious inquiries.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing; there is nothing to see!&rdquo; he would repeat impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing. And when the picket in the bushes near the Casa Viola
      had been ordered to fall back upon the main body, no stir of life appeared
      on the stretch of dusty and arid land between the town and the waters of
      the port. But late in the afternoon a horseman issuing from the gate was
      made out riding up fearlessly. It was an emissary from Senor Fuentes.
      Being all alone he was allowed to come on. Dismounting at the great door
      he greeted the silent bystanders with cheery impudence, and begged to be
      taken up at once to the &ldquo;muy valliente&rdquo; colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Senor Fuentes, on entering upon his functions of Gefe Politico, had turned
      his diplomatic abilities to getting hold of the harbour as well as of the
      mine. The man he pitched upon to negotiate with Sotillo was a Notary
      Public, whom the revolution had found languishing in the common jail on a
      charge of forging documents. Liberated by the mob along with the other
      &ldquo;victims of Blanco tyranny,&rdquo; he had hastened to offer his services to the
      new Government.
    </p>
    <p>
      He set out determined to display much zeal and eloquence in trying to
      induce Sotillo to come into town alone for a conference with Pedrito
      Montero. Nothing was further from the colonel&rsquo;s intentions. The mere
      fleeting idea of trusting himself into the famous Pedrito&rsquo;s hands had made
      him feel unwell several times. It was out of the question&mdash;it was
      madness. And to put himself in open hostility was madness, too. It would
      render impossible a systematic search for that treasure, for that wealth
      of silver which he seemed to feel somewhere about, to scent somewhere
      near.
    </p>
    <p>
      But where? Where? Heavens! Where? Oh! why had he allowed that doctor to
      go! Imbecile that he was. But no! It was the only right course, he
      reflected distractedly, while the messenger waited downstairs chatting
      agreeably to the officers. It was in that scoundrelly doctor&rsquo;s true
      interest to return with positive information. But what if anything stopped
      him? A general prohibition to leave the town, for instance! There would be
      patrols!
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel, seizing his head in his hands, turned in his tracks as if
      struck with vertigo. A flash of craven inspiration suggested to him an
      expedient not unknown to European statesmen when they wish to delay a
      difficult negotiation. Booted and spurred, he scrambled into the hammock
      with undignified haste. His handsome face had turned yellow with the
      strain of weighty cares. The ridge of his shapely nose had grown sharp;
      the audacious nostrils appeared mean and pinched. The velvety, caressing
      glance of his fine eyes seemed dead, and even decomposed; for these
      almond-shaped, languishing orbs had become inappropriately bloodshot with
      much sinister sleeplessness. He addressed the surprised envoy of Senor
      Fuentes in a deadened, exhausted voice. It came pathetically feeble from
      under a pile of ponchos, which buried his elegant person right up to the
      black moustaches, uncurled, pendant, in sign of bodily prostration and
      mental incapacity. Fever, fever&mdash;a heavy fever had overtaken the &ldquo;muy
      valliente&rdquo; colonel. A wavering wildness of expression, caused by the
      passing spasms of a slight colic which had declared itself suddenly, and
      the rattling teeth of repressed panic, had a genuineness which impressed
      the envoy. It was a cold fit. The colonel explained that he was unable to
      think, to listen, to speak. With an appearance of superhuman effort the
      colonel gasped out that he was not in a state to return a suitable reply
      or to execute any of his Excellency&rsquo;s orders. But to-morrow! To-morrow!
      Ah! to-morrow! Let his Excellency Don Pedro be without uneasiness. The
      brave Esmeralda Regiment held the harbour, held&mdash;And closing his
      eyes, he rolled his aching head like a half-delirious invalid under the
      inquisitive stare of the envoy, who was obliged to bend down over the
      hammock in order to catch the painful and broken accents. Meantime,
      Colonel Sotillo trusted that his Excellency&rsquo;s humanity would permit the
      doctor, the English doctor, to come out of town with his case of foreign
      remedies to attend upon him. He begged anxiously his worship the caballero
      now present for the grace of looking in as he passed the Casa Gould, and
      informing the English doctor, who was probably there, that his services
      were immediately required by Colonel Sotillo, lying ill of fever in the
      Custom House. Immediately. Most urgently required. Awaited with extreme
      impatience. A thousand thanks. He closed his eyes wearily and would not
      open them again, lying perfectly still, deaf, dumb, insensible, overcome,
      vanquished, crushed, annihilated by the fell disease.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as soon as the other had shut after him the door of the landing, the
      colonel leaped out with a fling of both feet in an avalanche of woollen
      coverings. His spurs having become entangled in a perfect welter of
      ponchos he nearly pitched on his head, and did not recover his balance
      till the middle of the room. Concealed behind the half-closed jalousies he
      listened to what went on below.
    </p>
    <p>
      The envoy had already mounted, and turning to the morose officers
      occupying the great doorway, took off his hat formally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caballeros,&rdquo; he said, in a very loud tone, &ldquo;allow me to recommend you to
      take great care of your colonel. It has done me much honour and
      gratification to have seen you all, a fine body of men exercising the
      soldierly virtue of patience in this exposed situation, where there is
      much sun, and no water to speak of, while a town full of wine and feminine
      charms is ready to embrace you for the brave men you are. Caballeros, I
      have the honour to salute you. There will be much dancing to-night in
      Sulaco. Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he reined in his horse and inclined his head sideways on seeing the
      old major step out, very tall and meagre, in a straight narrow coat coming
      down to his ankles as it were the casing of the regimental colours rolled
      round their staff.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intelligent old warrior, after enunciating in a dogmatic tone the
      general proposition that the &ldquo;world was full of traitors,&rdquo; went on
      pronouncing deliberately a panegyric upon Sotillo. He ascribed to him with
      leisurely emphasis every virtue under heaven, summing it all up in an
      absurd colloquialism current amongst the lower class of Occidentals
      (especially about Esmeralda). &ldquo;And,&rdquo; he concluded, with a sudden rise in
      the voice, &ldquo;a man of many teeth&mdash;&lsquo;hombre de muchos dientes.&rsquo; Si,
      senor. As to us,&rdquo; he pursued, portentous and impressive, &ldquo;your worship is
      beholding the finest body of officers in the Republic, men unequalled for
      valour and sagacity, &lsquo;y hombres de muchos dientes.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? All of them?&rdquo; inquired the disreputable envoy of Senor Fuentes,
      with a faint, derisive smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Todos. Si, senor,&rdquo; the major affirmed, gravely, with conviction. &ldquo;Men of
      many teeth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other wheeled his horse to face the portal resembling the high gate of
      a dismal barn. He raised himself in his stirrups, extended one arm. He was
      a facetious scoundrel, entertaining for these stupid Occidentals a feeling
      of great scorn natural in a native from the central provinces. The folly
      of Esmeraldians especially aroused his amused contempt. He began an
      oration upon Pedro Montero, keeping a solemn countenance. He flourished
      his hand as if introducing him to their notice. And when he saw every face
      set, all the eyes fixed upon his lips, he began to shout a sort of
      catalogue of perfections: &ldquo;Generous, valorous, affable, profound&rdquo;&mdash;(he
      snatched off his hat enthusiastically)&mdash;&ldquo;a statesman, an invincible
      chief of partisans&mdash;&rdquo; He dropped his voice startlingly to a deep,
      hollow note&mdash;&ldquo;and a dentist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was off instantly at a smart walk; the rigid straddle of his legs, the
      turned-out feet, the stiff back, the rakish slant of the sombrero above
      the square, motionless set of the shoulders expressing an infinite,
      awe-inspiring impudence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upstairs, behind the jalousies, Sotillo did not move for a long time. The
      audacity of the fellow appalled him. What were his officers saying below?
      They were saying nothing. Complete silence. He quaked. It was not thus
      that he had imagined himself at that stage of the expedition. He had seen
      himself triumphant, unquestioned, appeased, the idol of the soldiers,
      weighing in secret complacency the agreeable alternatives of power and
      wealth open to his choice. Alas! How different! Distracted, restless,
      supine, burning with fury, or frozen with terror, he felt a dread as
      fathomless as the sea creep upon him from every side. That rogue of a
      doctor had to come out with his information. That was clear. It would be
      of no use to him&mdash;alone. He could do nothing with it. Malediction!
      The doctor would never come out. He was probably under arrest already,
      shut up together with Don Carlos. He laughed aloud insanely. Ha! ha! ha!
      ha! It was Pedrito Montero who would get the information. Ha! ha! ha! ha!&mdash;and
      the silver. Ha!
    </p>
    <p>
      All at once, in the midst of the laugh, he became motionless and silent as
      if turned into stone. He too, had a prisoner. A prisoner who must, must
      know the real truth. He would have to be made to speak. And Sotillo, who
      all that time had not quite forgotten Hirsch, felt an inexplicable
      reluctance at the notion of proceeding to extremities.
    </p>
    <p>
      He felt a reluctance&mdash;part of that unfathomable dread that crept on
      all sides upon him. He remembered reluctantly, too, the dilated eyes of
      the hide merchant, his contortions, his loud sobs and protestations. It
      was not compassion or even mere nervous sensibility. The fact was that
      though Sotillo did never for a moment believe his story&mdash;he could not
      believe it; nobody could believe such nonsense&mdash;yet those accents of
      despairing truth impressed him disagreeably. They made him feel sick. And
      he suspected also that the man might have gone mad with fear. A lunatic is
      a hopeless subject. Bah! A pretence. Nothing but a pretence. He would know
      how to deal with that.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was working himself up to the right pitch of ferocity. His fine eyes
      squinted slightly; he clapped his hands; a bare-footed orderly appeared
      noiselessly, a corporal, with his bayonet hanging on his thigh and a stick
      in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The colonel gave his orders, and presently the miserable Hirsch, pushed in
      by several soldiers, found him frowning awfully in a broad armchair, hat
      on head, knees wide apart, arms akimbo, masterful, imposing, irresistible,
      haughty, sublime, terrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hirsch, with his arms tied behind his back, had been bundled violently
      into one of the smaller rooms. For many hours he remained apparently
      forgotten, stretched lifelessly on the floor. From that solitude, full of
      despair and terror, he was torn out brutally, with kicks and blows,
      passive, sunk in hebetude. He listened to threats and admonitions, and
      afterwards made his usual answers to questions, with his chin sunk on his
      breast, his hands tied behind his back, swaying a little in front of
      Sotillo, and never looking up. When he was forced to hold up his head, by
      means of a bayonet-point prodding him under the chin, his eyes had a
      vacant, trance-like stare, and drops of perspiration as big as peas were
      seen hailing down the dirt, bruises, and scratches of his white face. Then
      they stopped suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo looked at him in silence. &ldquo;Will you depart from your obstinacy,
      you rogue?&rdquo; he asked. Already a rope, whose one end was fastened to Senor
      Hirsch&rsquo;s wrists, had been thrown over a beam, and three soldiers held the
      other end, waiting. He made no answer. His heavy lower lip hung stupidly.
      Sotillo made a sign. Hirsch was jerked up off his feet, and a yell of
      despair and agony burst out in the room, filled the passage of the great
      buildings, rent the air outside, caused every soldier of the camp along
      the shore to look up at the windows, started some of the officers in the
      hall babbling excitedly, with shining eyes; others, setting their lips,
      looked gloomily at the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, followed by the soldiers, had left the room. The sentry on the
      landing presented arms. Hirsch went on screaming all alone behind the
      half-closed jalousies while the sunshine, reflected from the water of the
      harbour, made an ever-running ripple of light high up on the wall. He
      screamed with uplifted eyebrows and a wide-open mouth&mdash;incredibly
      wide, black, enormous, full of teeth&mdash;comical.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the still burning air of the windless afternoon he made the waves of
      his agony travel as far as the O. S. N. Company&rsquo;s offices. Captain
      Mitchell on the balcony, trying to make out what went on generally, had
      heard him faintly but distinctly, and the feeble and appalling sound
      lingered in his ears after he had retreated indoors with blanched cheeks.
      He had been driven off the balcony several times during that afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo, irritable, moody, walked restlessly about, held consultations
      with his officers, gave contradictory orders in this shrill clamour
      pervading the whole empty edifice. Sometimes there would be long and awful
      silences. Several times he had entered the torture-chamber where his
      sword, horsewhip, revolver, and field-glass were lying on the table, to
      ask with forced calmness, &ldquo;Will you speak the truth now? No? I can wait.&rdquo;
       But he could not afford to wait much longer. That was just it. Every time
      he went in and came out with a slam of the door, the sentry on the landing
      presented arms, and got in return a black, venomous, unsteady glance,
      which, in reality, saw nothing at all, being merely the reflection of the
      soul within&mdash;a soul of gloomy hatred, irresolution, avarice, and
      fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun had set when he went in once more. A soldier carried in two
      lighted candles and slunk out, shutting the door without noise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak, thou Jewish child of the devil! The silver! The silver, I say!
      Where is it? Where have you foreign rogues hidden it? Confess or&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A slight quiver passed up the taut rope from the racked limbs, but the
      body of Senor Hirsch, enterprising business man from Esmeralda, hung under
      the heavy beam perpendicular and silent, facing the colonel awfully. The
      inflow of the night air, cooled by the snows of the Sierra, spread
      gradually a delicious freshness through the close heat of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak&mdash;thief&mdash;scoundrel&mdash;picaro&mdash;or&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo had seized the riding-whip, and stood with his arm lifted up. For
      a word, for one little word, he felt he would have knelt, cringed,
      grovelled on the floor before the drowsy, conscious stare of those fixed
      eyeballs starting out of the grimy, dishevelled head that drooped very
      still with its mouth closed askew. The colonel ground his teeth with rage
      and struck. The rope vibrated leisurely to the blow, like the long string
      of a pendulum starting from a rest. But no swinging motion was imparted to
      the body of Senor Hirsch, the well-known hide merchant on the coast. With
      a convulsive effort of the twisted arms it leaped up a few inches, curling
      upon itself like a fish on the end of a line. Senor Hirsch&rsquo;s head was
      flung back on his straining throat; his chin trembled. For a moment the
      rattle of his chattering teeth pervaded the vast, shadowy room, where the
      candles made a patch of light round the two flames burning side by side.
      And as Sotillo, staying his raised hand, waited for him to speak, with the
      sudden flash of a grin and a straining forward of the wrenched shoulders,
      he spat violently into his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The uplifted whip fell, and the colonel sprang back with a low cry of
      dismay, as if aspersed by a jet of deadly venom. Quick as thought he
      snatched up his revolver, and fired twice. The report and the concussion
      of the shots seemed to throw him at once from ungovernable rage into
      idiotic stupor. He stood with drooping jaw and stony eyes. What had he
      done, Sangre de Dios! What had he done? He was basely appalled at his
      impulsive act, sealing for ever these lips from which so much was to be
      extorted. What could he say? How could he explain? Ideas of headlong
      flight somewhere, anywhere, passed through his mind; even the craven and
      absurd notion of hiding under the table occurred to his cowardice. It was
      too late; his officers had rushed in tumultuously, in a great clatter of
      scabbards, clamouring, with astonishment and wonder. But since they did
      not immediately proceed to plunge their swords into his breast, the brazen
      side of his character asserted itself. Passing the sleeve of his uniform
      over his face he pulled himself together, His truculent glance turned
      slowly here and there, checked the noise where it fell; and the stiff body
      of the late Senor Hirsch, merchant, after swaying imperceptibly, made a
      half turn, and came to a rest in the midst of awed murmurs and uneasy
      shuffling.
    </p>
    <p>
      A voice remarked loudly, &ldquo;Behold a man who will never speak again.&rdquo; And
      another, from the back row of faces, timid and pressing, cried out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you kill him, mi colonel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because he has confessed everything,&rdquo; answered Sotillo, with the
      hardihood of desperation. He felt himself cornered. He brazened it out on
      the strength of his reputation with very fair success. His hearers thought
      him very capable of such an act. They were disposed to believe his
      flattering tale. There is no credulity so eager and blind as the credulity
      of covetousness, which, in its universal extent, measures the moral misery
      and the intellectual destitution of mankind. Ah! he had confessed
      everything, this fractious Jew, this bribon. Good! Then he was no longer
      wanted. A sudden dense guffaw was heard from the senior captain&mdash;a
      big-headed man, with little round eyes and monstrously fat cheeks which
      never moved. The old major, tall and fantastically ragged like a
      scarecrow, walked round the body of the late Senor Hirsch, muttering to
      himself with ineffable complacency that like this there was no need to
      guard against any future treacheries of that scoundrel. The others stared,
      shifting from foot to foot, and whispering short remarks to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sotillo buckled on his sword and gave curt, peremptory orders to hasten
      the retirement decided upon in the afternoon. Sinister, impressive, his
      sombrero pulled right down upon his eyebrows, he marched first through the
      door in such disorder of mind that he forgot utterly to provide for Dr.
      Monygham&rsquo;s possible return. As the officers trooped out after him, one or
      two looked back hastily at the late Senor Hirsch, merchant from Esmeralda,
      left swinging rigidly at rest, alone with the two burning candles. In the
      emptiness of the room the burly shadow of head and shoulders on the wall
      had an air of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Below, the troops fell in silently and moved off by companies without drum
      or trumpet. The old scarecrow major commanded the rearguard; but the party
      he left behind with orders to fire the Custom House (and &ldquo;burn the carcass
      of the treacherous Jew where it hung&rdquo;) failed somehow in their haste to
      set the staircase properly alight. The body of the late Senor Hirsch dwelt
      alone for a time in the dismal solitude of the unfinished building,
      resounding weirdly with sudden slams and clicks of doors and latches, with
      rustling scurries of torn papers, and the tremulous sighs that at each
      gust of wind passed under the high roof. The light of the two candles
      burning before the perpendicular and breathless immobility of the late
      Senor Hirsch threw a gleam afar over land and water, like a signal in the
      night. He remained to startle Nostromo by his presence, and to puzzle Dr.
      Monygham by the mystery of his atrocious end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why shot?&rdquo; the doctor again asked himself, audibly. This time he was
      answered by a dry laugh from Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem much concerned at a very natural thing, senor doctor. I wonder
      why? It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after
      another, if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito, or Fuentes, or Gamacho. And
      we may even get the estrapade, too, or worse&mdash;quien sabe?&mdash;with
      your pretty tale of the silver you put into Sotillo&rsquo;s head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was in his head already,&rdquo; the doctor protested. &ldquo;I only&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. And you only nailed it there so that the devil himself&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is precisely what I meant to do,&rdquo; caught up the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as I say. You are a dangerous
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their voices, which without rising had been growing quarrelsome, ceased
      suddenly. The late Senor Hirsch, erect and shadowy against the stars,
      seemed to be waiting attentive, in impartial silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Dr. Monygham had no mind to quarrel with Nostromo. At this supremely
      critical point of Sulaco&rsquo;s fortunes it was borne upon him at last that
      this man was really indispensable, more indispensable than ever the
      infatuation of Captain Mitchell, his proud discoverer, could conceive; far
      beyond what Decoud&rsquo;s best dry raillery about &ldquo;my illustrious friend, the
      unique Capataz de Cargadores,&rdquo; had ever intended. The fellow was unique.
      He was not &ldquo;one in a thousand.&rdquo; He was absolutely the only one. The doctor
      surrendered. There was something in the genius of that Genoese seaman
      which dominated the destinies of great enterprises and of many people, the
      fortunes of Charles Gould, the fate of an admirable woman. At this last
      thought the doctor had to clear his throat before he could speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a completely changed tone he pointed out to the Capataz that, to begin
      with, he personally ran no great risk. As far as everybody knew he was
      dead. It was an enormous advantage. He had only to keep out of sight in
      the Casa Viola, where the old Garibaldino was known to be alone&mdash;with
      his dead wife. The servants had all run away. No one would think of
      searching for him there, or anywhere else on earth, for that matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be very true,&rdquo; Nostromo spoke up, bitterly, &ldquo;if I had not met
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a time the doctor kept silent. &ldquo;Do you mean to say that you think I
      may give you away?&rdquo; he asked in an unsteady voice. &ldquo;Why? Why should I do
      that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I know? Why not? To gain a day perhaps. It would take Sotillo a
      day to give me the estrapade, and try some other things perhaps, before he
      puts a bullet through my heart&mdash;as he did to that poor wretch here.
      Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor swallowed with difficulty. His throat had gone dry in a moment.
      It was not from indignation. The doctor, pathetically enough, believed
      that he had forfeited the right to be indignant with any one&mdash;for
      anything. It was simple dread. Had the fellow heard his story by some
      chance? If so, there was an end of his usefulness in that direction. The
      indispensable man escaped his influence, because of that indelible blot
      which made him fit for dirty work. A feeling as of sickness came upon the
      doctor. He would have given anything to know, but he dared not clear up
      the point. The fanaticism of his devotion, fed on the sense of his
      abasement, hardened his heart in sadness and scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not, indeed?&rdquo; he reechoed, sardonically. &ldquo;Then the safe thing for you
      is to kill me on the spot. I would defend myself. But you may just as well
      know I am going about unarmed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Por Dios!&rdquo; said the Capataz, passionately. &ldquo;You fine people are all
      alike. All dangerous. All betrayers of the poor who are your dogs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not understand,&rdquo; began the doctor, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand you all!&rdquo; cried the other with a violent movement, as
      shadowy to the doctor&rsquo;s eyes as the persistent immobility of the late
      Senor Hirsch. &ldquo;A poor man amongst you has got to look after himself. I say
      that you do not care for those that serve you. Look at me! After all these
      years, suddenly, here I find myself like one of these curs that bark
      outside the walls&mdash;without a kennel or a dry bone for my teeth. <i>Caramba!</i>&rdquo;
       But he relented with a contemptuous fairness. &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he went on,
      quietly, &ldquo;I do not suppose that you would hasten to give me up to Sotillo,
      for example. It is not that. It is that I am nothing! Suddenly&mdash;&rdquo; He
      swung his arm downwards. &ldquo;Nothing to any one,&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor breathed freely. &ldquo;Listen, Capataz,&rdquo; he said, stretching out his
      arm almost affectionately towards Nostromo&rsquo;s shoulder. &ldquo;I am going to tell
      you a very simple thing. You are safe because you are needed. I would not
      give you away for any conceivable reason, because I want you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the dark Nostromo bit his lip. He had heard enough of that. He knew
      what that meant. No more of that for him. But he had to look after himself
      now, he thought. And he thought, too, that it would not be prudent to part
      in anger from his companion. The doctor, admitted to be a great healer,
      had, amongst the populace of Sulaco, the reputation of being an evil sort
      of man. It was based solidly on his personal appearance, which was
      strange, and on his rough ironic manner&mdash;proofs visible, sensible,
      and incontrovertible of the doctor&rsquo;s malevolent disposition. And Nostromo
      was of the people. So he only grunted incredulously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, to speak plainly, are the only man,&rdquo; the doctor pursued. &ldquo;It is in
      your power to save this town and . . . everybody from the destructive
      rapacity of men who&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, senor,&rdquo; said Nostromo, sullenly. &ldquo;It is not in my power to get the
      treasure back for you to give up to Sotillo, or Pedrito, or Gamacho. What
      do I know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody expects the impossible,&rdquo; was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have said it yourself&mdash;nobody,&rdquo; muttered Nostromo, in a gloomy,
      threatening tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Dr. Monygham, full of hope, disregarded the enigmatic words and the
      threatening tone. To their eyes, accustomed to obscurity, the late Senor
      Hirsch, growing more distinct, seemed to have come nearer. And the doctor
      lowered his voice in exposing his scheme as though afraid of being
      overheard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was taking the indispensable man into his fullest confidence. Its
      implied flattery and suggestion of great risks came with a familiar sound
      to the Capataz. His mind, floating in irresolution and discontent,
      recognized it with bitterness. He understood well that the doctor was
      anxious to save the San Tome mine from annihilation. He would be nothing
      without it. It was his interest. Just as it had been the interest of Senor
      Decoud, of the Blancos, and of the Europeans to get his Cargadores on
      their side. His thought became arrested upon Decoud. What would happen to
      him?
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo&rsquo;s prolonged silence made the doctor uneasy. He pointed out, quite
      unnecessarily, that though for the present he was safe, he could not live
      concealed for ever. The choice was between accepting the mission to
      Barrios, with all its dangers and difficulties, and leaving Sulaco by
      stealth, ingloriously, in poverty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None of your friends could reward you and protect you just now, Capataz.
      Not even Don Carlos himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would have none of your protection and none of your rewards. I only
      wish I could trust your courage and your sense. When I return in triumph,
      as you say, with Barrios, I may find you all destroyed. You have the knife
      at your throat now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the doctor&rsquo;s turn to remain silent in the contemplation of horrible
      contingencies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we would trust your courage and your sense. And you, too, have a
      knife at your throat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! And whom am I to thank for that? What are your politics and your
      mines to me&mdash;your silver and your constitutions&mdash;your Don Carlos
      this, and Don Jose that&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; burst out the exasperated doctor. &ldquo;There are innocent
      people in danger whose little finger is worth more than you or I and all
      the Ribierists together. I don&rsquo;t know. You should have asked yourself
      before you allowed Decoud to lead you into all this. It was your place to
      think like a man; but if you did not think then, try to act like a man
      now. Did you imagine Decoud cared very much for what would happen to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more than you care for what will happen to me,&rdquo; muttered the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I care for what will happen to you as little as I care for what will
      happen to myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all this because you are such a devoted Ribierist?&rdquo; Nostromo said in
      an incredulous tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this because I am such a devoted Ribierist,&rdquo; repeated Dr. Monygham,
      grimly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Nostromo, gazing abstractedly at the body of the late Senor Hirsch,
      remained silent, thinking that the doctor was a dangerous person in more
      than one sense. It was impossible to trust him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you speak in the name of Don Carlos?&rdquo; he asked at last.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I do,&rdquo; the doctor said, loudly, without hesitation. &ldquo;He must come
      forward now. He must,&rdquo; he added in a mutter, which Nostromo did not catch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say, senor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor started. &ldquo;I say that you must be true to yourself, Capataz. It
      would be worse than folly to fail now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True to myself,&rdquo; repeated Nostromo. &ldquo;How do you know that I would not be
      true to myself if I told you to go to the devil with your propositions?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know. Maybe you would,&rdquo; the doctor said, with a roughness of
      tone intended to hide the sinking of his heart and the faltering of his
      voice. &ldquo;All I know is, that you had better get away from here. Some of
      Sotillo&rsquo;s men may turn up here looking for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He slipped off the table, listening intently. The Capataz, too, stood up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I went to Cayta, what would you do meantime?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would go to Sotillo directly you had left&mdash;in the way I am
      thinking of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very good way&mdash;if only that engineer-in-chief consents. Remind
      him, senor, that I looked after the old rich Englishman who pays for the
      railway, and that I saved the lives of some of his people that time when a
      gang of thieves came from the south to wreck one of his pay-trains. It was
      I who discovered it all at the risk of my life, by pretending to enter
      into their plans. Just as you are doing with Sotillo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Yes, of course. But I can offer him better arguments,&rdquo; the doctor
      said, hastily. &ldquo;Leave it to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes! True. I am nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all. You are everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They moved a few paces towards the door. Behind them the late Senor Hirsch
      preserved the immobility of a disregarded man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will be all right. I know what to say to the engineer,&rdquo; pursued the
      doctor, in a low tone. &ldquo;My difficulty will be with Sotillo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Dr. Monygham stopped short in the doorway as if intimidated by the
      difficulty. He had made the sacrifice of his life. He considered this a
      fitting opportunity. But he did not want to throw his life away too soon.
      In his quality of betrayer of Don Carlos&rsquo; confidence, he would have
      ultimately to indicate the hiding-place of the treasure. That would be the
      end of his deception, and the end of himself as well, at the hands of the
      infuriated colonel. He wanted to delay him to the very last moment; and he
      had been racking his brains to invent some place of concealment at once
      plausible and difficult of access.
    </p>
    <p>
      He imparted his trouble to Nostromo, and concluded&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what, Capataz? I think that when the time comes and some
      information must be given, I shall indicate the Great Isabel. That is the
      best place I can think of. What is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A low exclamation had escaped Nostromo. The doctor waited, surprised, and
      after a moment of profound silence, heard a thick voice stammer out,
      &ldquo;Utter folly,&rdquo; and stop with a gasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why folly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! You do not see it,&rdquo; began Nostromo, scathingly, gathering scorn as he
      went on. &ldquo;Three men in half an hour would see that no ground had been
      disturbed anywhere on that island. Do you think that such a treasure can
      be buried without leaving traces of the work&mdash;eh! senor doctor? Why!
      you would not gain half a day more before having your throat cut by
      Sotillo. The Isabel! What stupidity! What miserable invention! Ah! you are
      all alike, you fine men of intelligence. All you are fit for is to betray
      men of the people into undertaking deadly risks for objects that you are
      not even sure about. If it comes off you get the benefit. If not, then it
      does not matter. He is only a dog. Ah! Madre de Dios, I would&mdash;&rdquo; He
      shook his fists above his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was overwhelmed at first by this fierce, hissing vehemence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! It seems to me on your own showing that the men of the people are
      no mean fools, too,&rdquo; he said, sullenly. &ldquo;No, but come. You are so clever.
      Have you a better place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had calmed down as quickly as he had flared up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am clever enough for that,&rdquo; he said, quietly, almost with indifference.
      &ldquo;You want to tell him of a hiding-place big enough to take days in
      ransacking&mdash;a place where a treasure of silver ingots can be buried
      without leaving a sign on the surface.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And close at hand,&rdquo; the doctor put in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so, senor. Tell him it is sunk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This has the merit of being the truth,&rdquo; the doctor said, contemptuously.
      &ldquo;He will not believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You tell him that it is sunk where he may hope to lay his hands on it,
      and he will believe you quick enough. Tell him it has been sunk in the
      harbour in order to be recovered afterwards by divers. Tell him you found
      out that I had orders from Don Carlos Gould to lower the cases quietly
      overboard somewhere in a line between the end of the jetty and the
      entrance. The depth is not too great there. He has no divers, but he has a
      ship, boats, ropes, chains, sailors&mdash;of a sort. Let him fish for the
      silver. Let him set his fools to drag backwards and forwards and crossways
      while he sits and watches till his eyes drop out of his head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, this is an admirable idea,&rdquo; muttered the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si. You tell him that, and see whether he will not believe you! He will
      spend days in rage and torment&mdash;and still he will believe. He will
      have no thought for anything else. He will not give up till he is driven
      off&mdash;why, he may even forget to kill you. He will neither eat nor
      sleep. He&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The very thing! The very thing!&rdquo; the doctor repeated in an excited
      whisper. &ldquo;Capataz, I begin to believe that you are a great genius in your
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had paused; then began again in a changed tone, sombre, speaking
      to himself as though he had forgotten the doctor&rsquo;s existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man&rsquo;s mind. He will
      pray and blaspheme and still persevere, and will curse the day he ever
      heard of it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares, still
      believing that he missed it only by a foot. He will see it every time he
      closes his eyes. He will never forget it till he is dead&mdash;and even
      then&mdash;&mdash;Doctor, did you ever hear of the miserable gringos on
      Azuera, that cannot die? Ha! ha! Sailors like myself. There is no getting
      away from a treasure that once fastens upon your mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a devil of a man, Capataz. It is the most plausible thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo pressed his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be worse for him than thirst at sea or hunger in a town full of
      people. Do you know what that is? He shall suffer greater torments than he
      inflicted upon that terrified wretch who had no invention. None! none! Not
      like me. I could have told Sotillo a deadly tale for very little pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed wildly and turned in the doorway towards the body of the late
      Senor Hirsch, an opaque long blotch in the semi-transparent obscurity of
      the room between the two tall parallelograms of the windows full of stars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You man of fear!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;You shall be avenged by me&mdash;Nostromo.
      Out of my way, doctor! Stand aside&mdash;or, by the suffering soul of a
      woman dead without confession, I will strangle you with my two hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt of
      astonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the pursuit. At
      the bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall, pitching forward on his
      face with a force that would have stunned a spirit less intent upon a task
      of love and devotion. He was up in a moment, jarred, shaken, with a queer
      impression of the terrestrial globe having been flung at his head in the
      dark. But it wanted more than that to stop Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s body, possessed
      by the exaltation of self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation, determined
      not to lose whatever advantage chance put into its way. He ran with
      headlong, tottering swiftness, his arms going like a windmill in his
      effort to keep his balance on his crippled feet. He lost his hat; the
      tails of his open gaberdine flew behind him. He had no mind to lose sight
      of the indispensable man. But it was a long time, and a long way from the
      Custom House, before he managed to seize his arm from behind, roughly, out
      of breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop! Are you mad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Already Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if checked in
      his pace by the weariness of irresolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want me for something. Always.
      Siempre Nostromo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by talking of strangling me?&rdquo; panted the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I mean? I mean that the king of the devils himself has sent you
      out of this town of cowards and talkers to meet me to-night of all the
      nights of my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Under the starry sky the Albergo d&rsquo;ltalia Una emerged, black and low,
      breaking the dark level of the plain. Nostromo stopped altogether.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?&rdquo; he added, through his
      clenched teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My good man, you drivel. The devil has nothing to do with this. Neither
      has the town, which you may call by what name you please. But Don Carlos
      Gould is neither a coward nor an empty talker. You will admit that?&rdquo; He
      waited. &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could I see Don Carlos?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! No! Why? What for?&rdquo; exclaimed the doctor in agitation. &ldquo;I
      tell you it is madness. I will not let you go into the town for anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not!&rdquo; hissed the doctor, fiercely, almost beside himself with
      the fear of the man doing away with his usefulness for an imbecile whim of
      some sort. &ldquo;I tell you you shall not. I would rather&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped at loss for words, feeling fagged out, powerless, holding on to
      Nostromo&rsquo;s sleeve, absolutely for support after his run.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am betrayed!&rdquo; muttered the Capataz to himself; and the doctor, who
      overheard the last word, made an effort to speak calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is exactly what would happen to you. You would be betrayed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He thought with a sickening dread that the man was so well known that he
      could not escape recognition. The house of the Senor Administrador was
      beset by spies, no doubt. And even the very servants of the casa were not
      to be trusted. &ldquo;Reflect, Capataz,&rdquo; he said, impressively. . . . &ldquo;What are
      you laughing at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am laughing to think that if somebody that did not approve of my
      presence in town, for instance&mdash;you understand, senor doctor&mdash;if
      somebody were to give me up to Pedrito, it would not be beyond my power to
      make friends even with him. It is true. What do you think of that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a man of infinite resource, Capataz,&rdquo; said Dr. Monygham,
      dismally. &ldquo;I recognize that. But the town is full of talk about you; and
      those few Cargadores that are not in hiding with the railway people have
      been shouting &lsquo;Viva Montero&rsquo; on the Plaza all day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor Cargadores!&rdquo; muttered Nostromo. &ldquo;Betrayed! Betrayed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand that on the wharf you were pretty free in laying about you
      with a stick amongst your poor Cargadores,&rdquo; the doctor said in a grim
      tone, which showed that he was recovering from his exertions. &ldquo;Make no
      mistake. Pedrito is furious at Senor Ribiera&rsquo;s rescue, and at having lost
      the pleasure of shooting Decoud. Already there are rumours in the town of
      the treasure having been spirited away. To have missed that does not
      please Pedrito either; but let me tell you that if you had all that silver
      in your hand for ransom it would not save you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Turning swiftly, and catching the doctor by the shoulders, Nostromo thrust
      his face close to his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maladetta! You follow me speaking of the treasure. You have sworn my
      ruin. You were the last man who looked upon me before I went out with it.
      And Sidoni the engine-driver says you have an evil eye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He ought to know. I saved his broken leg for him last year,&rdquo; the doctor
      said, stoically. He felt on his shoulders the weight of these hands famed
      amongst the populace for snapping thick ropes and bending horseshoes. &ldquo;And
      to you I offer the best means of saving yourself&mdash;let me go&mdash;and
      of retrieving your great reputation. You boasted of making the Capataz de
      Cargadores famous from one end of America to the other about this wretched
      silver. But I bring you a better opportunity&mdash;let me go, hombre!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo released him abruptly, and the doctor feared that the
      indispensable man would run off again. But he did not. He walked on
      slowly. The doctor hobbled by his side till, within a stone&rsquo;s throw from
      the Casa Viola, Nostromo stopped again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silent in inhospitable darkness, the Casa Viola seemed to have changed its
      nature; his home appeared to repel him with an air of hopeless and
      inimical mystery. The doctor said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be safe there. Go in, Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I go in?&rdquo; Nostromo seemed to ask himself in a low, inward tone.
      &ldquo;She cannot unsay what she said, and I cannot undo what I have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you it is all right. Viola is all alone in there. I looked in as I
      came out of the town. You will be perfectly safe in that house till you
      leave it to make your name famous on the Campo. I am going now to arrange
      for your departure with the engineer-in-chief, and I shall bring you news
      here long before daybreak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham, disregarding, or perhaps fearing to penetrate the meaning of
      Nostromo&rsquo;s silence, clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and starting off
      with his smart, lame walk, vanished utterly at the third or fourth hop in
      the direction of the railway track. Arrested between the two wooden posts
      for people to fasten their horses to, Nostromo did not move, as if he,
      too, had been planted solidly in the ground. At the end of half an hour he
      lifted his head to the deep baying of the dogs at the railway yards, which
      had burst out suddenly, tumultuous and deadened as if coming from under
      the plain. That lame doctor with the evil eye had got there pretty fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Step by step Nostromo approached the Albergo d&rsquo;Italia Una, which he had
      never known so lightless, so silent, before. The door, all black in the
      pale wall, stood open as he had left it twenty-four hours before, when he
      had nothing to hide from the world. He remained before it, irresolute,
      like a fugitive, like a man betrayed. Poverty, misery, starvation! Where
      had he heard these words? The anger of a dying woman had prophesied that
      fate for his folly. It looked as if it would come true very quickly. And
      the leperos would laugh&mdash;she had said. Yes, they would laugh if they
      knew that the Capataz de Cargadores was at the mercy of the mad doctor
      whom they could remember, only a few years ago, buying cooked food from a
      stall on the Plaza for a copper coin&mdash;like one of themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the notion of seeking Captain Mitchell passed through his
      mind. He glanced in the direction of the jetty and saw a small gleam of
      light in the O.S.N. Company&rsquo;s building. The thought of lighted windows was
      not attractive. Two lighted windows had decoyed him into the empty Custom
      House, only to fall into the clutches of that doctor. No! He would not go
      near lighted windows again on that night. Captain Mitchell was there. And
      what could he be told? That doctor would worm it all out of him as if he
      were a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the threshold he called out &ldquo;Giorgio!&rdquo; in an undertone. Nobody
      answered. He stepped in. &ldquo;Ola! viejo! Are you there? . . .&rdquo; In the
      impenetrable darkness his head swam with the illusion that the obscurity
      of the kitchen was as vast as the Placid Gulf, and that the floor dipped
      forward like a sinking lighter. &ldquo;Ola! viejo!&rdquo; he repeated, falteringly,
      swaying where he stood. His hand, extended to steady himself, fell upon
      the table. Moving a step forward, he shifted it, and felt a box of matches
      under his fingers. He fancied he had heard a quiet sigh. He listened for a
      moment, holding his breath; then, with trembling hands, tried to strike a
      light.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tiny piece of wood flamed up quite blindingly at the end of his
      fingers, raised above his blinking eyes. A concentrated glare fell upon
      the leonine white head of old Giorgio against the black fire-place&mdash;showed
      him leaning forward in a chair in staring immobility, surrounded,
      overhung, by great masses of shadow, his legs crossed, his cheek in his
      hand, an empty pipe in the corner of his mouth. It seemed hours before he
      attempted to turn his face; at the very moment the match went out, and he
      disappeared, overwhelmed by the shadows, as if the walls and roof of the
      desolate house had collapsed upon his white head in ghostly silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo heard him stir and utter dispassionately the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may have been a vision.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he said, softly. &ldquo;It is no vision, old man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A strong chest voice asked in the dark&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that you I hear, Giovann&rsquo; Battista?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, viejo. Steady. Not so loud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After his release by Sotillo, Giorgio Viola, attended to the very door by
      the good-natured engineer-in-chief, had reentered his house, which he had
      been made to leave almost at the very moment of his wife&rsquo;s death. All was
      still. The lamp above was burning. He nearly called out to her by name;
      and the thought that no call from him would ever again evoke the answer of
      her voice, made him drop heavily into the chair with a loud groan, wrung
      out by the pain as of a keen blade piercing his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the night he made no sound. The darkness turned to grey, and
      on the colourless, clear, glassy dawn the jagged sierra stood out flat and
      opaque, as if cut out of paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      The enthusiastic and severe soul of Giorgio Viola, sailor, champion of
      oppressed humanity, enemy of kings, and, by the grace of Mrs. Gould,
      hotel-keeper of the Sulaco harbour, had descended into the open abyss of
      desolation amongst the shattered vestiges of his past. He remembered his
      wooing between two campaigns, a single short week in the season of
      gathering olives. Nothing approached the grave passion of that time but
      the deep, passionate sense of his bereavement. He discovered all the
      extent of his dependence upon the silenced voice of that woman. It was her
      voice that he missed. Abstracted, busy, lost in inward contemplation, he
      seldom looked at his wife in those later years. The thought of his girls
      was a matter of concern, not of consolation. It was her voice that he
      would miss. And he remembered the other child&mdash;the little boy who
      died at sea. Ah! a man would have been something to lean upon. And, alas!
      even Gian&rsquo; Battista&mdash;he of whom, and of Linda, his wife had spoken to
      him so anxiously before she dropped off into her last sleep on earth, he
      on whom she had called aloud to save the children, just before she died&mdash;even
      he was dead!
    </p>
    <p>
      And the old man, bent forward, his head in his hand, sat through the day
      in immobility and solitude. He never heard the brazen roar of the bells in
      town. When it ceased the earthenware filter in the corner of the kitchen
      kept on its swift musical drip, drip into the great porous jar below.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards sunset he got up, and with slow movements disappeared up the
      narrow staircase. His bulk filled it; and the rubbing of his shoulders
      made a small noise as of a mouse running behind the plaster of a wall.
      While he remained up there the house was as dumb as a grave. Then, with
      the same faint rubbing noise, he descended. He had to catch at the chairs
      and tables to regain his seat. He seized his pipe off the high mantel of
      the fire-place&mdash;but made no attempt to reach the tobacco&mdash;thrust
      it empty into the corner of his mouth, and sat down again in the same
      staring pose. The sun of Pedrito&rsquo;s entry into Sulaco, the last sun of
      Senor Hirsch&rsquo;s life, the first of Decoud&rsquo;s solitude on the Great Isabel,
      passed over the Albergo d&rsquo;ltalia Una on its way to the west. The tinkling
      drip, drip of the filter had ceased, the lamp upstairs had burnt itself
      out, and the night beset Giorgio Viola and his dead wife with its
      obscurity and silence that seemed invincible till the Capataz de
      Cargadores, returning from the dead, put them to flight with the splutter
      and flare of a match.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, viejo. It is me. Wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo, after barricading the door and closing the shutters carefully,
      groped upon a shelf for a candle, and lit it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Viola had risen. He followed with his eyes in the dark the sounds made
      by Nostromo. The light disclosed him standing without support, as if the
      mere presence of that man who was loyal, brave, incorruptible, who was all
      his son would have been, were enough for the support of his decaying
      strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      He extended his hand grasping the briar-wood pipe, whose bowl was charred
      on the edge, and knitted his bushy eyebrows heavily at the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have returned,&rdquo; he said, with shaky dignity. &ldquo;Ah! Very well! I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He broke off. Nostromo, leaning back against the table, his arms folded on
      his breast, nodded at him slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You thought I was drowned! No! The best dog of the rich, of the
      aristocrats, of these fine men who can only talk and betray the people, is
      not dead yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Garibaldino, motionless, seemed to drink in the sound of the
      well-known voice. His head moved slightly once as if in sign of approval;
      but Nostromo saw clearly that the old man understood nothing of the words.
      There was no one to understand; no one he could take into the confidence
      of Decoud&rsquo;s fate, of his own, into the secret of the silver. That doctor
      was an enemy of the people&mdash;a tempter. . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Giorgio&rsquo;s heavy frame shook from head to foot with the effort to
      overcome his emotion at the sight of that man, who had shared the
      intimacies of his domestic life as though he had been a grown-up son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She believed you would return,&rdquo; he said, solemnly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo raised his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a wise woman. How could I fail to come back&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He finished the thought mentally: &ldquo;Since she has prophesied for me an end
      of poverty, misery, and starvation.&rdquo; These words of Teresa&rsquo;s anger, from
      the circumstances in which they had been uttered, like the cry of a soul
      prevented from making its peace with God, stirred the obscure superstition
      of personal fortune from which even the greatest genius amongst men of
      adventure and action is seldom free. They reigned over Nostromo&rsquo;s mind
      with the force of a potent malediction. And what a curse it was that which
      her words had laid upon him! He had been orphaned so young that he could
      remember no other woman whom he called mother. Henceforth there would be
      no enterprise in which he would not fail. The spell was working already.
      Death itself would elude him now. . . . He said violently&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, viejo! Get me something to eat. I am hungry! Sangre de Dios! The
      emptiness of my belly makes me lightheaded.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With his chin dropped again upon his bare breast above his folded arms,
      barefooted, watching from under a gloomy brow the movements of old Viola
      foraging amongst the cupboards, he seemed as if indeed fallen under a
      curse&mdash;a ruined and sinister Capataz.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Viola walked out of a dark corner, and, without a word, emptied upon
      the table out of his hollowed palms a few dry crusts of bread and half a
      raw onion.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the Capataz began to devour this beggar&rsquo;s fare, taking up with
      stony-eyed voracity piece after piece lying by his side, the Garibaldino
      went off, and squatting down in another corner filled an earthenware mug
      with red wine out of a wicker-covered demijohn. With a familiar gesture,
      as when serving customers in the cafe, he had thrust his pipe between his
      teeth to have his hands free.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz drank greedily. A slight flush deepened the bronze of his
      cheek. Before him, Viola, with a turn of his white and massive head
      towards the staircase, took his empty pipe out of his mouth, and
      pronounced slowly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After the shot was fired down here, which killed her as surely as if the
      bullet had struck her oppressed heart, she called upon you to save the
      children. Upon you, Gian&rsquo; Battista.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz looked up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she do that, Padrone? To save the children! They are with the English
      senora, their rich benefactress. Hey! old man of the people. Thy
      benefactress. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am old,&rdquo; muttered Giorgio Viola. &ldquo;An Englishwoman was allowed to give a
      bed to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever
      lived. A man of the people, too&mdash;a sailor. I may let another keep a
      roof over my head. Si . . . I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long
      sometimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are
      out, unless I . . . What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head? Am
      I to try&mdash;and save all the Blancos together with her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall do it,&rdquo; said old Viola in a strong voice. &ldquo;You shall do it as
      my son would have. . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy son, viejo! .. .. There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I must
      try. . . . But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me on? . .
      . And so she called upon me to save&mdash;and then&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She spoke no more.&rdquo; The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought of
      the eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form stretched
      out on the bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand to his
      furrowed brow. &ldquo;She was dead before I could seize her hands,&rdquo; he stammered
      out, pitifully.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the wide eyes of the Capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark
      staircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in
      distress, freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man.
      It was impossible for him to do anything. He could only hold his tongue,
      since there was no one to trust. The treasure would be lost, probably&mdash;unless
      Decoud. . . . And his thought came abruptly to an end. He perceived that
      he could not imagine in the least what Decoud was likely to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionless Capataz dropped his long,
      soft eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce,
      black-whiskered face a touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had
      lasted for a long time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God rest her soul!&rdquo; he murmured, gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The next day was quiet in the morning, except for the faint sound of
      firing to the northward, in the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchell
      had listened to it from his balcony anxiously. The phrase, &ldquo;In my delicate
      position as the only consular agent then in the port, everything, sir,
      everything was a just cause for anxiety,&rdquo; had its place in the more or
      less stereotyped relation of the &ldquo;historical events&rdquo; which for the next
      few years was at the service of distinguished strangers visiting Sulaco.
      The mention of the dignity and neutrality of the flag, so difficult to
      preserve in his position, &ldquo;right in the thick of these events between the
      lawlessness of that piratical villain Sotillo and the more regularly
      established but scarcely less atrocious tyranny of his Excellency Don
      Pedro Montero,&rdquo; came next in order. Captain Mitchell was not the man to
      enlarge upon mere dangers much. But he insisted that it was a memorable
      day. On that day, towards dusk, he had seen &ldquo;that poor fellow of mine&mdash;Nostromo.
      The sailor whom I discovered, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of the
      famous ride to Cayta, sir. An historical event, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Regarded by the O. S. N. Company as an old and faithful servant, Captain
      Mitchell was allowed to attain the term of his usefulness in ease and
      dignity at the head of the enormously extended service. The augmentation
      of the establishment, with its crowds of clerks, an office in town, the
      old office in the harbour, the division into departments&mdash;passenger,
      cargo, lighterage, and so on&mdash;secured a greater leisure for his last
      years in the regenerated Sulaco, the capital of the Occidental Republic.
      Liked by the natives for his good nature and the formality of his manner,
      self-important and simple, known for years as a &ldquo;friend of our country,&rdquo;
       he felt himself a personality of mark in the town. Getting up early for a
      turn in the market-place while the gigantic shadow of Higuerota was still
      lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up with masses of gorgeous
      colouring, attending easily to current affairs, welcomed in houses,
      greeted by ladies on the Alameda, with his entry into all the clubs and a
      footing in the Casa Gould, he led his privileged old bachelor,
      man-about-town existence with great comfort and solemnity. But on
      mail-boat days he was down at the Harbour Office at an early hour, with
      his own gig, manned by a smart crew in white and blue, ready to dash off
      and board the ship directly she showed her bows between the harbour heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged
      passenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a
      seat for a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell,
      seating himself at his desk, would keep on talking hospitably&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There isn&rsquo;t much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall be
      off in a moment. We&rsquo;ll have lunch at the Amarilla Club&mdash;though I
      belong also to the Anglo-American&mdash;mining engineers and business men,
      don&rsquo;t you know&mdash;and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club&mdash;English,
      French, Italians, all sorts&mdash;lively young fellows mostly, who wanted
      to pay a compliment to an old resident, sir. But we&rsquo;ll lunch at the
      Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing of the country. Men of the
      first families. The President of the Occidental Republic himself belongs
      to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a broken nose in the patio. Remarkable
      piece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti&mdash;you know
      Parrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor&mdash;was working here for two
      years&mdash;thought very highly of our old bishop. . . . There! I am very
      much at your service now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical importance
      of men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky periods, with
      slight sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing &ldquo;escape the
      attention&rdquo; of his privileged captive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it was a
      plain of burnt grass smothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-cart track to
      our Jetty. Nothing more. This is the Harbour Gate. Picturesque, is it not?
      Formerly the town stopped short there. We enter now the Calle de la
      Constitucion. Observe the old Spanish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I suppose
      it&rsquo;s just as it was in the time of the Viceroys, except for the pavement.
      Wood blocks now. Sulaco National Bank there, with the sentry boxes each
      side of the gate. Casa Avellanos this side, with all the ground-floor
      windows shuttered. A wonderful woman lives there&mdash;Miss Avellanos&mdash;the
      beautiful Antonia. A character, sir! A historical woman! Opposite&mdash;Casa
      Gould. Noble gateway. Yes, the Goulds of the original Gould Concession,
      that all the world knows of now. I hold seventeen of the thousand-dollar
      shares in the Consolidated San Tome mines. All the poor savings of my
      lifetime, sir, and it will be enough to keep me in comfort to the end of
      my days at home when I retire. I got in on the ground-floor, you see. Don
      Carlos, great friend of mine. Seventeen shares&mdash;quite a little
      fortune to leave behind one, too. I have a niece&mdash;married a parson&mdash;most
      worthy man, incumbent of a small parish in Sussex; no end of children. I
      was never married myself. A sailor should exercise self-denial. Standing
      under that very gateway, sir, with some young engineer-fellows, ready to
      defend that house where we had received so much kindness and hospitality,
      I saw the first and last charge of Pedrito&rsquo;s horsemen upon Barrios&rsquo;s
      troops, who had just taken the Harbour Gate. They could not stand the new
      rifles brought out by that poor Decoud. It was a murderous fire. In a
      moment the street became blocked with a mass of dead men and horses. They
      never came on again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And all day Captain Mitchell would talk like this to his more or less
      willing victim&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Plaza. I call it magnificent. Twice the area of Trafalgar Square.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From the very centre, in the blazing sunshine, he pointed out the
      buildings&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Intendencia, now President&rsquo;s Palace&mdash;Cabildo, where the Lower
      Chamber of Parliament sits. You notice the new houses on that side of the
      Plaza? Compania Anzani, a great general store, like those cooperative
      things at home. Old Anzani was murdered by the National Guards in front of
      his safe. It was even for that specific crime that the deputy Gamacho,
      commanding the Nationals, a bloodthirsty and savage brute, was executed
      publicly by garrotte upon the sentence of a court-martial ordered by
      Barrios. Anzani&rsquo;s nephews converted the business into a company. All that
      side of the Plaza had been burnt; used to be colonnaded before. A terrible
      fire, by the light of which I saw the last of the fighting, the llaneros
      flying, the Nationals throwing their arms down, and the miners of San
      Tome, all Indians from the Sierra, rolling by like a torrent to the sound
      of pipes and cymbals, green flags flying, a wild mass of men in white
      ponchos and green hats, on foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such a sight, sir,
      will never be seen again. The miners, sir, had marched upon the town, Don
      Pepe leading on his black horse, and their very wives in the rear on
      burros, screaming encouragement, sir, and beating tambourines. I remember
      one of these women had a green parrot seated on her shoulder, as calm as a
      bird of stone. They had just saved their Senor Administrador; for Barrios,
      though he ordered the assault at once, at night, too, would have been too
      late. Pedrito Montero had Don Carlos led out to be shot&mdash;like his
      uncle many years ago&mdash;and then, as Barrios said afterwards, &lsquo;Sulaco
      would not have been worth fighting for.&rsquo; Sulaco without the Concession was
      nothing; and there were tons and tons of dynamite distributed all over the
      mountain with detonators arranged, and an old priest, Father Roman,
      standing by to annihilate the San Tome mine at the first news of failure.
      Don Carlos had made up his mind not to leave it behind, and he had the
      right men to see to it, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middle of the Plaza, holding over
      his head a white umbrella with a green lining; but inside the cathedral,
      in the dim light, with a faint scent of incense floating in the cool
      atmosphere, and here and there a kneeling female figure, black or all
      white, with a veiled head, his lowered voice became solemn and impressive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he would say, pointing to a niche in the wall of the dusky aisle,
      &ldquo;you see the bust of Don Jose Avellanos, &lsquo;Patriot and Statesman,&rsquo; as the
      inscription says, &lsquo;Minister to Courts of England and Spain, etc., etc.,
      died in the woods of Los Hatos worn out with his lifelong struggle for
      Right and Justice at the dawn of the New Era.&rsquo; A fair likeness.
      Parrochetti&rsquo;s work from some old photographs and a pencil sketch by Mrs.
      Gould. I was well acquainted with that distinguished Spanish-American of
      the old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everybody who knew him. The
      marble medallion in the wall, in the antique style, representing a veiled
      woman seated with her hands clasped loosely over her knees, commemorates
      that unfortunate young gentleman who sailed out with Nostromo on that
      fatal night, sir. See, &lsquo;To the memory of Martin Decoud, his betrothed
      Antonia Avellanos.&rsquo; Frank, simple, noble. There you have that lady, sir,
      as she is. An exceptional woman. Those who thought she would give way to
      despair were mistaken, sir. She has been blamed in many quarters for not
      having taken the veil. It was expected of her. But Dona Antonia is not the
      stuff they make nuns of. Bishop Corbelan, her uncle, lives with her in the
      Corbelan town house. He is a fierce sort of priest, everlastingly worrying
      the Government about the old Church lands and convents. I believe they
      think a lot of him in Rome. Now let us go to the Amarilla Club, just
      across the Plaza, to get some lunch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Directly outside the cathedral on the very top of the noble flight of
      steps, his voice rose pompously, his arm found again its sweeping gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Porvenir, over there on that first floor, above those French plate-glass
      shop-fronts; our biggest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I should say,
      Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentary party here of which the actual
      Chief of the State, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very sagacious man, I
      think. A first-rate intellect, sir. The Democratic party in opposition
      rests mostly, I am sorry to say, on these socialistic Italians, sir, with
      their secret societies, camorras, and such-like. There are lots of
      Italians settled here on the railway lands, dismissed navvies, mechanics,
      and so on, all along the trunk line. There are whole villages of Italians
      on the Campo. And the natives, too, are being drawn into these ways . . .
      American bar? Yes. And over there you can see another. New Yorkers mostly
      frequent that one&mdash;&mdash;Here we are at the Amarilla. Observe the
      bishop at the foot of the stairs to the right as we go in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the lunch would begin and terminate its lavish and leisurely course at
      a little table in the gallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing, getting
      up to speak for a moment to different officials in black clothes,
      merchants in jackets, officers in uniform, middle-aged caballeros from the
      Campo&mdash;sallow, little, nervous men, and fat, placid, swarthy men, and
      Europeans or North Americans of superior standing, whose faces looked very
      white amongst the majority of dark complexions and black, glistening eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell would lie back in the chair, casting around looks of
      satisfaction, and tender over the table a case full of thick cigars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco. The black coffee you get at
      the Amarilla, sir, you don&rsquo;t meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean
      from a famous cafeteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sends three sacks
      every year as a present to his fellow members in remembrance of the fight
      against Gamacho&rsquo;s Nationals, carried on from these very windows by the
      caballeros. He was in town at the time, and took part, sir, to the bitter
      end. It arrives on three mules&mdash;not in the common way, by rail; no
      fear!&mdash;right into the patio, escorted by mounted peons, in charge of
      the Mayoral of his estate, who walks upstairs, booted and spurred, and
      delivers it to our committee formally with the words, &lsquo;For the sake of
      those fallen on the third of May.&rsquo; We call it Tres de Mayo coffee. Taste
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell, with an expression as though making ready to hear a
      sermon in a church, would lift the tiny cup to his lips. And the nectar
      would be sipped to the bottom during a restful silence in a cloud of cigar
      smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at this man in black just going out,&rdquo; he would begin, leaning
      forward hastily. &ldquo;This is the famous Hernandez, Minister of War. The
      Times&rsquo; special correspondent, who wrote that striking series of letters
      calling the Occidental Republic the &lsquo;Treasure House of the World,&rsquo; gave a
      whole article to him and the force he has organized&mdash;the renowned
      Carabineers of the Campo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell&rsquo;s guest, staring curiously, would see a figure in a
      long-tailed black coat walking gravely, with downcast eyelids in a long,
      composed face, a brow furrowed horizontally, a pointed head, whose grey
      hair, thin at the top, combed down carefully on all sides and rolled at
      the ends, fell low on the neck and shoulders. This, then, was the famous
      bandit of whom Europe had heard with interest. He put on a high-crowned
      sombrero with a wide flat brim; a rosary of wooden beads was twisted about
      his right wrist. And Captain Mitchell would proceed&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The protector of the Sulaco refugees from the rage of Pedrito. As general
      of cavalry with Barrios he distinguished himself at the storming of
      Tonoro, where Senor Fuentes was killed with the last remnant of the
      Monterists. He is the friend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelan. Hears
      three Masses every day. I bet you he will step into the cathedral to say a
      prayer or two on his way home to his siesta.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took several puffs at his cigar in silence; then, in his most important
      manner, pronounced:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Spanish race, sir, is prolific of remarkable characters in every rank
      of life. . . . I propose we go now into the billiard-room, which is cool,
      for a quiet chat. There&rsquo;s never anybody there till after five. I could
      tell you episodes of the Separationist revolution that would astonish you.
      When the great heat&rsquo;s over, we&rsquo;ll take a turn on the Alameda.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The programme went on relentless, like a law of Nature. The turn on the
      Alameda was taken with slow steps and stately remarks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the great world of Sulaco here, sir.&rdquo; Captain Mitchell bowed right
      and left with no end of formality; then with animation, &ldquo;Dona Emilia, Mrs.
      Gould&rsquo;s carriage. Look. Always white mules. The kindest, most gracious
      woman the sun ever shone upon. A great position, sir. A great position.
      First lady in Sulaco&mdash;far before the President&rsquo;s wife. And worthy of
      it.&rdquo; He took off his hat; then, with a studied change of tone, added,
      negligently, that the man in black by her side, with a high white collar
      and a scarred, snarly face, was Dr. Monygham, Inspector of State
      Hospitals, chief medical officer of the Consolidated San Tome mines. &ldquo;A
      familiar of the house. Everlastingly there. No wonder. The Goulds made
      him. Very clever man and all that, but I never liked him. Nobody does. I
      can recollect him limping about the streets in a check shirt and native
      sandals with a watermelon under his arm&mdash;all he would get to eat for
      the day. A big-wig now, sir, and as nasty as ever. However . . . There&rsquo;s
      no doubt he played his part fairly well at the time. He saved us all from
      the deadly incubus of Sotillo, where a more particular man might have
      failed&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His arm went up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The equestrian statue that used to stand on the pedestal over there has
      been removed. It was an anachronism,&rdquo; Captain Mitchell commented,
      obscurely. &ldquo;There is some talk of replacing it by a marble shaft
      commemorative of Separation, with angels of peace at the four corners, and
      bronze Justice holding an even balance, all gilt, on the top. Cavaliere
      Parrochetti was asked to make a design, which you can see framed under
      glass in the Municipal Sala. Names are to be engraved all round the base.
      Well! They could do no better than begin with the name of Nostromo. He has
      done for Separation as much as anybody else, and,&rdquo; added Captain Mitchell,
      &ldquo;has got less than many others by it&mdash;when it comes to that.&rdquo; He
      dropped on to a stone seat under a tree, and tapped invitingly at the
      place by his side. &ldquo;He carried to Barrios the letters from Sulaco which
      decided the General to abandon Cayta for a time, and come back to our help
      here by sea. The transports were still in harbour fortunately. Sir, I did
      not even know that my Capataz de Cargadores was alive. I had no idea. It
      was Dr. Monygham who came upon him, by chance, in the Custom House,
      evacuated an hour or two before by the wretched Sotillo. I was never told;
      never given a hint, nothing&mdash;as if I were unworthy of confidence.
      Monygham arranged it all. He went to the railway yards, and got admission
      to the engineer-in-chief, who, for the sake of the Goulds as much as for
      anything else, consented to let an engine make a dash down the line, one
      hundred and eighty miles, with Nostromo aboard. It was the only way to get
      him off. In the Construction Camp at the railhead, he obtained a horse,
      arms, some clothing, and started alone on that marvellous ride&mdash;four
      hundred miles in six days, through a disturbed country, ending by the feat
      of passing through the Monterist lines outside Cayta. The history of that
      ride, sir, would make a most exciting book. He carried all our lives in
      his pocket. Devotion, courage, fidelity, intelligence were not enough. Of
      course, he was perfectly fearless and incorruptible. But a man was wanted
      that would know how to succeed. He was that man, sir. On the fifth of May,
      being practically a prisoner in the Harbour Office of my Company, I
      suddenly heard the whistle of an engine in the railway yards, a quarter of
      a mile away. I could not believe my ears. I made one jump on to the
      balcony, and beheld a locomotive under a great head of steam run out of
      the yard gates, screeching like mad, enveloped in a white cloud, and then,
      just abreast of old Viola&rsquo;s inn, check almost to a standstill. I made out,
      sir, a man&mdash;I couldn&rsquo;t tell who&mdash;dash out of the Albergo
      d&rsquo;ltalia Una, climb into the cab, and then, sir, that engine seemed
      positively to leap clear of the house, and was gone in the twinkling of an
      eye. As you blow a candle out, sir! There was a first-rate driver on the
      foot-plate, sir, I can tell you. They were fired heavily upon by the
      National Guards in Rincon and one other place. Fortunately the line had
      not been torn up. In four hours they reached the Construction Camp.
      Nostromo had his start. . . . The rest you know. You&rsquo;ve got only to look
      round you. There are people on this Alameda that ride in their carriages,
      or even are alive at all to-day, because years ago I engaged a runaway
      Italian sailor for a foreman of our wharf simply on the strength of his
      looks. And that&rsquo;s a fact. You can&rsquo;t get over it, sir. On the seventeenth
      of May, just twelve days after I saw the man from the Casa Viola get on
      the engine, and wondered what it meant, Barrios&rsquo;s transports were entering
      this harbour, and the &lsquo;Treasure House of the World,&rsquo; as The Times man
      calls Sulaco in his book, was saved intact for civilization&mdash;for a
      great future, sir. Pedrito, with Hernandez on the west, and the San Tome
      miners pressing on the land gate, was not able to oppose the landing. He
      had been sending messages to Sotillo for a week to join him. Had Sotillo
      done so there would have been massacres and proscription that would have
      left no man or woman of position alive. But that&rsquo;s where Dr. Monygham
      comes in. Sotillo, blind and deaf to everything, stuck on board his
      steamer watching the dragging for silver, which he believed to be sunk at
      the bottom of the harbour. They say that for the last three days he was
      out of his mind raving and foaming with disappointment at getting nothing,
      flying about the deck, and yelling curses at the boats with the drags,
      ordering them in, and then suddenly stamping his foot and crying out, &lsquo;And
      yet it is there! I see it! I feel it!&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was preparing to hang Dr. Monygham (whom he had on board) at the end
      of the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios&rsquo;s transports, one of our
      own ships at that, steamed right in, and ranging close alongside opened a
      small-arm fire without as much preliminaries as a hail. It was the
      completest surprise in the world, sir. They were too astounded at first to
      bolt below. Men were falling right and left like ninepins. It&rsquo;s a miracle
      that Monygham, standing on the after-hatch with the rope already round his
      neck, escaped being riddled through and through like a sieve. He told me
      since that he had given himself up for lost, and kept on yelling with all
      the strength of his lungs: &lsquo;Hoist a white flag! Hoist a white flag!&rsquo;
      Suddenly an old major of the Esmeralda regiment, standing by, unsheathed
      his sword with a shriek: &lsquo;Die, perjured traitor!&rsquo; and ran Sotillo clean
      through the body, just before he fell himself shot through the head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Mitchell stopped for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Begad, sir! I could spin you a yarn for hours. But it&rsquo;s time we started
      off to Rincon. It would not do for you to pass through Sulaco and not see
      the lights of the San Tome mine, a whole mountain ablaze like a lighted
      palace above the dark Campo. It&rsquo;s a fashionable drive. . . . But let me
      tell you one little anecdote, sir; just to show you. A fortnight or more
      later, when Barrios, declared Generalissimo, was gone in pursuit of
      Pedrito away south, when the Provisional Junta, with Don Juste Lopez at
      its head, had promulgated the new Constitution, and our Don Carlos Gould
      was packing up his trunks bound on a mission to San Francisco and
      Washington (the United States, sir, were the first great power to
      recognize the Occidental Republic)&mdash;a fortnight later, I say, when we
      were beginning to feel that our heads were safe on our shoulders, if I may
      express myself so, a prominent man, a large shipper by our line, came to
      see me on business, and, says he, the first thing: &lsquo;I say, Captain
      Mitchell, is that fellow&rsquo; (meaning Nostromo) &lsquo;still the Capataz of your
      Cargadores or not?&rsquo; &lsquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rsquo; says I. &lsquo;Because, if he is, then
      I don&rsquo;t mind; I send and receive a good lot of cargo by your ships; but I
      have observed him several days loafing about the wharf, and just now he
      stopped me as cool as you please, with a request for a cigar. Now, you
      know, my cigars are rather special, and I can&rsquo;t get them so easily as all
      that.&rsquo; &lsquo;I hope you stretched a point,&rsquo; I said, very gently. &lsquo;Why, yes. But
      it&rsquo;s a confounded nuisance. The fellow&rsquo;s everlastingly cadging for
      smokes.&rsquo; Sir, I turned my eyes away, and then asked, &lsquo;Weren&rsquo;t you one of
      the prisoners in the Cabildo?&rsquo; &lsquo;You know very well I was, and in chains,
      too,&rsquo; says he. &lsquo;And under a fine of fifteen thousand dollars?&rsquo; He
      coloured, sir, because it got about that he fainted from fright when they
      came to arrest him, and then behaved before Fuentes in a manner to make
      the very policianos, who had dragged him there by the hair of his head,
      smile at his cringing. &lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; he says, in a sort of shy way. &lsquo;Why?&rsquo; &lsquo;Oh,
      nothing. You stood to lose a tidy bit,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;even if you saved your
      life. . . . But what can I do for you?&rsquo; He never even saw the point. Not
      he. And that&rsquo;s how the world wags, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rincon would be taken with only
      one philosophical remark, uttered by the merciless cicerone, with his eyes
      fixed upon the lights of San Tome, that seemed suspended in the dark night
      between earth and heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great power, this, for good and evil, sir. A great power.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the dinner of the Mirliflores would be eaten, excellent as to cooking,
      and leaving upon the traveller&rsquo;s mind an impression that there were in
      Sulaco many pleasant, able young men with salaries apparently too large
      for their discretion, and amongst them a few, mostly Anglo-Saxon, skilled
      in the art of, as the saying is, &ldquo;taking a rise&rdquo; out of his kind host.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a rapid, jingling drive to the harbour in a two-wheeled machine
      (which Captain Mitchell called a curricle) behind a fleet and scraggy mule
      beaten all the time by an obviously Neapolitan driver, the cycle would be
      nearly closed before the lighted-up offices of the O. S. N. Company,
      remaining open so late because of the steamer. Nearly&mdash;but not quite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten o&rsquo;clock. Your ship won&rsquo;t be ready to leave till half-past twelve, if
      by then. Come in for a brandy-and-soda and one more cigar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And in the superintendent&rsquo;s private room the privileged passenger by the
      Ceres, or Juno, or Pallas, stunned and as it were annihilated mentally by
      a sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, names, facts, and complicated
      information imperfectly apprehended, would listen like a tired child to a
      fairy tale; would hear a voice, familiar and surprising in its
      pompousness, tell him, as if from another world, how there was &ldquo;in this
      very harbour&rdquo; an international naval demonstration, which put an end to
      the Costaguana-Sulaco War. How the United States cruiser, Powhattan, was
      the first to salute the Occidental flag&mdash;white, with a wreath of
      green laurel in the middle encircling a yellow amarilla flower. Would hear
      how General Montero, in less than a month after proclaiming himself
      Emperor of Costaguana, was shot dead (during a solemn and public
      distribution of orders and crosses) by a young artillery officer, the
      brother of his then mistress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The abominable Pedrito, sir, fled the country,&rdquo; the voice would say. And
      it would continue: &ldquo;A captain of one of our ships told me lately that he
      recognized Pedrito the Guerrillero, arrayed in purple slippers and a
      velvet smoking-cap with a gold tassel, keeping a disorderly house in one
      of the southern ports.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Abominable Pedrito! Who the devil was he?&rdquo; would wonder the distinguished
      bird of passage hovering on the confines of waking and sleep with
      resolutely open eyes and a faint but amiable curl upon his lips, from
      between which stuck out the eighteenth or twentieth cigar of that
      memorable day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He appeared to me in this very room like a haunting ghost, sir&rdquo;&mdash;Captain
      Mitchell was talking of his Nostromo with true warmth of feeling and a
      touch of wistful pride. &ldquo;You may imagine, sir, what an effect it produced
      on me. He had come round by sea with Barrios, of course. And the first
      thing he told me after I became fit to hear him was that he had picked up
      the lighter&rsquo;s boat floating in the gulf! He seemed quite overcome by the
      circumstance. And a remarkable enough circumstance it was, when you
      remember that it was then sixteen days since the sinking of the silver. At
      once I could see he was another man. He stared at the wall, sir, as if
      there had been a spider or something running about there. The loss of the
      silver preyed on his mind. The first thing he asked me about was whether
      Dona Antonia had heard yet of Decoud&rsquo;s death. His voice trembled. I had to
      tell him that Dona Antonia, as a matter of fact, was not back in town yet.
      Poor girl! And just as I was making ready to ask him a thousand questions,
      with a sudden, &lsquo;Pardon me, senor,&rsquo; he cleared out of the office
      altogether. I did not see him again for three days. I was terribly busy,
      you know. It seems that he wandered about in and out of the town, and on
      two nights turned up to sleep in the baracoons of the railway people. He
      seemed absolutely indifferent to what went on. I asked him on the wharf,
      &lsquo;When are you going to take hold again, Nostromo? There will be plenty of
      work for the Cargadores presently.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Senor,&rsquo; says he, looking at me in a slow, inquisitive manner, &lsquo;would it
      surprise you to hear that I am too tired to work just yet? And what work
      could I do now? How can I look my Cargadores in the face after losing a
      lighter?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I begged him not to think any more about the silver, and he smiled. A
      smile that went to my heart, sir. &lsquo;It was no mistake,&rsquo; I told him. &lsquo;It was
      a fatality. A thing that could not be helped.&rsquo; &lsquo;Si, si!&rdquo; he said, and
      turned away. I thought it best to leave him alone for a bit to get over
      it. Sir, it took him years really, to get over it. I was present at his
      interview with Don Carlos. I must say that Gould is rather a cold man. He
      had to keep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing with thieves and
      rascals, in constant danger of ruin for himself and wife for so many
      years, that it had become a second nature. They looked at each other for a
      long time. Don Carlos asked what he could do for him, in his quiet,
      reserved way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;My name is known from one end of Sulaco to the other,&rsquo; he said, as quiet
      as the other. &lsquo;What more can you do for me?&rsquo; That was all that passed on
      that occasion. Later, however, there was a very fine coasting schooner for
      sale, and Mrs. Gould and I put our heads together to get her bought and
      presented to him. It was done, but he paid all the price back within the
      next three years. Business was booming all along this seaboard, sir.
      Moreover, that man always succeeded in everything except in saving the
      silver. Poor Dona Antonia, fresh from her terrible experiences in the
      woods of Los Hatos, had an interview with him, too. Wanted to hear about
      Decoud: what they said, what they did, what they thought up to the last on
      that fatal night. Mrs. Gould told me his manner was perfect for quietness
      and sympathy. Miss Avellanos burst into tears only when he told her how
      Decoud had happened to say that his plan would be a glorious success. . .
      . And there&rsquo;s no doubt, sir, that it is. It is a success.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The cycle was about to close at last. And while the privileged passenger,
      shivering with the pleasant anticipations of his berth, forgot to ask
      himself, &ldquo;What on earth Decoud&rsquo;s plan could be?&rdquo; Captain Mitchell was
      saying, &ldquo;Sorry we must part so soon. Your intelligent interest made this a
      pleasant day to me. I shall see you now on board. You had a glimpse of the
      &lsquo;Treasure House of the World.&rsquo; A very good name that.&rdquo; And the coxswain&rsquo;s
      voice at the door, announcing that the gig was ready, closed the cycle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo had, indeed, found the lighter&rsquo;s boat, which he had left on the
      Great Isabel with Decoud, floating empty far out in the gulf. He was then
      on the bridge of the first of Barrios&rsquo;s transports, and within an hour&rsquo;s
      steaming from Sulaco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat of daring and
      a good judge of courage, had taken a great liking to the Capataz. During
      the passage round the coast the General kept Nostromo near his person,
      addressing him frequently in that abrupt and boisterous manner which was
      the sign of his high favour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo&rsquo;s eyes were the first to catch, broad on the bow, the tiny,
      elusive dark speck, which, alone with the forms of the Three Isabels right
      ahead, appeared on the flat, shimmering emptiness of the gulf. There are
      times when no fact should be neglected as insignificant; a small boat so
      far from the land might have had some meaning worth finding out. At a nod
      of consent from Barrios the transport swept out of her course, passing
      near enough to ascertain that no one manned the little cockle-shell. It
      was merely a common small boat gone adrift with her oars in her. But
      Nostromo, to whose mind Decoud had been insistently present for days, had
      long before recognized with excitement the dinghy of the lighter.
    </p>
    <p>
      There could be no question of stopping to pick up that thing. Every minute
      of time was momentous with the lives and futures of a whole town. The head
      of the leading ship, with the General on board, fell off to her course.
      Behind her, the fleet of transports, scattered haphazard over a mile or so
      in the offing, like the finish of an ocean race, pressed on, all black and
      smoking on the western sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mi General,&rdquo; Nostromo&rsquo;s voice rang out loud, but quiet, from behind a
      group of officers, &ldquo;I should like to save that little boat. Por Dios, I
      know her. She belongs to my Company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, por Dios,&rdquo; guffawed Barrios, in a noisy, good-humoured voice, &ldquo;you
      belong to me. I am going to make you a captain of cavalry directly we get
      within sight of a horse again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can swim far better than I can ride, mi General,&rdquo; cried Nostromo,
      pushing through to the rail with a set stare in his eyes. &ldquo;Let me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let you? What a conceited fellow that is,&rdquo; bantered the General,
      jovially, without even looking at him. &ldquo;Let him go! Ha! ha! ha! He wants
      me to admit that we cannot take Sulaco without him! Ha! ha! ha! Would you
      like to swim off to her, my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tremendous shout from one end of the ship to the other stopped his
      guffaw. Nostromo had leaped overboard; and his black head bobbed up far
      away already from the ship. The General muttered an appalled &ldquo;Cielo!
      Sinner that I am!&rdquo; in a thunderstruck tone. One anxious glance was enough
      to show him that Nostromo was swimming with perfect ease; and then he
      thundered terribly, &ldquo;No! no! We shall not stop to pick up this impertinent
      fellow. Let him drown&mdash;that mad Capataz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing short of main force would have kept Nostromo from leaping
      overboard. That empty boat, coming out to meet him mysteriously, as if
      rowed by an invisible spectre, exercised the fascination of some sign, of
      some warning, seemed to answer in a startling and enigmatic way the
      persistent thought of a treasure and of a man&rsquo;s fate. He would have leaped
      if there had been death in that half-mile of water. It was as smooth as a
      pond, and for some reason sharks are unknown in the Placid Gulf, though on
      the other side of the Punta Mala the coastline swarms with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz seized hold of the stern and blew with force. A queer, faint
      feeling had come over him while he swam. He had got rid of his boots and
      coat in the water. He hung on for a time, regaining his breath. In the
      distance the transports, more in a bunch now, held on straight for Sulaco,
      with their air of friendly contest, of nautical sport, of a regatta; and
      the united smoke of their funnels drove like a thin, sulphurous fogbank
      right over his head. It was his daring, his courage, his act that had set
      these ships in motion upon the sea, hurrying on to save the lives and
      fortunes of the Blancos, the taskmasters of the people; to save the San
      Tome mine; to save the children.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a vigorous and skilful effort he clambered over the stern. The very
      boat! No doubt of it; no doubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the lighter
      No. 3&mdash;the dinghy left with Martin Decoud on the Great Isabel so that
      he should have some means to help himself if nothing could be done for him
      from the shore. And here she had come out to meet him empty and
      inexplicable. What had become of Decoud? The Capataz made a minute
      examination. He looked for some scratch, for some mark, for some sign. All
      he discovered was a brown stain on the gunwale abreast of the thwart. He
      bent his face over it and rubbed hard with his finger. Then he sat down in
      the stern sheets, passive, with his knees close together and legs aslant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Streaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank and
      dripping and a lustreless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, the Capataz
      of the Sulaco Cargadores resembled a drowned corpse come up from the
      bottom to idle away the sunset hour in a small boat. The excitement of his
      adventurous ride, the excitement of the return in time, of achievement, of
      success, all this excitement centred round the associated ideas of the
      great treasure and of the only other man who knew of its existence, had
      departed from him. To the very last moment he had been cudgelling his
      brains as to how he could manage to visit the Great Isabel without loss of
      time and undetected. For the idea of secrecy had come to be connected with
      the treasure so closely that even to Barrios himself he had refrained from
      mentioning the existence of Decoud and of the silver on the island. The
      letters he carried to the General, however, made brief mention of the loss
      of the lighter, as having its bearing upon the situation in Sulaco. In the
      circumstances, the one-eyed tiger-slayer, scenting battle from afar, had
      not wasted his time in making inquiries from the messenger. In fact,
      Barrios, talking with Nostromo, assumed that both Don Martin Decoud and
      the ingots of San Tome were lost together, and Nostromo, not questioned
      directly, had kept silent, under the influence of some indefinable form of
      resentment and distrust. Let Don Martin speak of everything with his own
      lips&mdash;was what he told himself mentally.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, with the means of gaining the Great Isabel thrown thus in his way
      at the earliest possible moment, his excitement had departed, as when the
      soul takes flight leaving the body inert upon an earth it knows no more.
      Nostromo did not seem to know the gulf. For a long time even his eyelids
      did not flutter once upon the glazed emptiness of his stare. Then slowly,
      without a limb having stirred, without a twitch of muscle or quiver of an
      eyelash, an expression, a living expression came upon the still features,
      deep thought crept into the empty stare&mdash;as if an outcast soul, a
      quiet, brooding soul, finding that untenanted body in its way, had come in
      stealthily to take possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz frowned: and in the immense stillness of sea, islands, and
      coast, of cloud forms on the sky and trails of light upon the water, the
      knitting of that brow had the emphasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing else
      budged for a long time; then the Capataz shook his head and again
      surrendered himself to the universal repose of all visible things.
      Suddenly he seized the oars, and with one movement made the dinghy spin
      round, head-on to the Great Isabel. But before he began to pull he bent
      once more over the brown stain on the gunwale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that thing,&rdquo; he muttered to himself, with a sagacious jerk of the
      head. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s blood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His stroke was long, vigorous, and steady. Now and then he looked over his
      shoulder at the Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to his anxious gaze
      like an impenetrable face. At last the stem touched the strand. He flung
      rather than dragged the boat up the little beach. At once, turning his
      back upon the sunset, he plunged with long strides into the ravine, making
      the water of the stream spurt and fly upwards at every step, as if
      spurning its shallow, clear, murmuring spirit with his feet. He wanted to
      save every moment of daylight.
    </p>
    <p>
      A mass of earth, grass, and smashed bushes had fallen down very naturally
      from above upon the cavity under the leaning tree. Decoud had attended to
      the concealment of the silver as instructed, using the spade with some
      intelligence. But Nostromo&rsquo;s half-smile of approval changed into a
      scornful curl of the lip by the sight of the spade itself flung there in
      full view, as if in utter carelessness or sudden panic, giving away the
      whole thing. Ah! They were all alike in their folly, these hombres finos
      that invented laws and governments and barren tasks for the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his
      palm the desire of having a look at the horse-hide boxes of treasure came
      upon him suddenly. In a very few strokes he uncovered the edges and
      corners of several; then, clearing away more earth, became aware that one
      of them had been slashed with a knife.
    </p>
    <p>
      He exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voice, and dropped on his
      knees with a look of irrational apprehension over one shoulder, then over
      the other. The stiff hide had closed, and he hesitated before he pushed
      his hand through the long slit and felt the ingots inside. There they
      were. One, two, three. Yes, four gone. Taken away. Four ingots. But who?
      Decoud? Nobody else. And why? For what purpose? For what cursed fancy? Let
      him explain. Four ingots carried off in a boat, and&mdash;blood!
    </p>
    <p>
      In the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, unclouded, unaltered,
      plunged into the waters in a grave and untroubled mystery of
      self-immolation consummated far from all mortal eyes, with an infinite
      majesty of silence and peace. Four ingots short!&mdash;and blood!
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capataz got up slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might simply have cut his hand,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;But, then&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as if he had been chained to
      the treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air of
      hopeless submission, like a slave set on guard. Once only he lifted his
      head smartly: the rattle of hot musketry fire had reached his ears, like
      pouring from on high a stream of dry peas upon a drum. After listening for
      a while, he said, half aloud&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will never come back to explain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he lowered his head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; he muttered, gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sounds of firing died out. The loom of a great conflagration in Sulaco
      flashed up red above the coast, played on the clouds at the head of the
      gulf, seemed to touch with a ruddy and sinister reflection the forms of
      the Three Isabels. He never saw it, though he raised his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, then, I cannot know,&rdquo; he pronounced, distinctly, and remained silent
      and staring for hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not know. Nobody was to know. As might have been supposed, the
      end of Don Martin Decoud never became a subject of speculation for any one
      except Nostromo. Had the truth of the facts been known, there would always
      have remained the question. Why? Whereas the version of his death at the
      sinking of the lighter had no uncertainty of motive. The young apostle of
      Separation had died striving for his idea by an ever-lamented accident.
      But the truth was that he died from solitude, the enemy known but to few
      on this earth, and whom only the simplest of us are fit to withstand. The
      brilliant Costaguanero of the boulevards had died from solitude and want
      of faith in himself and others.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some good and valid reasons beyond mere human comprehension, the
      sea-birds of the gulf shun the Isabels. The rocky head of Azuera is their
      haunt, whose stony levels and chasms resound with their wild and
      tumultuous clamour as if they were for ever quarrelling over the legendary
      treasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of his first day on the Great Isabel, Decoud, turning in his
      lair of coarse grass, under the shade of a tree, said to himself&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not seen as much as one single bird all day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he had not heard a sound, either, all day but that one now of his own
      muttering voice. It had been a day of absolute silence&mdash;the first he
      had known in his life. And he had not slept a wink. Not for all these
      wakeful nights and the days of fighting, planning, talking; not for all
      that last night of danger and hard physical toil upon the gulf, had he
      been able to close his eyes for a moment. And yet from sunrise to sunset
      he had been lying prone on the ground, either on his back or on his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stretched himself, and with slow steps descended into the gully to
      spend the night by the side of the silver. If Nostromo returned&mdash;as
      he might have done at any moment&mdash;it was there that he would look
      first; and night would, of course, be the proper time for an attempt to
      communicate. He remembered with profound indifference that he had not
      eaten anything yet since he had been left alone on the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spent the night open-eyed, and when the day broke he ate something with
      the same indifference. The brilliant &ldquo;Son Decoud,&rdquo; the spoiled darling of
      the family, the lover of Antonia and journalist of Sulaco, was not fit to
      grapple with himself single-handed. Solitude from mere outward condition
      of existence becomes very swiftly a state of soul in which the
      affectations of irony and scepticism have no place. It takes possession of
      the mind, and drives forth the thought into the exile of utter unbelief.
      After three days of waiting for the sight of some human face, Decoud
      caught himself entertaining a doubt of his own individuality. It had
      merged into the world of cloud and water, of natural forces and forms of
      nature. In our activity alone do we find the sustaining illusion of an
      independent existence as against the whole scheme of things of which we
      form a helpless part. Decoud lost all belief in the reality of his action
      past and to come. On the fifth day an immense melancholy descended upon
      him palpably. He resolved not to give himself up to these people in
      Sulaco, who had beset him, unreal and terrible, like jibbering and obscene
      spectres. He saw himself struggling feebly in their midst, and Antonia,
      gigantic and lovely like an allegorical statue, looking on with scornful
      eyes at his weakness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not a living being, not a speck of distant sail, appeared within the range
      of his vision; and, as if to escape from this solitude, he absorbed
      himself in his melancholy. The vague consciousness of a misdirected life
      given up to impulses whose memory left a bitter taste in his mouth was the
      first moral sentiment of his manhood. But at the same time he felt no
      remorse. What should he regret? He had recognized no other virtue than
      intelligence, and had erected passions into duties. Both his intelligence
      and his passion were swallowed up easily in this great unbroken solitude
      of waiting without faith. Sleeplessness had robbed his will of all energy,
      for he had not slept seven hours in the seven days. His sadness was the
      sadness of a sceptical mind. He beheld the universe as a succession of
      incomprehensible images. Nostromo was dead. Everything had failed
      ignominiously. He no longer dared to think of Antonia. She had not
      survived. But if she survived he could not face her. And all exertion
      seemed senseless.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the tenth day, after a night spent without even dozing off once (it had
      occurred to him that Antonia could not possibly have ever loved a being so
      impalpable as himself), the solitude appeared like a great void, and the
      silence of the gulf like a tense, thin cord to which he hung suspended by
      both hands, without fear, without surprise, without any sort of emotion
      whatever. Only towards the evening, in the comparative relief of coolness,
      he began to wish that this cord would snap. He imagined it snapping with a
      report as of a pistol&mdash;a sharp, full crack. And that would be the end
      of him. He contemplated that eventuality with pleasure, because he dreaded
      the sleepless nights in which the silence, remaining unbroken in the shape
      of a cord to which he hung with both hands, vibrated with senseless
      phrases, always the same but utterly incomprehensible, about Nostromo,
      Antonia, Barrios, and proclamations mingled into an ironical and senseless
      buzzing. In the daytime he could look at the silence like a still cord
      stretched to breaking-point, with his life, his vain life, suspended to it
      like a weight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder whether I would hear it snap before I fell,&rdquo; he asked himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun was two hours above the horizon when he got up, gaunt, dirty,
      white-faced, and looked at it with his red-rimmed eyes. His limbs obeyed
      him slowly, as if full of lead, yet without tremor; and the effect of that
      physical condition gave to his movements an unhesitating, deliberate
      dignity. He acted as if accomplishing some sort of rite. He descended into
      the gully; for the fascination of all that silver, with its potential
      power, survived alone outside of himself. He picked up the belt with the
      revolver, that was lying there, and buckled it round his waist. The cord
      of silence could never snap on the island. It must let him fall and sink
      into the sea, he thought. And sink! He was looking at the loose earth
      covering the treasure. In the sea! His aspect was that of a somnambulist.
      He lowered himself down on his knees slowly and went on grubbing with his
      fingers with industrious patience till he uncovered one of the boxes.
      Without a pause, as if doing some work done many times before, he slit it
      open and took four ingots, which he put in his pockets. He covered up the
      exposed box again and step by step came out of the gully. The bushes
      closed after him with a swish.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on the third day of his solitude that he had dragged the dinghy
      near the water with an idea of rowing away somewhere, but had desisted
      partly at the whisper of lingering hope that Nostromo would return, partly
      from conviction of utter uselessness of all effort. Now she wanted only a
      slight shove to be set afloat. He had eaten a little every day after the
      first, and had some muscular strength left yet. Taking up the oars slowly,
      he pulled away from the cliff of the Great Isabel, that stood behind him
      warm with sunshine, as if with the heat of life, bathed in a rich light
      from head to foot as if in a radiance of hope and joy. He pulled straight
      towards the setting sun. When the gulf had grown dark, he ceased rowing
      and flung the sculls in. The hollow clatter they made in falling was the
      loudest noise he had ever heard in his life. It was a revelation. It
      seemed to recall him from far away, Actually the thought, &ldquo;Perhaps I may
      sleep to-night,&rdquo; passed through his mind. But he did not believe it. He
      believed in nothing; and he remained sitting on the thwart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dawn from behind the mountains put a gleam into his unwinking eyes.
      After a clear daybreak the sun appeared splendidly above the peaks of the
      range. The great gulf burst into a glitter all around the boat; and in
      this glory of merciless solitude the silence appeared again before him,
      stretched taut like a dark, thin string.
    </p>
    <p>
      His eyes looked at it while, without haste, he shifted his seat from the
      thwart to the gunwale. They looked at it fixedly, while his hand, feeling
      about his waist, unbuttoned the flap of the leather case, drew the
      revolver, cocked it, brought it forward pointing at his breast, pulled the
      trigger, and, with convulsive force, sent the still-smoking weapon
      hurtling through the air. His eyes looked at it while he fell forward and
      hung with his breast on the gunwale and the fingers of his right hand
      hooked under the thwart. They looked&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is done,&rdquo; he stammered out, in a sudden flow of blood. His last
      thought was: &ldquo;I wonder how that Capataz died.&rdquo; The stiffness of the
      fingers relaxed, and the lover of Antonia Avellanos rolled overboard
      without having heard the cord of silence snap in the solitude of the
      Placid Gulf, whose glittering surface remained untroubled by the fall of
      his body.
    </p>
    <p>
      A victim of the disillusioned weariness which is the retribution meted out
      to intellectual audacity, the brilliant Don Martin Decoud, weighted by the
      bars of San Tome silver, disappeared without a trace, swallowed up in the
      immense indifference of things. His sleepless, crouching figure was gone
      from the side of the San Tome silver; and for a time the spirits of good
      and evil that hover near every concealed treasure of the earth might have
      thought that this one had been forgotten by all mankind. Then, after a few
      days, another form appeared striding away from the setting sun to sit
      motionless and awake in the narrow black gully all through the night, in
      nearly the same pose, in the same place in which had sat that other
      sleepless man who had gone away for ever so quietly in a small boat, about
      the time of sunset. And the spirits of good and evil that hover about a
      forbidden treasure understood well that the silver of San Tome was
      provided now with a faithful and lifelong slave.
    </p>
    <p>
      The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, victim of the disenchanted vanity
      which is the reward of audacious action, sat in the weary pose of a hunted
      outcast through a night of sleeplessness as tormenting as any known to
      Decoud, his companion in the most desperate affair of his life. And he
      wondered how Decoud had died. But he knew the part he had played himself.
      First a woman, then a man, abandoned both in their last extremity, for the
      sake of this accursed treasure. It was paid for by a soul lost and by a
      vanished life. The blank stillness of awe was succeeded by a gust of
      immense pride. There was no one in the world but Gian&rsquo; Battista Fidanza,
      Capataz de Cargadores, the incorruptible and faithful Nostromo, to pay
      such a price.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had made up his mind that nothing should be allowed now to rob him of
      his bargain. Nothing. Decoud had died. But how? That he was dead he had
      not a shadow of a doubt. But four ingots? . . . What for? Did he mean to
      come for more&mdash;some other time?
    </p>
    <p>
      The treasure was putting forth its latent power. It troubled the clear
      mind of the man who had paid the price. He was sure that Decoud was dead.
      The island seemed full of that whisper. Dead! Gone! And he caught himself
      listening for the swish of bushes and the splash of the footfalls in the
      bed of the brook. Dead! The talker, the novio of Dona Antonia!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; he murmured, with his head on his knees, under the livid clouded
      dawn breaking over the liberated Sulaco and upon the gulf as gray as
      ashes. &ldquo;It is to her that he will fly. To her that he will fly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And four ingots! Did he take them in revenge, to cast a spell, like the
      angry woman who had prophesied remorse and failure, and yet had laid upon
      him the task of saving the children? Well, he had saved the children. He
      had defeated the spell of poverty and starvation. He had done it all alone&mdash;or
      perhaps helped by the devil. Who cared? He had done it, betrayed as he
      was, and saving by the same stroke the San Tome mine, which appeared to
      him hateful and immense, lording it by its vast wealth over the valour,
      the toil, the fidelity of the poor, over war and peace, over the labours
      of the town, the sea, and the Campo.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of the Cordillera. The Capataz
      looked down for a time upon the fall of loose earth, stones, and smashed
      bushes, concealing the hiding-place of the silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must grow rich very slowly,&rdquo; he meditated, aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ELEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      Sulaco outstripped Nostromo&rsquo;s prudence, growing rich swiftly on the hidden
      treasures of the earth, hovered over by the anxious spirits of good and
      evil, torn out by the labouring hands of the people. It was like a second
      youth, like a new life, full of promise, of unrest, of toil, scattering
      lavishly its wealth to the four corners of an excited world. Material
      changes swept along in the train of material interests. And other changes
      more subtle, outwardly unmarked, affected the minds and hearts of the
      workers. Captain Mitchell had gone home to live on his savings invested in
      the San Tome mine; and Dr. Monygham had grown older, with his head
      steel-grey and the unchanged expression of his face, living on the
      inexhaustible treasure of his devotion drawn upon in the secret of his
      heart like a store of unlawful wealth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Inspector-General of State Hospitals (whose maintenance is a charge
      upon the Gould Concession), Official Adviser on Sanitation to the
      Municipality, Chief Medical Officer of the San Tome Consolidated Mines
      (whose territory, containing gold, silver, copper, lead, cobalt, extends
      for miles along the foot-hills of the Cordillera), had felt
      poverty-stricken, miserable, and starved during the prolonged, second
      visit the Goulds paid to Europe and the United States of America. Intimate
      of the casa, proved friend, a bachelor without ties and without
      establishment (except of the professional sort), he had been asked to take
      up his quarters in the Gould house. In the eleven months of their absence
      the familiar rooms, recalling at every glance the woman to whom he had
      given all his loyalty, had grown intolerable. As the day approached for
      the arrival of the mail boat Hermes (the latest addition to the O. S. N.
      Co.&lsquo;s splendid fleet), the doctor hobbled about more vivaciously, snapped
      more sardonically at simple and gentle out of sheer nervousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He packed up his modest trunk with speed, with fury, with enthusiasm, and
      saw it carried out past the old porter at the gate of the Casa Gould with
      delight, with intoxication; then, as the hour approached, sitting alone in
      the great landau behind the white mules, a little sideways, his drawn-in
      face positively venomous with the effort of self-control, and holding a
      pair of new gloves in his left hand, he drove to the harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      His heart dilated within him so, when he saw the Goulds on the deck of the
      Hermes, that his greetings were reduced to a casual mutter. Driving back
      to town, all three were silent. And in the patio the doctor, in a more
      natural manner, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll leave you now to yourselves. I&rsquo;ll call to-morrow if I may?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come to lunch, dear Dr. Monygham, and come early,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, in
      her travelling dress and her veil down, turning to look at him at the foot
      of the stairs; while at the top of the flight the Madonna, in blue robes
      and the Child on her arm, seemed to welcome her with an aspect of pitying
      tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t expect to find me at home,&rdquo; Charles Gould warned him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be off
      early to the mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After lunch, Dona Emilia and the senor doctor came slowly through the
      inner gateway of the patio. The large gardens of the Casa Gould,
      surrounded by high walls, and the red-tile slopes of neighbouring roofs,
      lay open before them, with masses of shade under the trees and level
      surfaces of sunlight upon the lawns. A triple row of old orange trees
      surrounded the whole. Barefooted, brown gardeners, in snowy white shirts
      and wide calzoneras, dotted the grounds, squatting over flowerbeds,
      passing between the trees, dragging slender India-rubber tubes across the
      gravel of the paths; and the fine jets of water crossed each other in
      graceful curves, sparkling in the sunshine with a slight pattering noise
      upon the bushes, and an effect of showered diamonds upon the grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dona Emilia, holding up the train of a clear dress, walked by the side of
      Dr. Monygham, in a longish black coat and severe black bow on an
      immaculate shirtfront. Under a shady clump of trees, where stood scattered
      little tables and wicker easy-chairs, Mrs. Gould sat down in a low and
      ample seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go yet,&rdquo; she said to Dr. Monygham, who was unable to tear himself
      away from the spot. His chin nestling within the points of his collar, he
      devoured her stealthily with his eyes, which, luckily, were round and hard
      like clouded marbles, and incapable of disclosing his sentiments. His
      pitying emotion at the marks of time upon the face of that woman, the air
      of frailty and weary fatigue that had settled upon the eyes and temples of
      the &ldquo;Never-tired Senora&rdquo; (as Don Pepe years ago used to call her with
      admiration), touched him almost to tears. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go yet. To-day is all my
      own,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould urged, gently. &ldquo;We are not back yet officially. No one
      will come. It&rsquo;s only to-morrow that the windows of the Casa Gould are to
      be lit up for a reception.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor dropped into a chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Giving a tertulia?&rdquo; he said, with a detached air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A simple greeting for all the kind friends who care to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And only to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Charles would be tired out after a day at the mine, and so I&mdash;&mdash;It
      would be good to have him to myself for one evening on our return to this
      house I love. It has seen all my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes!&rdquo; snarled the doctor, suddenly. &ldquo;Women count time from the
      marriage feast. Didn&rsquo;t you live a little before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but what is there to remember? There were no cares.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould sighed. And as two friends, after a long separation, will
      revert to the most agitated period of their lives, they began to talk of
      the Sulaco Revolution. It seemed strange to Mrs. Gould that people who had
      taken part in it seemed to forget its memory and its lesson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; struck in the doctor, &ldquo;we who played our part in it had our
      reward. Don Pepe, though superannuated, still can sit a horse. Barrios is
      drinking himself to death in jovial company away somewhere on his
      fundacion beyond the Bolson de Tonoro. And the heroic Father Roman&mdash;I
      imagine the old padre blowing up systematically the San Tome mine,
      uttering a pious exclamation at every bang, and taking handfuls of snuff
      between the explosions&mdash;the heroic Padre Roman says that he is not
      afraid of the harm Holroyd&rsquo;s missionaries can do to his flock, as long as
      he is alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould shuddered a little at the allusion to the destruction that had
      come so near to the San Tome mine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but you, dear friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did the work I was fit for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You faced the most cruel dangers of all. Something more than death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mrs. Gould! Only death&mdash;by hanging. And I am rewarded beyond my
      deserts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Noticing Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s gaze fixed upon him, he dropped his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve made my career&mdash;as you see,&rdquo; said the Inspector-General of
      State Hospitals, taking up lightly the lapels of his superfine black coat.
      The doctor&rsquo;s self-respect marked inwardly by the almost complete
      disappearance from his dreams of Father Beron appeared visibly in what, by
      contrast with former carelessness, seemed an immoderate cult of personal
      appearance. Carried out within severe limits of form and colour, and in
      perpetual freshness, this change of apparel gave to Dr. Monygham an air at
      the same time professional and festive; while his gait and the unchanged
      crabbed character of his face acquired from it a startling force of
      incongruity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;We all had our rewards&mdash;the engineer-in-chief,
      Captain Mitchell&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We saw him,&rdquo; interrupted Mrs. Gould, in her charming voice. &ldquo;The poor
      dear man came up from the country on purpose to call on us in our hotel in
      London. He comported himself with great dignity, but I fancy he regrets
      Sulaco. He rambled feebly about &lsquo;historical events&rsquo; till I felt I could
      have a cry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H&rsquo;m,&rdquo; grunted the doctor; &ldquo;getting old, I suppose. Even Nostromo is
      getting older&mdash;though he is not changed. And, speaking of that
      fellow, I wanted to tell you something&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For some time the house had been full of murmurs, of agitation. Suddenly
      the two gardeners, busy with rose trees at the side of the garden arch,
      fell upon their knees with bowed heads on the passage of Antonia
      Avellanos, who appeared walking beside her uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Invested with the red hat after a short visit to Rome, where he had been
      invited by the Propaganda, Father Corbelan, missionary to the wild
      Indians, conspirator, friend and patron of Hernandez the robber, advanced
      with big, slow strides, gaunt and leaning forward, with his powerful hands
      clasped behind his back. The first Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco had
      preserved his fanatical and morose air; the aspect of a chaplain of
      bandits. It was believed that his unexpected elevation to the purple was a
      counter-move to the Protestant invasion of Sulaco organized by the Holroyd
      Missionary Fund. Antonia, the beauty of her face as if a little blurred,
      her figure slightly fuller, advanced with her light walk and her high
      serenity, smiling from a distance at Mrs. Gould. She had brought her uncle
      over to see dear Emilia, without ceremony, just for a moment before the
      siesta.
    </p>
    <p>
      When all were seated again, Dr. Monygham, who had come to dislike heartily
      everybody who approached Mrs. Gould with any intimacy, kept aside,
      pretending to be lost in profound meditation. A louder phrase of Antonia
      made him lift his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can we abandon, groaning under oppression, those who have been our
      countrymen only a few years ago, who are our countrymen now?&rdquo; Miss
      Avellanos was saying. &ldquo;How can we remain blind, and deaf without pity to
      the cruel wrongs suffered by our brothers? There is a remedy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Annex the rest of Costaguana to the order and prosperity of Sulaco,&rdquo;
       snapped the doctor. &ldquo;There is no other remedy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am convinced, senor doctor,&rdquo; Antonia said, with the earnest calm of
      invincible resolution, &ldquo;that this was from the first poor Martin&rsquo;s
      intention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but the material interests will not let you jeopardize their
      development for a mere idea of pity and justice,&rdquo; the doctor muttered
      grumpily. &ldquo;And it is just as well perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal-Archbishop straightened up his gaunt, bony frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have worked for them; we have made them, these material interests of
      the foreigners,&rdquo; the last of the Corbelans uttered in a deep, denunciatory
      tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And without them you are nothing,&rdquo; cried the doctor from the distance.
      &ldquo;They will not let you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let them beware, then, lest the people, prevented from their aspirations,
      should rise and claim their share of the wealth and their share of the
      power,&rdquo; the popular Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco declared, significantly,
      menacingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      A silence ensued, during which his Eminence stared, frowning at the
      ground, and Antonia, graceful and rigid in her chair, breathed calmly in
      the strength of her convictions. Then the conversation took a social turn,
      touching on the visit of the Goulds to Europe. The Cardinal-Archbishop,
      when in Rome, had suffered from neuralgia in the head all the time. It was
      the climate&mdash;the bad air.
    </p>
    <p>
      When uncle and niece had gone away, with the servants again falling on
      their knees, and the old porter, who had known Henry Gould, almost totally
      blind and impotent now, creeping up to kiss his Eminence&rsquo;s extended hand,
      Dr. Monygham, looking after them, pronounced the one word&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Incorrigible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould, with a look upwards, dropped wearily on her lap her white
      hands flashing with the gold and stones of many rings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Conspiring. Yes!&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;The last of the Avellanos and the
      last of the Corbelans are conspiring with the refugees from Sta. Marta
      that flock here after every revolution. The Cafe Lambroso at the corner of
      the Plaza is full of them; you can hear their chatter across the street
      like the noise of a parrot-house. They are conspiring for the invasion of
      Costaguana. And do you know where they go for strength, for the necessary
      force? To the secret societies amongst immigrants and natives, where
      Nostromo&mdash;I should say Captain Fidanza&mdash;is the great man. What
      gives him that position? Who can say? Genius? He has genius. He is greater
      with the populace than ever he was before. It is as if he had some secret
      power; some mysterious means to keep up his influence. He holds
      conferences with the Archbishop, as in those old days which you and I
      remember. Barrios is useless. But for a military head they have the pious
      Hernandez. And they may raise the country with the new cry of the wealth
      for the people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will there be never any peace? Will there be no rest?&rdquo; Mrs. Gould
      whispered. &ldquo;I thought that we&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; interrupted the doctor. &ldquo;There is no peace and no rest in the
      development of material interests. They have their law, and their justice.
      But it is founded on expediency, and is inhuman; it is without rectitude,
      without the continuity and the force that can be found only in a moral
      principle. Mrs. Gould, the time approaches when all that the Gould
      Concession stands for shall weigh as heavily upon the people as the
      barbarism, cruelty, and misrule of a few years back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you say that, Dr. Monygham?&rdquo; she cried out, as if hurt in the
      most sensitive place of her soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can say what is true,&rdquo; the doctor insisted, obstinately. &ldquo;It&rsquo;ll weigh
      as heavily, and provoke resentment, bloodshed, and vengeance, because the
      men have grown different. Do you think that now the mine would march upon
      the town to save their Senor Administrador? Do you think that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pressed the backs of her entwined hands on her eyes and murmured
      hopelessly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it this we have worked for, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor lowered his head. He could follow her silent thought. Was it
      for this that her life had been robbed of all the intimate felicities of
      daily affection which her tenderness needed as the human body needs air to
      breathe? And the doctor, indignant with Charles Gould&rsquo;s blindness,
      hastened to change the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is about Nostromo that I wanted to talk to you. Ah! that fellow has
      some continuity and force. Nothing will put an end to him. But never mind
      that. There&rsquo;s something inexplicable going on&mdash;or perhaps only too
      easy to explain. You know, Linda is practically the lighthouse keeper of
      the Great Isabel light. The Garibaldino is too old now. His part is to
      clean the lamps and to cook in the house; but he can&rsquo;t get up the stairs
      any longer. The black-eyed Linda sleeps all day and watches the light all
      night. Not all day, though. She is up towards five in the afternoon, when
      our Nostromo, whenever he is in harbour with his schooner, comes out on
      his courting visit, pulling in a small boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aren&rsquo;t they married yet?&rdquo; Mrs. Gould asked. &ldquo;The mother wished it, as far
      as I can understand, while Linda was yet quite a child. When I had the
      girls with me for a year or so during the War of Separation, that
      extraordinary Linda used to declare quite simply that she was going to be
      Gian&rsquo; Battista&rsquo;s wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are not married yet,&rdquo; said the doctor, curtly. &ldquo;I have looked after
      them a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, dear Dr. Monygham,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould; and under the shade of
      the big trees her little, even teeth gleamed in a youthful smile of gentle
      malice. &ldquo;People don&rsquo;t know how really good you are. You will not let them
      know, as if on purpose to annoy me, who have put my faith in your good
      heart long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, with a lifting up of his upper lip, as though he were longing
      to bite, bowed stiffly in his chair. With the utter absorption of a man to
      whom love comes late, not as the most splendid of illusions, but like an
      enlightening and priceless misfortune, the sight of that woman (of whom he
      had been deprived for nearly a year) suggested ideas of adoration, of
      kissing the hem of her robe. And this excess of feeling translated itself
      naturally into an augmented grimness of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid of being overwhelmed by too much gratitude. However, these
      people interest me. I went out several times to the Great Isabel light to
      look after old Giorgio.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not tell Mrs. Gould that it was because he found there, in her
      absence, the relief of an atmosphere of congenial sentiment in old
      Giorgio&rsquo;s austere admiration for the &ldquo;English signora&mdash;the
      benefactress&rdquo;; in black-eyed Linda&rsquo;s voluble, torrential, passionate
      affection for &ldquo;our Dona Emilia&mdash;that angel&rdquo;; in the white-throated,
      fair Giselle&rsquo;s adoring upward turn of the eyes, which then glided towards
      him with a sidelong, half-arch, half-candid glance, which made the doctor
      exclaim to himself mentally, &ldquo;If I weren&rsquo;t what I am, old and ugly, I
      would think the minx is making eyes at me. And perhaps she is. I dare say
      she would make eyes at anybody.&rdquo; Dr. Monygham said nothing of this to Mrs.
      Gould, the providence of the Viola family, but reverted to what he called
      &ldquo;our great Nostromo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I wanted to tell you is this: Our great Nostromo did not take much
      notice of the old man and the children for some years. It&rsquo;s true, too,
      that he was away on his coasting voyages certainly ten months out of the
      twelve. He was making his fortune, as he told Captain Mitchell once. He
      seems to have done uncommonly well. It was only to be expected. He is a
      man full of resource, full of confidence in himself, ready to take chances
      and risks of every sort. I remember being in Mitchell&rsquo;s office one day,
      when he came in with that calm, grave air he always carries everywhere. He
      had been away trading in the Gulf of California, he said, looking straight
      past us at the wall, as his manner is, and was glad to see on his return
      that a lighthouse was being built on the cliff of the Great Isabel. Very
      glad, he repeated. Mitchell explained that it was the O. S. N. Co. who was
      building it, for the convenience of the mail service, on his own advice.
      Captain Fidanza was good enough to say that it was excellent advice. I
      remember him twisting up his moustaches and looking all round the cornice
      of the room before he proposed that old Giorgio should be made the keeper
      of that light.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard of this. I was consulted at the time,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould said. &ldquo;I
      doubted whether it would be good for these girls to be shut up on that
      island as if in a prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The proposal fell in with the old Garibaldino&rsquo;s humour. As to Linda, any
      place was lovely and delightful enough for her as long as it was
      Nostromo&rsquo;s suggestion. She could wait for her Gian&rsquo; Battista&rsquo;s good
      pleasure there as well as anywhere else. My opinion is that she was always
      in love with that incorruptible Capataz. Moreover, both father and sister
      were anxious to get Giselle away from the attentions of a certain
      Ramirez.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, interested. &ldquo;Ramirez? What sort of man is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just a mozo of the town. His father was a Cargador. As a lanky boy he ran
      about the wharf in rags, till Nostromo took him up and made a man of him.
      When he got a little older, he put him into a lighter and very soon gave
      him charge of the No. 3 boat&mdash;the boat which took the silver away,
      Mrs. Gould. Nostromo selected that lighter for the work because she was
      the best sailing and the strongest boat of all the Company&rsquo;s fleet. Young
      Ramirez was one of the five Cargadores entrusted with the removal of the
      treasure from the Custom House on that famous night. As the boat he had
      charge of was sunk, Nostromo, on leaving the Company&rsquo;s service,
      recommended him to Captain Mitchell for his successor. He had trained him
      in the routine of work perfectly, and thus Mr. Ramirez, from a starving
      waif, becomes a man and the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to Nostromo,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, with warm approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks to Nostromo,&rdquo; repeated Dr. Monygham. &ldquo;Upon my word, the fellow&rsquo;s
      power frightens me when I think of it. That our poor old Mitchell was only
      too glad to appoint somebody trained to the work, who saved him trouble,
      is not surprising. What is wonderful is the fact that the Sulaco
      Cargadores accepted Ramirez for their chief, simply because such was
      Nostromo&rsquo;s good pleasure. Of course, he is not a second Nostromo, as he
      fondly imagined he would be; but still, the position was brilliant enough.
      It emboldened him to make up to Giselle Viola, who, you know, is the
      recognized beauty of the town. The old Garibaldino, however, took a
      violent dislike to him. I don&rsquo;t know why. Perhaps because he was not a
      model of perfection like his Gian&rsquo; Battista, the incarnation of the
      courage, the fidelity, the honour of &lsquo;the people.&rsquo; Signor Viola does not
      think much of Sulaco natives. Both of them, the old Spartan and that
      white-faced Linda, with her red mouth and coal-black eyes, were looking
      rather fiercely after the fair one. Ramirez was warned off. Father Viola,
      I am told, threatened him with his gun once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what of Giselle herself?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a bit of a flirt, I believe,&rdquo; said the doctor. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think she
      cared much one way or another. Of course she likes men&rsquo;s attentions.
      Ramirez was not the only one, let me tell you, Mrs. Gould. There was one
      engineer, at least, on the railway staff who got warned off with a gun,
      too. Old Viola does not allow any trifling with his honour. He has grown
      uneasy and suspicious since his wife died. He was very pleased to remove
      his youngest girl away from the town. But look what happens, Mrs. Gould.
      Ramirez, the honest, lovelorn swain, is forbidden the island. Very well.
      He respects the prohibition, but naturally turns his eyes frequently
      towards the Great Isabel. It seems as though he had been in the habit of
      gazing late at night upon the light. And during these sentimental vigils
      he discovers that Nostromo, Captain Fidanza that is, returns very late
      from his visits to the Violas. As late as midnight at times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor paused and stared meaningly at Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But I don&rsquo;t understand,&rdquo; she began, looking puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now comes the strange part,&rdquo; went on Dr. Monygham. &ldquo;Viola, who is king on
      his island, will allow no visitor on it after dark. Even Captain Fidanza
      has got to leave after sunset, when Linda has gone up to tend the light.
      And Nostromo goes away obediently. But what happens afterwards? What does
      he do in the gulf between half-past six and midnight? He has been seen
      more than once at that late hour pulling quietly into the harbour. Ramirez
      is devoured by jealousy. He dared not approach old Viola; but he plucked
      up courage to rail at Linda about it on Sunday morning as she came on the
      mainland to hear mass and visit her mother&rsquo;s grave. There was a scene on
      the wharf, which, as a matter of fact, I witnessed. It was early morning.
      He must have been waiting for her on purpose. I was there by the merest
      chance, having been called to an urgent consultation by the doctor of the
      German gunboat in the harbour. She poured wrath, scorn, and flame upon
      Ramirez, who seemed out of his mind. It was a strange sight, Mrs. Gould:
      the long jetty, with this raving Cargador in his crimson sash and the girl
      all in black, at the end; the early Sunday morning quiet of the harbour in
      the shade of the mountains; nothing but a canoe or two moving between the
      ships at anchor, and the German gunboat&rsquo;s gig coming to take me off. Linda
      passed me within a foot. I noticed her wild eyes. I called out to her. She
      never heard me. She never saw me. But I looked at her face. It was awful
      in its anger and wretchedness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould sat up, opening her eyes very wide.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, Dr. Monygham? Do you mean to say that you suspect the
      younger sister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quien sabe! Who can tell?&rdquo; said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders like
      a born Costaguanero. &ldquo;Ramirez came up to me on the wharf. He reeled&mdash;he
      looked insane. He took his head into his hands. He had to talk to someone&mdash;simply
      had to. Of course for all his mad state he recognized me. People know me
      well here. I have lived too long amongst them to be anything else but the
      evil-eyed doctor, who can cure all the ills of the flesh, and bring bad
      luck by a glance. He came up to me. He tried to be calm. He tried to make
      it out that he wanted merely to warn me against Nostromo. It seems that
      Captain Fidanza at some secret meeting or other had mentioned me as the
      worst despiser of all the poor&mdash;of the people. It&rsquo;s very possible. He
      honours me with his undying dislike. And a word from the great Fidanza may
      be quite enough to send some fool&rsquo;s knife into my back. The Sanitary
      Commission I preside over is not in favour with the populace. &lsquo;Beware of
      him, senor doctor. Destroy him, senor doctor,&rsquo; Ramirez hissed right into
      my face. And then he broke out. &lsquo;That man,&rsquo; he spluttered, &lsquo;has cast a
      spell upon both these girls.&rsquo; As to himself, he had said too much. He must
      run away now&mdash;run away and hide somewhere. He moaned tenderly about
      Giselle, and then called her names that cannot be repeated. If he thought
      she could be made to love him by any means, he would carry her off from
      the island. Off into the woods. But it was no good. . . . He strode away,
      flourishing his arms above his head. Then I noticed an old negro, who had
      been sitting behind a pile of cases, fishing from the wharf. He wound up
      his lines and slunk away at once. But he must have heard something, and
      must have talked, too, because some of the old Garibaldino&rsquo;s railway
      friends, I suppose, warned him against Ramirez. At any rate, the father
      has been warned. But Ramirez has disappeared from the town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel I have a duty towards these girls,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, uneasily. &ldquo;Is
      Nostromo in Sulaco now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is, since last Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He ought to be spoken to&mdash;at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who will dare speak to him? Even the love-mad Ramirez runs away from the
      mere shadow of Captain Fidanza.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can. I will,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould declared. &ldquo;A word will be enough for a man
      like Nostromo.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor smiled sourly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must end this situation which lends itself to&mdash;&mdash;I can&rsquo;t
      believe it of that child,&rdquo; pursued Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s very attractive,&rdquo; muttered the doctor, gloomily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll see it, I am sure. He must put an end to all this by marrying Linda
      at once,&rdquo; pronounced the first lady of Sulaco with immense decision.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the garden gate emerged Basilio, grown fat and sleek, with an
      elderly hairless face, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his
      jet-black, coarse hair plastered down smoothly. Stooping carefully behind
      an ornamental clump of bushes, he put down with precaution a small child
      he had been carrying on his shoulder&mdash;his own and Leonarda&rsquo;s last
      born. The pouting, spoiled Camerista and the head mozo of the Casa Gould
      had been married for some years now.
    </p>
    <p>
      He remained squatting on his heels for a time, gazing fondly at his
      offspring, which returned his stare with imperturbable gravity; then,
      solemn and respectable, walked down the path.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Basilio?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A telephone came through from the office of the mine. The master remains
      to sleep at the mountain to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham had got up and stood looking away. A profound silence reigned
      for a time under the shade of the biggest trees in the lovely gardens of
      the Casa Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Basilio,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould. She watched him walk away along the
      path, step aside behind the flowering bush, and reappear with the child
      seated on his shoulder. He passed through the gateway between the garden
      and the patio with measured steps, careful of his light burden.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor, with his back to Mrs. Gould, contemplated a flower-bed away in
      the sunshine. People believed him scornful and soured. The truth of his
      nature consisted in his capacity for passion and in the sensitiveness of
      his temperament. What he lacked was the polished callousness of men of the
      world, the callousness from which springs an easy tolerance for oneself
      and others; the tolerance wide as poles asunder from true sympathy and
      human compassion. This want of callousness accounted for his sardonic turn
      of mind and his biting speeches.
    </p>
    <p>
      In profound silence, and glaring viciously at the brilliant flower-bed,
      Dr. Monygham poured mental imprecations on Charles Gould&rsquo;s head. Behind
      him the immobility of Mrs. Gould added to the grace of her seated figure
      the charm of art, of an attitude caught and interpreted for ever. Turning
      abruptly, the doctor took his leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould leaned back in the shade of the big trees planted in a circle.
      She leaned back with her eyes closed and her white hands lying idle on the
      arms of her seat. The half-light under the thick mass of leaves brought
      out the youthful prettiness of her face; made the clear, light fabrics and
      white lace of her dress appear luminous. Small and dainty, as if radiating
      a light of her own in the deep shade of the interlaced boughs, she
      resembled a good fairy, weary with a long career of well-doing, touched by
      the withering suspicion of the uselessness of her labours, the
      powerlessness of her magic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had anybody asked her of what she was thinking, alone in the garden of the
      Casa, with her husband at the mine and the house closed to the street like
      an empty dwelling, her frankness would have had to evade the question. It
      had come into her mind that for life to be large and full, it must contain
      the care of the past and of the future in every passing moment of the
      present. Our daily work must be done to the glory of the dead, and for the
      good of those who come after. She thought that, and sighed without opening
      her eyes&mdash;without moving at all. Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s face became set and
      rigid for a second, as if to receive, without flinching, a great wave of
      loneliness that swept over her head. And it came into her mind, too, that
      no one would ever ask her with solicitude what she was thinking of. No
      one. No one, but perhaps the man who had just gone away. No; no one who
      could be answered with careless sincerity in the ideal perfection of
      confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The word &ldquo;incorrigible&rdquo;&mdash;a word lately pronounced by Dr. Monygham&mdash;floated
      into her still and sad immobility. Incorrigible in his devotion to the
      great silver mine was the Senor Administrador! Incorrigible in his hard,
      determined service of the material interests to which he had pinned his
      faith in the triumph of order and justice. Poor boy! She had a clear
      vision of the grey hairs on his temples. He was perfect&mdash;perfect.
      What more could she have expected? It was a colossal and lasting success;
      and love was only a short moment of forgetfulness, a short intoxication,
      whose delight one remembered with a sense of sadness, as if it had been a
      deep grief lived through. There was something inherent in the necessities
      of successful action which carried with it the moral degradation of the
      idea. She saw the San Tome mountain hanging over the Campo, over the whole
      land, feared, hated, wealthy; more soulless than any tyrant, more pitiless
      and autocratic than the worst Government; ready to crush innumerable lives
      in the expansion of its greatness. He did not see it. He could not see it.
      It was not his fault. He was perfect, perfect; but she would never have
      him to herself. Never; not for one short hour altogether to herself in
      this old Spanish house she loved so well! Incorrigible, the last of the
      Corbelans, the last of the Avellanos, the doctor had said; but she saw
      clearly the San Tome mine possessing, consuming, burning up the life of
      the last of the Costaguana Goulds; mastering the energetic spirit of the
      son as it had mastered the lamentable weakness of the father. A terrible
      success for the last of the Goulds. The last! She had hoped for a long,
      long time, that perhaps&mdash;&mdash;But no! There were to be no more. An
      immense desolation, the dread of her own continued life, descended upon
      the first lady of Sulaco. With a prophetic vision she saw herself
      surviving alone the degradation of her young ideal of life, of love, of
      work&mdash;all alone in the Treasure House of the World. The profound,
      blind, suffering expression of a painful dream settled on her face with
      its closed eyes. In the indistinct voice of an unlucky sleeper lying
      passive in the grip of a merciless nightmare, she stammered out aimlessly
      the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Material interest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWELVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Nostromo had been growing rich very slowly. It was an effect of his
      prudence. He could command himself even when thrown off his balance. And
      to become the slave of a treasure with full self-knowledge is an
      occurrence rare and mentally disturbing. But it was also in a great part
      because of the difficulty of converting it into a form in which it could
      become available. The mere act of getting it away from the island
      piecemeal, little by little, was surrounded by difficulties, by the
      dangers of imminent detection. He had to visit the Great Isabel in secret,
      between his voyages along the coast, which were the ostensible source of
      his fortune. The crew of his own schooner were to be feared as if they had
      been spies upon their dreaded captain. He did not dare stay too long in
      port. When his coaster was unloaded, he hurried away on another trip, for
      he feared arousing suspicion even by a day&rsquo;s delay. Sometimes during a
      week&rsquo;s stay, or more, he could only manage one visit to the treasure. And
      that was all. A couple of ingots. He suffered through his fears as much as
      through his prudence. To do things by stealth humiliated him. And he
      suffered most from the concentration of his thought upon the treasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      A transgression, a crime, entering a man&rsquo;s existence, eats it up like a
      malignant growth, consumes it like a fever. Nostromo had lost his peace;
      the genuineness of all his qualities was destroyed. He felt it himself,
      and often cursed the silver of San Tome. His courage, his magnificence,
      his leisure, his work, everything was as before, only everything was a
      sham. But the treasure was real. He clung to it with a more tenacious,
      mental grip. But he hated the feel of the ingots. Sometimes, after putting
      away a couple of them in his cabin&mdash;the fruit of a secret night
      expedition to the Great Isabel&mdash;he would look fixedly at his fingers,
      as if surprised they had left no stain on his skin.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had found means of disposing of the silver bars in distant ports. The
      necessity to go far afield made his coasting voyages long, and caused his
      visits to the Viola household to be rare and far between. He was fated to
      have his wife from there. He had said so once to Giorgio himself. But the
      Garibaldino had put the subject aside with a majestic wave of his hand,
      clutching a smouldering black briar-root pipe. There was plenty of time;
      he was not the man to force his girls upon anybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      As time went on, Nostromo discovered his preference for the younger of the
      two. They had some profound similarities of nature, which must exist for
      complete confidence and understanding, no matter what outward differences
      of temperament there may be to exercise their own fascination of contrast.
      His wife would have to know his secret or else life would be impossible.
      He was attracted by Giselle, with her candid gaze and white throat,
      pliable, silent, fond of excitement under her quiet indolence; whereas
      Linda, with her intense, passionately pale face, energetic, all fire and
      words, touched with gloom and scorn, a chip of the old block, true
      daughter of the austere republican, but with Teresa&rsquo;s voice, inspired him
      with a deep-seated mistrust. Moreover, the poor girl could not conceal her
      love for Gian&rsquo; Battista. He could see it would be violent, exacting,
      suspicious, uncompromising&mdash;like her soul. Giselle, by her fair but
      warm beauty, by the surface placidity of her nature holding a promise of
      submissiveness, by the charm of her girlish mysteriousness, excited his
      passion and allayed his fears as to the future.
    </p>
    <p>
      His absences from Sulaco were long. On returning from the longest of them,
      he made out lighters loaded with blocks of stone lying under the cliff of
      the Great Isabel; cranes and scaffolding above; workmen&rsquo;s figures moving
      about, and a small lighthouse already rising from its foundations on the
      edge of the cliff.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this unexpected, undreamt-of, startling sight, he thought himself lost
      irretrievably. What could save him from detection now? Nothing! He was
      struck with amazed dread at this turn of chance, that would kindle a
      far-reaching light upon the only secret spot of his life; that life whose
      very essence, value, reality, consisted in its reflection from the
      admiring eyes of men. All of it but that thing which was beyond common
      comprehension; which stood between him and the power that hears and gives
      effect to the evil intention of curses. It was dark. Not every man had
      such a darkness. And they were going to put a light there. A light! He saw
      it shining upon disgrace, poverty, contempt. Somebody was sure to. . . .
      Perhaps somebody had already. . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      The incomparable Nostromo, the Capataz, the respected and feared Captain
      Fidanza, the unquestioned patron of secret societies, a republican like
      old Giorgio, and a revolutionist at heart (but in another manner), was on
      the point of jumping overboard from the deck of his own schooner. That
      man, subjective almost to insanity, looked suicide deliberately in the
      face. But he never lost his head. He was checked by the thought that this
      was no escape. He imagined himself dead, and the disgrace, the shame going
      on. Or, rather, properly speaking, he could not imagine himself dead. He
      was possessed too strongly by the sense of his own existence, a thing of
      infinite duration in its changes, to grasp the notion of finality. The
      earth goes on for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      And he was courageous. It was a corrupt courage, but it was as good for
      his purposes as the other kind. He sailed close to the cliff of the Great
      Isabel, throwing a penetrating glance from the deck at the mouth of the
      ravine, tangled in an undisturbed growth of bushes. He sailed close enough
      to exchange hails with the workmen, shading their eyes on the edge of the
      sheer drop of the cliff overhung by the jib-head of a powerful crane. He
      perceived that none of them had any occasion even to approach the ravine
      where the silver lay hidden; let alone to enter it. In the harbour he
      learned that no one slept on the island. The labouring gangs returned to
      port every evening, singing chorus songs in the empty lighters towed by a
      harbour tug. For the moment he had nothing to fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      But afterwards? he asked himself. Later, when a keeper came to live in the
      cottage that was being built some hundred and fifty yards back from the
      low lighttower, and four hundred or so from the dark, shaded, jungly
      ravine, containing the secret of his safety, of his influence, of his
      magnificence, of his power over the future, of his defiance of ill-luck,
      of every possible betrayal from rich and poor alike&mdash;what then? He
      could never shake off the treasure. His audacity, greater than that of
      other men, had welded that vein of silver into his life. And the feeling
      of fearful and ardent subjection, the feeling of his slavery&mdash;so
      irremediable and profound that often, in his thoughts, he compared himself
      to the legendary Gringos, neither dead nor alive, bound down to their
      conquest of unlawful wealth on Azuera&mdash;weighed heavily on the
      independent Captain Fidanza, owner and master of a coasting schooner,
      whose smart appearance (and fabulous good-luck in trading) were so well
      known along the western seaboard of a vast continent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fiercely whiskered and grave, a shade less supple in his walk, the vigour
      and symmetry of his powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of a brown tweed
      suit, made by Jews in the slums of London, and sold by the clothing
      department of the Compania Anzani, Captain Fidanza was seen in the streets
      of Sulaco attending to his business, as usual, that trip. And, as usual,
      he allowed it to get about that he had made a great profit on his cargo.
      It was a cargo of salt fish, and Lent was approaching. He was seen in
      tramcars going to and fro between the town and the harbour; he talked with
      people in a cafe or two in his measured, steady voice. Captain Fidanza was
      seen. The generation that would know nothing of the famous ride to Cayta
      was not born yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo, the miscalled Capataz de Cargadores, had made for himself, under
      his rightful name, another public existence, but modified by the new
      conditions, less picturesque, more difficult to keep up in the increased
      size and varied population of Sulaco, the progressive capital of the
      Occidental Republic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Fidanza, unpicturesque, but always a little mysterious, was
      recognized quite sufficiently under the lofty glass and iron roof of the
      Sulaco railway station. He took a local train, and got out in Rincon,
      where he visited the widow of the Cargador who had died of his wounds (at
      the dawn of the New Era, like Don Jose Avellanos) in the patio of the Casa
      Gould. He consented to sit down and drink a glass of cool lemonade in the
      hut, while the woman, standing up, poured a perfect torrent of words to
      which he did not listen. He left some money with her, as usual. The
      orphaned children, growing up and well schooled, calling him uncle,
      clamoured for his blessing. He gave that, too; and in the doorway paused
      for a moment to look at the flat face of the San Tome mountain with a
      faint frown. This slight contraction of his bronzed brow casting a marked
      tinge of severity upon his usual unbending expression, was observed at the
      Lodge which he attended&mdash;but went away before the banquet. He wore it
      at the meeting of some good comrades, Italians and Occidentals, assembled
      in his honour under the presidency of an indigent, sickly, somewhat
      hunchbacked little photographer, with a white face and a magnanimous soul
      dyed crimson by a bloodthirsty hate of all capitalists, oppressors of the
      two hemispheres. The heroic Giorgio Viola, old revolutionist, would have
      understood nothing of his opening speech; and Captain Fidanza, lavishly
      generous as usual to some poor comrades, made no speech at all. He had
      listened, frowning, with his mind far away, and walked off unapproachable,
      silent, like a man full of cares.
    </p>
    <p>
      His frown deepened as, in the early morning, he watched the stone-masons
      go off to the Great Isabel, in lighters loaded with squared blocks of
      stone, enough to add another course to the squat light-tower. That was the
      rate of the work. One course per day.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Captain Fidanza meditated. The presence of strangers on the island
      would cut him completely off the treasure. It had been difficult and
      dangerous enough before. He was afraid, and he was angry. He thought with
      the resolution of a master and the cunning of a cowed slave. Then he went
      ashore.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a man of resource and ingenuity; and, as usual, the expedient he
      found at a critical moment was effective enough to alter the situation
      radically. He had the gift of evolving safety out of the very danger, this
      incomparable Nostromo, this &ldquo;fellow in a thousand.&rdquo; With Giorgio
      established on the Great Isabel, there would be no need for concealment.
      He would be able to go openly, in daylight, to see his daughters&mdash;one
      of his daughters&mdash;and stay late talking to the old Garibaldino. Then
      in the dark . . . Night after night . . . He would dare to grow rich
      quicker now. He yearned to clasp, embrace, absorb, subjugate in
      unquestioned possession this treasure, whose tyranny had weighed upon his
      mind, his actions, his very sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to see his friend Captain Mitchell&mdash;and the thing was done as
      Dr. Monygham had related to Mrs. Gould. When the project was mooted to the
      Garibaldino, something like the faint reflection, the dim ghost of a very
      ancient smile, stole under the white and enormous moustaches of the old
      hater of kings and ministers. His daughters were the object of his anxious
      care. The younger, especially. Linda, with her mother&rsquo;s voice, had taken
      more her mother&rsquo;s place. Her deep, vibrating &ldquo;Eh, Padre?&rdquo; seemed, but for
      the change of the word, the very echo of the impassioned, remonstrating
      &ldquo;Eh, Giorgio?&rdquo; of poor Signora Teresa. It was his fixed opinion that the
      town was no proper place for his girls. The infatuated but guileless
      Ramirez was the object of his profound aversion, as resuming the sins of
      the country whose people were blind, vile esclavos.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his return from his next voyage, Captain Fidanza found the Violas
      settled in the light-keeper&rsquo;s cottage. His knowledge of Giorgio&rsquo;s
      idiosyncrasies had not played him false. The Garibaldino had refused to
      entertain the idea of any companion whatever, except his girls. And
      Captain Mitchell, anxious to please his poor Nostromo, with that felicity
      of inspiration which only true affection can give, had formally appointed
      Linda Viola as under-keeper of the Isabel&rsquo;s Light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The light is private property,&rdquo; he used to explain. &ldquo;It belongs to my
      Company. I&rsquo;ve the power to nominate whom I like, and Viola it shall be.
      It&rsquo;s about the only thing Nostromo&mdash;a man worth his weight in gold,
      mind you&mdash;has ever asked me to do for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Directly his schooner was anchored opposite the New Custom House, with its
      sham air of a Greek temple, flatroofed, with a colonnade, Captain Fidanza
      went pulling his small boat out of the harbour, bound for the Great
      Isabel, openly in the light of a declining day, before all men&rsquo;s eyes,
      with a sense of having mastered the fates. He must establish a regular
      position. He would ask him for his daughter now. He thought of Giselle as
      he pulled. Linda loved him, perhaps, but the old man would be glad to keep
      the elder, who had his wife&rsquo;s voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not pull for the narrow strand where he had landed with Decoud, and
      afterwards alone on his first visit to the treasure. He made for the beach
      at the other end, and walked up the regular and gentle slope of the
      wedge-shaped island. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar, sitting on a
      bench under the front wall of the cottage, lifted his arm slightly to his
      loud hail. He walked up. Neither of the girls appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is good here,&rdquo; said the old man, in his austere, far-away manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo nodded; then, after a short silence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You saw my schooner pass in not two hours ago? Do you know why I am here
      before, so to speak, my anchor has fairly bitten into the ground of this
      port of Sulaco?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are welcome like a son,&rdquo; the old man declared, quietly, staring away
      upon the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well,
      viejo. It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you for&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He dared
      not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a marked
      weight and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my wife!&rdquo; . . . His heart was beating fast. &ldquo;It is time you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. &ldquo;That was left for you
      to judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa&rsquo;s death, thick,
      snow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door,
      and called out in his strong voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Linda.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her answer came sharp and faint from within; and the appalled Nostromo
      stood up, too, but remained mute, gazing at the door. He was afraid. He
      was not afraid of being refused the girl he loved&mdash;no mere refusal
      could stand between him and a woman he desired&mdash;but the shining
      spectre of the treasure rose before him, claiming his allegiance in a
      silence that could not be gainsaid. He was afraid, because, neither dead
      nor alive, like the Gringos on Azuera, he belonged body and soul to the
      unlawfulness of his audacity. He was afraid of being forbidden the island.
      He was afraid, and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing the two men standing up side by side to await her, Linda stopped in
      the doorway. Nothing could alter the passionate dead whiteness of her
      face; but her black eyes seemed to catch and concentrate all the light of
      the low sun in a flaming spark within the black depths, covered at once by
      the slow descent of heavy eyelids.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor.&rdquo; Old Viola&rsquo;s voice resounded
      with a force that seemed to fill the whole gulf.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stepped forward with her eyes nearly closed, like a sleep-walker in a
      beatific dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo made a superhuman effort. &ldquo;It is time, Linda, we two were
      betrothed,&rdquo; he said, steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      She put her hand into his offered palm, lowering her head, dark with
      bronze glints, upon which her father&rsquo;s hand rested for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so the soul of the dead is satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This came from Giorgio Viola, who went on talking for a while of his dead
      wife; while the two, sitting side by side, never looked at each other.
      Then the old man ceased; and Linda, motionless, began to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I have lived for you alone, Gian&rsquo;
      Battista. And that you knew! You knew it . . . Battistino.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pronounced the name exactly with her mother&rsquo;s intonation. A gloom as
      of the grave covered Nostromo&rsquo;s heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I knew,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heroic Garibaldino sat on the same bench bowing his hoary head, his
      old soul dwelling alone with its memories, tender and violent, terrible
      and dreary&mdash;solitary on the earth full of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Linda, his best-loved daughter, was saying, &ldquo;I was yours ever since I
      can remember. I had only to think of you for the earth to become empty to
      my eyes. When you were there, I could see no one else. I was yours.
      Nothing is changed. The world belongs to you, and you let me live in it.&rdquo;
       . . . She dropped her low, vibrating voice to a still lower note, and
      found other things to say&mdash;torturing for the man at her side. Her
      murmur ran on ardent and voluble. She did not seem to see her sister, who
      came out with an altar-cloth she was embroidering in her hands, and passed
      in front of them, silent, fresh, fair, with a quick glance and a faint
      smile, to sit a little away on the other side of Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      The evening was still. The sun sank almost to the edge of a purple ocean;
      and the white lighthouse, livid against the background of clouds filling
      the head of the gulf, bore the lantern red and glowing, like a live ember
      kindled by the fire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure, raised the
      altar-cloth from time to time to hide nervous yawns, as of a young
      panther.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and seizing her head, covered her
      face with kisses. Nostromo&rsquo;s brain reeled. When she left her, as if
      stunned by the violent caresses, with her hands lying in her lap, the
      slave of the treasure felt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Giorgio
      lifted his leonine head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going, Linda?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the light, padre mio.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Si, si&mdash;to your duty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter; then, in a tone whose
      festive note seemed the echo of a mood lost in the night of ages&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son! The old man knows where to
      find a bottle of wine, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned to Giselle, with a change to austere tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you, little one, pray not to the God of priests and slaves, but to
      the God of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children, to
      give thee a man like this one for a husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostromo&rsquo;s shoulder; then he went
      in. The hopeless slave of the San Tome silver felt at these words the
      venomous fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was appalled by
      the novelty of the experience, by its force, by its physical intimacy. A
      husband! A husband for her! And yet it was natural that Giselle should
      have a husband at some time or other. He had never realized that before.
      In discovering that her beauty could belong to another he felt as though
      he could kill this one of old Giorgio&rsquo;s daughters also. He muttered
      moodily&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They say you love Ramirez.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head without looking at him. Coppery glints rippled to and
      fro on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft, pure
      sheen of a priceless pearl in the splendour of the sunset, mingling the
      gloom of starry spaces, the purple of the sea, and the crimson of the sky
      in a magnificent stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, slowly. &ldquo;I never loved him. I think I never . . . He loves
      me&mdash;perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes
      remained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ramirez told you he loved you?&rdquo; asked Nostromo, restraining himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! once&mdash;one evening . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The miserable . . . Ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute with
      anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian&rsquo; Battista! Poor wretch that I am!&rdquo;
       she lamented in ingenuous tones. &ldquo;I told Linda, and she scolded&mdash;she
      scolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And she told
      father, who took down his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then you came,
      and she told you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white
      throat, which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating,
      delicate, and alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible? It
      dawned upon him that in these last years he had really seen very little&mdash;nothing&mdash;of
      her. Nothing. She had come into the world like a thing unknown. She had
      come upon him unawares. She was a danger. A frightful danger. The
      instinctive mood of fierce determination that had never failed him before
      the perils of this life added its steady force to the violence of his
      passion. She, in a voice that recalled to him the song of running water,
      the tinkling of a silver bell, continued&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to the
      sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sanctissima Madre. My hair
      shall turn grey on this tedious island. I could hate you, Gian&rsquo; Battista!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She bemoaned her
      fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its perfume in the coolness
      of the evening, the indefinable seduction of her person. Was it her fault
      that nobody ever had admired Linda? Even when they were little, going out
      with their mother to Mass, she remembered that people took no notice of
      Linda, who was fearless, and chose instead to frighten her, who was timid,
      with their attention. It was her hair like gold, she supposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He broke out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips like the
      rose; your round arms, your white throat.&rdquo; . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply all over to
      the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was no more
      self-conscious than a flower. But she was pleased. And perhaps even a
      flower loves to hear itself praised. He glanced down, and added,
      impetuously&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your little feet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Leaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she seemed to
      bask languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only her lowered eyes
      glanced at her little feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is terrible. Ah! now
      she will understand better since you have told her you love her. She will
      not be so fierce.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chica!&rdquo; said Nostromo, &ldquo;I have not told her anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come and tell her, so that I may have
      some peace from her scolding and&mdash;perhaps&mdash;who knows . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Is that it? You . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy of God! How violent you are, Giovanni,&rdquo; she said, unmoved. &ldquo;Who is
      Ramirez . . . Ramirez . . . Who is he?&rdquo; she repeated, dreamily, in the
      dusk and gloom of the clouded gulf, with a low red streak in the west like
      a hot bar of glowing iron laid across the entrance of a world sombre as a
      cavern, where the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores had hidden his
      conquests of love and wealth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, Giselle,&rdquo; he said, in measured tones; &ldquo;I will tell no word of
      love to your sister. Do you want to know why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! I could not understand perhaps, Giovanni. Father says you are not
      like other men; that no one had ever understood you properly; that the
      rich will be surprised yet. . . . Oh! saints in heaven! I am weary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her embroidery to conceal the lower part of her face, then let
      it fall on her lap. The lantern was shaded on the land side, but slanting
      away from the dark column of the lighthouse they could see the long shaft
      of light, kindled by Linda, go out to strike the expiring glow in a
      horizon of purple and red.
    </p>
    <p>
      Giselle Viola, with her head resting against the wall of the house, her
      eyes half closed, and her little feet, in white stockings and black
      slippers, crossed over each other, seemed to surrender herself, tranquil
      and fatal, to the gathering dusk. The charm of her body, the promising
      mysteriousness of her indolence, went out into the night of the Placid
      Gulf like a fresh and intoxicating fragrance spreading out in the shadows,
      impregnating the air. The incorruptible Nostromo breathed her ambient
      seduction in the tumultuous heaving of his breast. Before leaving the
      harbour he had thrown off the store clothing of Captain Fidanza, for
      greater ease in the long pull out to the islands. He stood before her in
      the red sash and check shirt as he used to appear on the Company&rsquo;s wharf&mdash;a
      Mediterranean sailor come ashore to try his luck in Costaguana. The dusk
      of purple and red enveloped him, too&mdash;close, soft, profound, as no
      more than fifty yards from that spot it had gathered evening after evening
      about the self-destructive passion of Don Martin Decoud&rsquo;s utter
      scepticism, flaming up to death in solitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have got to hear,&rdquo; he began at last, with perfect self-control. &ldquo;I
      shall say no word of love to your sister, to whom I am betrothed from this
      evening, because it is you that I love. It is you!&rdquo; . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      The dusk let him see yet the tender and voluptuous smile that came
      instinctively upon her lips shaped for love and kisses, freeze hard in the
      drawn, haggard lines of terror. He could not restrain himself any longer.
      While she shrank from his approach, her arms went out to him, abandoned
      and regal in the dignity of her languid surrender. He held her head in his
      two hands, and showered rapid kisses upon the upturned face that gleamed
      in the purple dusk. Masterful and tender, he was entering slowly upon the
      fulness of his possession. And he perceived that she was crying. Then the
      incomparable Capataz, the man of careless loves, became gentle and
      caressing, like a woman to the grief of a child. He murmured to her
      fondly. He sat down by her and nursed her fair head on his breast. He
      called her his star and his little flower.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had grown dark. From the living-room of the light-keeper&rsquo;s cottage,
      where Giorgio, one of the Immortal Thousand, was bending his leonine and
      heroic head over a charcoal fire, there came the sound of sizzling and the
      aroma of an artistic frittura.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the obscure disarray of that thing, happening like a cataclysm, it was
      in her feminine head that some gleam of reason survived. He was lost to
      the world in their embraced stillness. But she said, whispering into his
      ear&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God of mercy! What will become of me&mdash;here&mdash;now&mdash;between
      this sky and this water I hate? Linda, Linda&mdash;I see her!&rdquo; . . . She
      tried to get out of his arms, suddenly relaxed at the sound of that name.
      But there was no one approaching their black shapes, enlaced and
      struggling on the white background of the wall. &ldquo;Linda! Poor Linda! I
      tremble! I shall die of fear before my poor sister Linda, betrothed to-day
      to Giovanni&mdash;my lover! Giovanni, you must have been mad! I cannot
      understand you! You are not like other men! I will not give you up&mdash;never&mdash;only
      to God himself! But why have you done this blind, mad, cruel, frightful
      thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Released, she hung her head, let fall her hands. The altar-cloth, as if
      tossed by a great wind, lay far away from them, gleaming white on the
      black ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From fear of losing my hope of you,&rdquo; said Nostromo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew that you had my soul! You know everything! It was made for you!
      But what could stand between you and me? What? Tell me!&rdquo; she repeated,
      without impatience, in superb assurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your dead mother,&rdquo; he said, very low.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! . . . Poor mother! She has always . . . She is a saint in heaven now,
      and I cannot give you up to her. No, Giovanni. Only to God alone. You were
      mad&mdash;but it is done. Oh! what have you done? Giovanni, my beloved, my
      life, my master, do not leave me here in this grave of clouds. You cannot
      leave me now. You must take me away&mdash;at once&mdash;this instant&mdash;in
      the little boat. Giovanni, carry me off to-night, from my fear of Linda&rsquo;s
      eyes, before I have to look at her again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She nestled close to him. The slave of the San Tome silver felt the weight
      as of chains upon his limbs, a pressure as of a cold hand upon his lips.
      He struggled against the spell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Not yet. There is something that stands between us
      two and the freedom of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pressed her form closer to his side with a subtle and naive instinct
      of seduction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You rave, Giovanni&mdash;my lover!&rdquo; she whispered, engagingly. &ldquo;What can
      there be? Carry me off&mdash;in thy very hands&mdash;to Dona Emilia&mdash;away
      from here. I am not very heavy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed as though she expected him to lift her up at once in his two
      palms. She had lost the notion of all impossibility. Anything could happen
      on this night of wonder. As he made no movement, she almost cried aloud&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you I am afraid of Linda!&rdquo; And still he did not move. She became
      quiet and wily. &ldquo;What can there be?&rdquo; she asked, coaxingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He felt her warm, breathing, alive, quivering in the hollow of his arm. In
      the exulting consciousness of his strength, and the triumphant excitement
      of his mind, he struck out for his freedom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A treasure,&rdquo; he said. All was still. She did not understand. &ldquo;A treasure.
      A treasure of silver to buy a gold crown for thy brow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A treasure?&rdquo; she repeated in a faint voice, as if from the depths of a
      dream. &ldquo;What is it you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She disengaged herself gently. He got up and looked down at her, aware of
      her face, of her hair, her lips, the dimples on her cheeks&mdash;seeing
      the fascination of her person in the night of the gulf as if in the blaze
      of noonday. Her nonchalant and seductive voice trembled with the
      excitement of admiring awe and ungovernable curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A treasure of silver!&rdquo; she stammered out. Then pressed on faster: &ldquo;What?
      Where? How did you get it, Giovanni?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He wrestled with the spell of captivity. It was as if striking a heroic
      blow that he burst out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like a thief!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The densest blackness of the Placid Gulf seemed to fall upon his head. He
      could not see her now. She had vanished into a long, obscure abysmal
      silence, whence her voice came back to him after a time with a faint
      glimmer, which was her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love you! I love you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words gave him an unwonted sense of freedom; they cast a spell
      stronger than the accursed spell of the treasure; they changed his weary
      subjection to that dead thing into an exulting conviction of his power. He
      would cherish her, he said, in a splendour as great as Dona Emilia&rsquo;s. The
      rich lived on wealth stolen from the people, but he had taken from the
      rich nothing&mdash;nothing that was not lost to them already by their
      folly and their betrayal. For he had been betrayed&mdash;he said&mdash;deceived,
      tempted. She believed him. . . . He had kept the treasure for purposes of
      revenge; but now he cared nothing for it. He cared only for her. He would
      put her beauty in a palace on a hill crowned with olive trees&mdash;a
      white palace above a blue sea. He would keep her there like a jewel in a
      casket. He would get land for her&mdash;her own land fertile with vines
      and corn&mdash;to set her little feet upon. He kissed them. . . . He had
      already paid for it all with the soul of a woman and the life of a man. .
      . . The Capataz de Cargadores tasted the supreme intoxication of his
      generosity. He flung the mastered treasure superbly at her feet in the
      impenetrable darkness of the gulf, in the darkness defying&mdash;as men
      said&mdash;the knowledge of God and the wit of the devil. But she must let
      him grow rich first&mdash;he warned her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She listened as if in a trance. Her fingers stirred in his hair. He got up
      from his knees reeling, weak, empty, as though he had flung his soul away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make haste, then,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Make haste, Giovanni, my lover, my master,
      for I will give thee up to no one but God. And I am afraid of Linda.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He guessed at her shudder, and swore to do his best. He trusted the
      courage of her love. She promised to be brave in order to be loved always&mdash;far
      away in a white palace upon a hill above a blue sea. Then with a timid,
      tentative eagerness she murmured&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is it? Where? Tell me that, Giovanni.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened his mouth and remained silent&mdash;thunderstruck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that! Not that!&rdquo; he gasped out, appalled at the spell of secrecy that
      had kept him dumb before so many people falling upon his lips again with
      unimpaired force. Not even to her. Not even to her. It was too dangerous.
      &ldquo;I forbid thee to ask,&rdquo; he cried at her, deadening cautiously the anger of
      his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not regained his freedom. The spectre of the unlawful treasure
      arose, standing by her side like a figure of silver, pitiless and secret,
      with a finger on its pale lips. His soul died within him at the vision of
      himself creeping in presently along the ravine, with the smell of earth,
      of damp foliage in his nostrils&mdash;creeping in, determined in a purpose
      that numbed his breast, and creeping out again loaded with silver, with
      his ears alert to every sound. It must be done on this very night&mdash;that
      work of a craven slave!
    </p>
    <p>
      He stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips, with a muttered
      command&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell him I would not stay,&rdquo; and was gone suddenly from her, silent,
      without as much as a footfall in the dark night.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat still, her head resting indolently against the wall, and her
      little feet in white stockings and black slippers crossed over each other.
      Old Giorgio, coming out, did not seem to be surprised at the intelligence
      as much as she had vaguely feared. For she was full of inexplicable fear
      now&mdash;fear of everything and everybody except of her Giovanni and his
      treasure. But that was incredible.
    </p>
    <p>
      The heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo&rsquo;s abrupt departure with a
      sagacious indulgence. He remembered his own feelings, and exhibited a
      masculine penetration of the true state of the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Va bene. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter how fair the woman, it galls a
      little. Liberty, liberty. There&rsquo;s more than one kind! He has said the
      great word, and son Gian&rsquo; Battista is not tame.&rdquo; He seemed to be
      instructing the motionless and scared Giselle. . . . &ldquo;A man should not be
      tame,&rdquo; he added, dogmatically out of the doorway. Her stillness and
      silence seemed to displease him. &ldquo;Do not give way to the enviousness of
      your sister&rsquo;s lot,&rdquo; he admonished her, very grave, in his deep voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he had to come to the door again to call in his younger
      daughter. It was late. He shouted her name three times before she even
      moved her head. Left alone, she had become the helpless prey of
      astonishment. She walked into the bedroom she shared with Linda like a
      person profoundly asleep. That aspect was so marked that even old Giorgio,
      spectacled, raising his eyes from the Bible, shook his head as she shut
      the door behind her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She walked right across the room without looking at anything, and sat down
      at once by the open window. Linda, stealing down from the tower in the
      exuberance of her happiness, found her with a lighted candle at her back,
      facing the black night full of sighing gusts of wind and the sound of
      distant showers&mdash;a true night of the gulf, too dense for the eye of
      God and the wiles of the devil. She did not turn her head at the opening
      of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in that immobility which reached Linda in the depths
      of her paradise. The elder sister guessed angrily: the child is thinking
      of that wretched Ramirez. Linda longed to talk. She said in her arbitrary
      voice, &ldquo;Giselle!&rdquo; and was not answered by the slightest movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl that was going to live in a palace and walk on ground of her own
      was ready to die with terror. Not for anything in the world would she have
      turned her head to face her sister. Her heart was beating madly. She said
      with subdued haste&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not speak to me. I am praying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Giselle sat on unbelieving,
      lost, dazed, patient, as if waiting for the confirmation of the
      incredible. The hopeless blackness of the clouds seemed part of a dream,
      too. She waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not wait in vain. The man whose soul was dead within him, creeping
      out of the ravine, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam of the lighted
      window, and could not help retracing his steps from the beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      On that impenetrable background, obliterating the lofty mountains by the
      seaboard, she saw the slave of the San Tome silver, as if by an
      extraordinary power of a miracle. She accepted his return as if henceforth
      the world could hold no surprise for all eternity.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose, compelled and rigid, and began to speak long before the light
      from within fell upon the face of the approaching man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have come back to carry me off. It is well! Open thy arms, Giovanni,
      my lover. I am coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His prudent footsteps stopped, and with his eyes glistening wildly, he
      spoke in a harsh voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet. I must grow rich slowly.&rdquo; . . . A threatening note came into his
      tone. &ldquo;Do not forget that you have a thief for your lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! Yes!&rdquo; she whispered, hastily. &ldquo;Come nearer! Listen! Do not give me
      up, Giovanni! Never, never! . . . I will be patient! . . .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her form drooped consolingly over the low casement towards the slave of
      the unlawful treasure. The light in the room went out, and weighted with
      silver, the magnificent Capataz clasped her round her white neck in the
      darkness of the gulf as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the day Mrs. Gould was going, in Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s words, to &ldquo;give a
      tertulia,&rdquo; Captain Fidanza went down the side of his schooner lying in
      Sulaco harbour, calm, unbending, deliberate in the way he sat down in his
      dinghy and took up his sculls. He was later than usual. The afternoon was
      well advanced before he landed on the beach of the Great Isabel, and with
      a steady pace climbed the slope of the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      From a distance he made out Giselle sitting in a chair tilted back against
      the end of the house, under the window of the girl&rsquo;s room. She had her
      embroidery in her hands, and held it well up to her eyes. The tranquillity
      of that girlish figure exasperated the feeling of perpetual struggle and
      strife he carried in his breast. He became angry. It seemed to him that
      she ought to hear the clanking of his fetters&mdash;his silver fetters,
      from afar. And while ashore that day, he had met the doctor with the evil
      eye, who had looked at him very hard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The raising of her eyes mollified him. They smiled in their flower-like
      freshness straight upon his heart. Then she frowned. It was a warning to
      be cautious. He stopped some distance away, and in a loud, indifferent
      tone, said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, Giselle. Is Linda up yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She is in the big room with father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He approached then, and, looking through the window into the bedroom for
      fear of being detected by Linda returning there for some reason, he said,
      moving only his lips&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than my life.&rdquo; She went on with her embroidery under his
      contemplating gaze and continued to speak, looking at her work, &ldquo;Or I
      could not live. I could not, Giovanni. For this life is like death. Oh,
      Giovanni, I shall perish if you do not take me away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled carelessly. &ldquo;I will come to the window when it&rsquo;s dark,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, don&rsquo;t, Giovanni. Not-to-night. Linda and father have been talking
      together for a long time today.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ramirez, I fancy I heard. I do not know. I am afraid. I am always afraid.
      It is like dying a thousand times a day. Your love is to me like your
      treasure to you. It is there, but I can never get enough of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her very still. She was beautiful. His desire had grown
      within him. He had two masters now. But she was incapable of sustained
      emotion. She was sincere in what she said, but she slept placidly at
      night. When she saw him she flamed up always. Then only an increased
      taciturnity marked the change in her. She was afraid of betraying herself.
      She was afraid of pain, of bodily harm, of sharp words, of facing anger,
      and witnessing violence. For her soul was light and tender with a pagan
      sincerity in its impulses. She murmured&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vineyard on the hills, for which
      we are starving our love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at the corner of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo turned to his affianced wife with a greeting, and was amazed at
      her sunken eyes, at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness and anguish
      in her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been ill?&rdquo; he asked, trying to put some concern into this
      question.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her black eyes blazed at him. &ldquo;Am I thinner?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;perhaps&mdash;a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And older?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every day counts&mdash;for all of us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger,&rdquo; she said,
      slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No fear of that,&rdquo; he said, absently.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with
      household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with
      the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired,
      only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers
      were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was
      more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He
      was uneasy for the integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni&rsquo;s warning
      as to Ramirez&rsquo;s designs upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust
      her. She was flighty. He said nothing of his cares to &ldquo;Son Gian&rsquo;
      Battista.&rdquo; It was a touch of senile vanity. He wanted to show that he was
      equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour of his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards
      the beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat
      down by the side of her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had
      waited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous
      ravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with
      precision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality
      and deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in her
      intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring
      indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died of
      wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of Teresa&rsquo;s
      grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of the railway
      workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity. Old
      Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the
      sea; and Linda wept upon the stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart&mdash;well
      and good. Everything was permitted to Gian&rsquo; Battista. But why trample upon
      the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break
      that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever
      since she could toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What
      duplicity! But she could not help it probably. When there was a man in the
      case the poor featherheaded wretch could not help herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing.
      But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle&rsquo;s short answers,
      prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness
      that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which
      her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the
      base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her
      share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in
      a lazy voice, &ldquo;Madre de Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?&rdquo; And
      this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon the situation. &ldquo;She knows
      nothing. She cannot know any thing,&rdquo; reflected Giselle. &ldquo;Perhaps it is not
      true. It cannot be true,&rdquo; Linda tried to persuade herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with
      the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She
      watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself
      stoically, &ldquo;Will they meet to-night?&rdquo; She made up her mind not to leave
      the tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat down
      by her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, &ldquo;a young man yet.&rdquo; In
      one way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of
      late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what
      his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now;
      but for several nights past instead of reading&mdash;or only sitting, with
      Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s silver spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had
      been prowling actively all about the island with his old gun, on watch
      over his honour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his
      excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was
      gone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; the old man interrupted. &ldquo;But son Gian&rsquo; Battista told me&mdash;quite
      of himself&mdash;that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with
      the rascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may
      get some of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to
      help him in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old.
      No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made;
      and at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women
      had their obstinate notions which must be humoured&mdash;his poor wife was
      like that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to
      argue. &ldquo;May be. May be,&rdquo; he mumbled.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her
      eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal
      tenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat.
      Then she rose and walked over to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen&mdash;you,&rdquo; she said, roughly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited
      her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes&mdash;the Chica&mdash;this
      vile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether
      she wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their
      mysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And
      suddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little
      fear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in Giselle&rsquo;s
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda said, &ldquo;Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from
      the island.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What folly!&rdquo; answered the other, and in a perversity born of long
      restraint, she added: &ldquo;He is not the man,&rdquo; in a jesting tone with a
      trembling audacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No?&rdquo; said Linda, through her clenched teeth. &ldquo;Is he not? Well, then, look
      to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not
      listen to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall say nothing&mdash;never any more&mdash;to anybody,&rdquo; cried Linda,
      passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon&mdash;the
      very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so
      much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy
      at her father&rsquo;s watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the
      window that night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did
      not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for
      coming on the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She
      unlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase,
      carrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an
      ever-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off.
      No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern, filled
      with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements she
      lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And with our mother looking on,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;My own sister&mdash;the
      Chica!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of
      prisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds,
      containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And
      Linda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden
      chair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the
      earth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about
      brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up to
      her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where, too. At
      the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, while the
      moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of silver the
      entrance of the Placid Gulf&mdash;the sombre cavern of clouds and
      stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither
      her nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten
      her, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What
      prevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For
      what end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their
      love. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself made
      her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must talk at
      once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran down the
      spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom she heard
      the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on
      without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, &ldquo;Giselle!
      Giselle!&rdquo; then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister&rsquo;s name at
      the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing,
      distracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past
      her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight
      ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was
      still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under
      which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession
      of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass.
      Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Garibaldino&mdash;big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard&mdash;had
      a monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her
      hand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you done?&rdquo; she asked, in her ordinary voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have shot Ramirez&mdash;infame!&rdquo; he answered, with his eyes directed to
      where the shade was blackest. &ldquo;Like a thief he came, and like a thief he
      fell. The child had to be protected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood
      there, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the
      honour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm
      and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the
      blackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground,
      and stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her
      strained hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised.
      Oh! Why&mdash;why did you come, Giovanni?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was her sister&rsquo;s voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice
      of the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tome
      treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing
      across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered
      careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing
      thee once more&mdash;my star, my little flower.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and
      the Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham,
      who had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived
      driving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the
      deserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa
      still open.
    </p>
    <p>
      He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio
      on the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous
      majordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t put out the lights,&rdquo; commanded the doctor. &ldquo;I want to see the
      senora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador&rsquo;s cancillaria,&rdquo; said Basilio, in
      an unctuous voice. &ldquo;The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain in an
      hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A
      shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor. Idle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself,&rdquo; said the doctor, with
      that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
      put the lights out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly
      lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the
      house. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to the
      mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the
      shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass
      of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the &ldquo;first lady of
      Sulaco,&rdquo; as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted
      corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved,
      respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever been,
      perhaps, on this earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor&rsquo;s &ldquo;Mrs. Gould! One minute!&rdquo; stopped her with a start at the
      door of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and
      circumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst
      the groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected
      meeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice of
      that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words, &ldquo;Antonia
      left her fan here.&rdquo; But it was the doctor&rsquo;s voice that spoke, a little
      altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember
      what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a
      decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing close
      to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman&rsquo;s voice&mdash;Linda&rsquo;s,
      as a matter of fact&mdash;commanding them (it&rsquo;s a moonlight night) to go
      round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from
      whom I&rsquo;ve heard all this), of course, did so at once. He told me that when
      they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola
      waiting for them. They followed her: she led them under a tree not far
      from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying on the ground with his
      head in the younger girl&rsquo;s lap, and father Viola standing some distance
      off leaning on his gun. Under Linda&rsquo;s direction they got a table out of
      the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They are here,
      Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and&mdash;and Giselle. The negroes brought him
      in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send
      for me. But it was not me he wanted to see&mdash;it was you, Mrs. Gould!
      It was you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me?&rdquo; whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you!&rdquo; the doctor burst out. &ldquo;He begged me&mdash;his enemy, as he
      thinks&mdash;to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say
      to you alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible!&rdquo; murmured Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said to me, &lsquo;Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over
      her head.&rsquo; . . . Mrs. Gould,&rdquo; the doctor pursued, in the greatest
      excitement. &ldquo;Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter&mdash;that
      was lost?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of
      that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated
      horror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the
      truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by
      her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that
      silver, which would never have come down if her husband had been made
      acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way
      nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham&rsquo;s death. And these things appeared to her
      very dreadful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it lost, though?&rdquo; the doctor exclaimed. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve always felt that there
      was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at
      the point of death&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The point of death?&rdquo; repeated Mrs. Gould.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that
      silver which&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! No!&rdquo; exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it lost and
      done with? Isn&rsquo;t there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the
      world miserable?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last
      he ventured, very low&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as
      though father and sister had&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these
      girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a volante here,&rdquo; the doctor said. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t mind getting into
      that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over
      her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening
      costume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side
      of the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out
      motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre
      and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so
      good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon
      a white coverlet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is innocent,&rdquo; the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as
      though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit
      still kept upon his body. &ldquo;She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter.
      For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused. Mrs. Gould&rsquo;s face, very white within the shadow of the hood,
      bent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of
      Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery
      gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz&rsquo;s feet, hardly troubled the
      silence of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! Old Giorgio&mdash;the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio
      coming upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have
      done no better. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved.
      The honour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of
      the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is
      broken!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot see her. . . . No matter,&rdquo; he went on, with the shadow of the
      old magnificent carelessness in his voice. &ldquo;One kiss is enough, if there
      is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like sunshine&mdash;soon
      clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Senora,
      cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land
      to the other as the courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She
      will console herself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am
      not angry. No! It is not Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco
      Cargadores.&rdquo; He paused, made an effort, and in louder voice, a little
      wildly, declared&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I die betrayed&mdash;betrayed by&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would not have betrayed me,&rdquo; he began again, opening his eyes very
      wide. &ldquo;She was faithful. We were going very far&mdash;very soon. I could
      have torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child
      I would have left boxes and boxes of it&mdash;full. And Decoud took four.
      Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the
      treasure with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined
      them. The doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated&mdash;cold with apprehension.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to
      come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have
      killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me.
      It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the
      wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, &lsquo;Save it on your
      life.&rsquo; And when I returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I
      hear? &lsquo;It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the
      faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nostromo!&rdquo; Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. &ldquo;I, too, have hated
      the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marvellous!&mdash;that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so
      well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the
      poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But
      there is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where the
      treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain
      to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her
      glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing
      to hear no more of the silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Capataz,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made
      no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to
      the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two
      women.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Mrs. Gould,&rdquo; he said, almost brutally in his impatience, &ldquo;tell me,
      was I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you
      not? He told you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me nothing,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gould, steadily.
    </p>
    <p>
      The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr.
      Monygham&rsquo;s eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs.
      Gould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable
      fatality affirming the victory of Nostromo&rsquo;s genius over his own. Even
      before that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been
      defeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived
      his own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and
      courage!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray send at once somebody for my carriage,&rdquo; spoke Mrs. Gould from within
      her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, &ldquo;Come nearer me, child; come
      closer. We will wait here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling
      hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of
      the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero
      without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head
      of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the world,
      rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife
      of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling
      her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the first and only moment
      of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his
      treasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senora, he loved me. He loved me,&rdquo; Giselle whispered, despairingly. &ldquo;He
      loved me as no one had ever been loved before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been loved, too,&rdquo; Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Giselle clung to her convulsively. &ldquo;Oh, senora, but you shall live adored
      to the end of your life,&rdquo; she sobbed out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped
      in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the
      landau, she leaned over to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can do nothing?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won&rsquo;t let us touch him. It does not matter.
      I just had one look. . . . Useless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He
      could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in
      the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white
      mules.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rumour of some accident&mdash;an accident to Captain Fidanza&mdash;had
      been spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark
      shapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers&mdash;the poorest of
      the poor&mdash;hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering
      in the moonlight of the empty street.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small,
      frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool
      near the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He
      had been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard
      from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought
      ashore mortally wounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?&rdquo; he asked, anxiously. &ldquo;Do not
      forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their
      own weapons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on
      the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then,
      after a long silence&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Comrade Fidanza,&rdquo; he began, solemnly, &ldquo;you have refused all aid from that
      doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and
      opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a
      glance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his
      eyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan
      after an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the
      most atrocious sufferings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the
      glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great
      Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pull easy,&rdquo; he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to
      imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within
      himself. &ldquo;Pull easy,&rdquo; he repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      * * * * * *
    </p>
    <p>
      From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not
      stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping
      the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for
      ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He
      did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced
      calmness, she cried out&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know whom you have killed?&rdquo; he answered&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ramirez the vagabond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face.
      After a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her
      peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He cried out in son Gian&rsquo; Battista&rsquo;s voice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a
      moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are too old to understand. Come into the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming
      to the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of
      the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at
      the back of his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In son Gian&rsquo; Battista&rsquo;s voice,&rdquo; he repeated in a severe tone. &ldquo;I heard
      him&mdash;Ramirez&mdash;the miserable&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have killed Gian&rsquo; Battista.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the child?&rdquo; he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of
      the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up
      half the night with the open Bible before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is asleep,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;We shall talk of her tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an
      almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came
      over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the
      whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me the book.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the
      Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The child had to be protected,&rdquo; he said, in a strange, mournful voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying without noise. Suddenly she
      started for the door. He heard her move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the light,&rdquo; she answered, turning round to look at him balefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The light! Si&mdash;duty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Very upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic in his absorbed quietness, he
      felt in the pocket of his red shirt for the spectacles given him by Dona
      Emilia. He put them on. After a long period of immobility he opened the
      book, and from on high looked through the glasses at the small print in
      double columns. A rigid, stern expression settled upon his features with a
      slight frown, as if in response to some gloomy thought or unpleasant
      sensation. But he never detached his eyes from the book while he swayed
      forward, gently, gradually, till his snow-white head rested upon the open
      pages. A wooden clock ticked methodically on the white-washed wall, and
      growing slowly cold the Garibaldino lay alone, rugged, undecayed, like an
      old oak uprooted by a treacherous gust of wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure of
      the San Tome mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars the
      lantern sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black speck
      upon the shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery, rested her
      head on the rail. The moon, drooping in the western board, looked at her
      radiantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a passing
      boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Linda!&rdquo; he shouted, throwing back his head. &ldquo;Linda!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he dead?&rdquo; she cried, bending over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,&rdquo; the doctor answered from below.
      &ldquo;Pull to the beach,&rdquo; he said to the rowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Linda&rsquo;s black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern
      with her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw
      herself over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is I who loved you,&rdquo; she whispered, with a face as set and white as
      marble in the moonlight. &ldquo;I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed
      miserably for her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand.
      But I shall never forget thee. Never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her
      fidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never! Gian&rsquo; Battista!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass over
      his head. It was another of Nostromo&rsquo;s triumphs, the greatest, the most
      enviable, the most sinister of all. In that true cry of undying passion
      that seemed to ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera and away to the bright
      line of the horizon, overhung by a big white cloud shining like a mass of
      solid silver, the genius of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores
      dominated the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and love.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





End of Project Gutenberg&rsquo;s Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard, by Joseph Conrad

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOSTROMO: A TALE OF THE SEABOARD ***

***** This file should be named 2021-h.htm or 2021-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/2/2021/

Produced by Judy Boss and David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &lsquo;AS-IS&rsquo; WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm&rsquo;s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation&rsquo;s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state&rsquo;s laws.

The Foundation&rsquo;s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation&rsquo;s web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.


</pre>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2025-12-19 22:31:05 +0000