"NOSTROMO\n\nA TALE OF THE SEABOARD\n\n\nBy Joseph Conrad\n\n\n\n\n\"So foul a sky clears not without a storm.\" --SHAKESPEARE\n\n\n\n\nTO JOHN GALSWORTHY\n\n\n\n\nAUTHOR'S NOTE\n\n\n\"_Nostromo_\" is the most anxiously meditated of the longer novels which\nbelong to the period following upon the publication of the \"Typhoon\"\nvolume of short stories.\n\nI don't mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change\nin my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing\nlife. And perhaps there was never any change, except in that mysterious,\nextraneous thing which has nothing to do with the theories of art; a\nsubtle change in the nature of the inspiration; a phenomenon for which I\ncan not in any way be held responsible. What, however, did cause me some\nconcern was that after finishing the last story of the \"Typhoon\" volume\nit seemed somehow that there was nothing more in the world to write\nabout.\n\nThis so strangely negative but disturbing mood lasted some little\ntime; and then, as with many of my longer stories, the first hint for\n\"Nostromo\" came to me in the shape of a vagrant anecdote completely\ndestitute of valuable details.\n\nAs a matter of fact in 1875 or '6, when very young, in the West Indies\nor rather in the Gulf of Mexico, for my contacts with land were short,\nfew, and fleeting, I heard the story of some man who was supposed to\nhave stolen single-handed a whole lighter-full of silver, somewhere on\nthe Tierra Firme seaboard during the troubles of a revolution.\n\nOn the face of it this was something of a feat. But I heard no details,\nand having no particular interest in crime qua crime I was not likely to\nkeep that one in my mind. And I forgot it till twenty-six or seven\nyears afterwards I came upon the very thing in a shabby volume picked\nup outside a second-hand book-shop. It was the life story of an American\nseaman written by himself with the assistance of a journalist. In the\ncourse of his wanderings that American sailor worked for some months on\nboard a schooner, the master and owner of which was the thief of whom I\nhad heard in my very young days. I have no doubt of that because there\ncould hardly have been two exploits of that peculiar kind in the same\npart of the world and both connected with a South American revolution.\n\nThe fellow had actually managed to steal a lighter with silver, and\nthis, it seems, only because he was implicitly trusted by his employers,\nwho must have been singularly poor judges of character. In the sailor's\nstory he is represented as an unmitigated rascal, a small cheat,\nstupidly ferocious, morose, of mean appearance, and altogether unworthy\nof the greatness this opportunity had thrust upon him. What was\ninteresting was that he would boast of it openly.\n\nHe used to say: \"People think I make a lot of money in this schooner of\nmine. But that is nothing. I don't care for that. Now and then I go\naway quietly and lift a bar of silver. I must get rich slowly--you\nunderstand.\"\n\nThere was also another curious point about the man. Once in the course\nof some quarrel the sailor threatened him: \"What's to prevent me\nreporting ashore what you have told me about that silver?\"\n\nThe cynical ruffian was not alarmed in the least. He actually laughed.\n\"You fool, if you dare talk like that on shore about me you will get a\nknife stuck in your back. Every man, woman, and child in that port is\nmy friend. And who's to prove the lighter wasn't sunk? I didn't show you\nwhere the silver is hidden. Did I? So you know nothing. And suppose I\nlied? Eh?\"\n\nUltimately the sailor, disgusted with the sordid meanness of that\nimpenitent thief, deserted from the schooner. The whole episode takes\nabout three pages of his autobiography. Nothing to speak of; but as I\nlooked them over, the curious confirmation of the few casual words\nheard in my early youth evoked the memories of that distant time when\neverything was so fresh, so surprising, so venturesome, so interesting;\nbits of strange coasts under the stars, shadows of hills in the\nsunshine, men's passions in the dusk, gossip half-forgotten, faces grown\ndim. . . . Perhaps, perhaps, there still was in the world something to\nwrite about. Yet I did not see anything at first in the mere story. A\nrascal steals a large parcel of a valuable commodity--so people say.\nIt's either true or untrue; and in any case it has no value in itself.\nTo invent a circumstantial account of the robbery did not appeal to me,\nbecause my talents not running that way I did not think that the game\nwas worth the candle. It was only when it dawned upon me that the\npurloiner of the treasure need not necessarily be a confirmed rogue,\nthat he could be even a man of character, an actor and possibly a victim\nin the changing scenes of a revolution, it was only then that I had the\nfirst vision of a twilight country which was to become the province\nof Sulaco, with its high shadowy Sierra and its misty Campo for mute\nwitnesses of events flowing from the passions of men short-sighted in\ngood and evil.\n\nSuch are in very truth the obscure origins of \"Nostromo\"--the book. From\nthat moment, I suppose, it had to be. Yet even then I hesitated, as if\nwarned by the instinct of self-preservation from venturing on a distant\nand toilsome journey into a land full of intrigues and revolutions. But\nit had to be done.\n\nIt took the best part of the years 1903-4 to do; with many intervals\nof renewed hesitation, lest I should lose myself in the ever-enlarging\nvistas opening before me as I progressed deeper in my knowledge of the\ncountry. Often, also, when I had thought myself to a standstill over the\ntangled-up affairs of the Republic, I would, figuratively speaking, pack\nmy bag, rush away from Sulaco for a change of air and write a few pages\nof the \"Mirror of the Sea.\" But generally, as I've said before, my\nsojourn on the Continent of Latin America, famed for its hospitality,\nlasted for about two years. On my return I found (speaking somewhat in\nthe style of Captain Gulliver) my family all well, my wife heartily\nglad to learn that the fuss was all over, and our small boy considerably\ngrown during my absence.\n\nMy principal authority for the history of Costaguana is, of course, my\nvenerated friend, the late Don Jose Avellanos, Minister to the Courts of\nEngland and Spain, etc., etc., in his impartial and eloquent \"History of\nFifty Years of Misrule.\" That work was never published--the reader will\ndiscover why--and I am in fact the only person in the world possessed\nof its contents. I have mastered them in not a few hours of earnest\nmeditation, and I hope that my accuracy will be trusted. In justice to\nmyself, and to allay the fears of prospective readers, I beg to point\nout that the few historical allusions are never dragged in for the\nsake of parading my unique erudition, but that each of them is closely\nrelated to actuality; either throwing a light on the nature of current\nevents or affecting directly the fortunes of the people of whom I speak.\n\nAs to their own histories I have tried to set them down, Aristocracy\nand People, men and women, Latin and Anglo-Saxon, bandit and politician,\nwith as cool a hand as was possible in the heat and clash of my own\nconflicting emotions. And after all this is also the story of their\nconflicts. It is for the reader to say how far they are deserving of\ninterest in their actions and in the secret purposes of their hearts\nrevealed in the bitter necessities of the time. I confess that, for me,\nthat time is the time of firm friendships and unforgotten hospitalities.\nAnd in my gratitude I must mention here Mrs. Gould, \"the first lady\nof Sulaco,\" whom we may safely leave to the secret devotion of Dr.\nMonygham, and Charles Gould, the Idealist-creator of Material Interests\nwhom we must leave to his Mine--from which there is no escape in this\nworld.\n\nAbout Nostromo, the second of the two racially and socially contrasted\nmen, both captured by the silver of the San Tome Mine, I feel bound to\nsay something more.\n\nI did not hesitate to make that central figure an Italian. First of\nall the thing is perfectly credible: Italians were swarming into the\nOccidental Province at the time, as anybody who will read further can\nsee; and secondly, there was no one who could stand so well by the side\nof Giorgio Viola the Garibaldino, the Idealist of the old, humanitarian\nrevolutions. For myself I needed there a Man of the People as free as\npossible from his class-conventions and all settled modes of thinking.\nThis is not a side snarl at conventions. My reasons were not moral but\nartistic. Had he been an Anglo-Saxon he would have tried to get into\nlocal politics. But Nostromo does not aspire to be a leader in a\npersonal game. He does not want to raise himself above the mass. He is\ncontent to feel himself a power--within the People.\n\nBut mainly Nostromo is what he is because I received the inspiration for\nhim in my early days from a Mediterranean sailor. Those who have read\ncertain pages of mine will see at once what I mean when I say that\nDominic, the padrone of the Tremolino, might under given circumstances\nhave been a Nostromo. At any rate Dominic would have understood the\nyounger man perfectly--if scornfully. He and I were engaged together in\na rather absurd adventure, but the absurdity does not matter. It is a\nreal satisfaction to think that in my very young days there must, after\nall, have been something in me worthy to command that man's half-bitter\nfidelity, his half-ironic devotion. Many of Nostromo's speeches I have\nheard first in Dominic's voice. His hand on the tiller and his fearless\neyes roaming the horizon from within the monkish hood shadowing his\nface, he would utter the usual exordium of his remorseless wisdom: \"_Vous\nautres gentilhommes!_\" in a caustic tone that hangs on my ear yet. Like\nNostromo! \"You _hombres finos!_\" Very much like Nostromo. But Dominic the\nCorsican nursed a certain pride of ancestry from which my Nostromo is\nfree; for Nostromo's lineage had to be more ancient still. He is a man\nwith the weight of countless generations behind him and no parentage to\nboast of. . . . Like the People.\n\nIn his firm grip on the earth he inherits, in his improvidence and\ngenerosity, in his lavishness with his gifts, in his manly vanity, in\nthe obscure sense of his greatness and in his faithful devotion with\nsomething despairing as well as desperate in its impulses, he is a Man\nof the People, their very own unenvious force, disdaining to lead but\nruling from within. Years afterwards, grown older as the famous Captain\nFidanza, with a stake in the country, going about his many affairs\nfollowed by respectful glances in the modernized streets of Sulaco,\ncalling on the widow of the cargador, attending the Lodge, listening in\nunmoved silence to anarchist speeches at the meeting, the enigmatical\npatron of the new revolutionary agitation, the trusted, the wealthy\ncomrade Fidanza with the knowledge of his moral ruin locked up in his\nbreast, he remains essentially a Man of the People. In his mingled\nlove and scorn of life and in the bewildered conviction of having been\nbetrayed, of dying betrayed he hardly knows by what or by whom, he is\nstill of the People, their undoubted Great Man--with a private history\nof his own.\n\nOne more figure of those stirring times I would like to mention: and\nthat is Antonia Avellanos--the \"beautiful Antonia.\" Whether she is a\npossible variation of Latin-American girlhood I wouldn't dare to affirm.\nBut, for me, she is. Always a little in the background by the side of\nher father (my venerated friend) I hope she has yet relief enough to\nmake intelligible what I am going to say. Of all the people who had seen\nwith me the birth of the Occidental Republic, she is the only one\nwho has kept in my memory the aspect of continued life. Antonia the\nAristocrat and Nostromo the Man of the People are the artisans of the\nNew Era, the true creators of the New State; he by his legendary and\ndaring feat, she, like a woman, simply by the force of what she is:\nthe only being capable of inspiring a sincere passion in the heart of a\ntrifler.\n\nIf anything could induce me to revisit Sulaco (I should hate to see all\nthese changes) it would be Antonia. And the true reason for that--why\nnot be frank about it?--the true reason is that I have modelled her on\nmy first love. How we, a band of tallish schoolboys, the chums of\nher two brothers, how we used to look up to that girl just out of the\nschoolroom herself, as the standard-bearer of a faith to which we all\nwere born but which she alone knew how to hold aloft with an unflinching\nhope! She had perhaps more glow and less serenity in her soul than\nAntonia, but she was an uncompromising Puritan of patriotism with no\ntaint of the slightest worldliness in her thoughts. I was not the only\none in love with her; but it was I who had to hear oftenest her scathing\ncriticism of my levities--very much like poor Decoud--or stand the\nbrunt of her austere, unanswerable invective. She did not quite\nunderstand--but never mind. That afternoon when I came in, a shrinking\nyet defiant sinner, to say the final good-bye I received a hand-squeeze\nthat made my heart leap and saw a tear that took my breath away. She was\nsoftened at the last as though she had suddenly perceived (we were such\nchildren still!) that I was really going away for good, going very far\naway--even as far as Sulaco, lying unknown, hidden from our eyes in the\ndarkness of the Placid Gulf.\n\nThat's why I long sometimes for another glimpse of the \"beautiful\nAntonia\" (or can it be the Other?) moving in the dimness of the great\ncathedral, saying a short prayer at the tomb of the first and last\nCardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco, standing absorbed in filial devotion\nbefore the monument of Don Jose Avellanos, and, with a lingering,\ntender, faithful glance at the medallion-memorial to Martin Decoud,\ngoing out serenely into the sunshine of the Plaza with her upright\ncarriage and her white head; a relic of the past disregarded by men\nawaiting impatiently the Dawns of other New Eras, the coming of more\nRevolutions.\n\nBut this is the idlest of dreams; for I did understand perfectly well\nat the time that the moment the breath left the body of the Magnificent\nCapataz, the Man of the People, freed at last from the toils of love and\nwealth, there was nothing more for me to do in Sulaco.\n\n\nJ. C.\n\nOctober, 1917.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nPART FIRST   THE SILVER OF THE MINE\n\nPART SECOND  THE ISABELS\n\nPART THIRD   THE LIGHTHOUSE\n\n\n\n\nNOSTROMO\n\n\n\n\nPART FIRST THE SILVER OF THE MINE\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nIn the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, the town of\nSulaco--the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardens bears witness to its\nantiquity--had never been commercially anything more important than a\ncoasting port with a fairly large local trade in ox-hides and indigo.\nThe clumsy deep-sea galleons of the conquerors that, needing a brisk\ngale to move at all, would lie becalmed, where your modern ship built on\nclipper lines forges ahead by the mere flapping of her sails, had been\nbarred out of Sulaco by the prevailing calms of its vast gulf. Some\nharbours of the earth are made difficult of access by the treachery\nof sunken rocks and the tempests of their shores. Sulaco had found an\ninviolable sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in\nthe solemn hush of the deep Golfo Placido as if within an enormous\nsemi-circular and unroofed temple open to the ocean, with its walls of\nlofty mountains hung with the mourning draperies of cloud.\n\nOn one side of this broad curve in the straight seaboard of the Republic\nof Costaguana, the last spur of the coast range forms an insignificant\ncape whose name is Punta Mala. From the middle of the gulf the point of\nthe land itself is not visible at all; but the shoulder of a steep hill\nat the back can be made out faintly like a shadow on the sky.\n\nOn the other side, what seems to be an isolated patch of blue mist\nfloats lightly on the glare of the horizon. This is the peninsula\nof Azuera, a wild chaos of sharp rocks and stony levels cut about by\nvertical ravines. It lies far out to sea like a rough head of stone\nstretched from a green-clad coast at the end of a slender neck of\nsand covered with thickets of thorny scrub. Utterly waterless, for the\nrainfall runs off at once on all sides into the sea, it has not soil\nenough--it is said--to grow a single blade of grass, as if it were\nblighted by a curse. The poor, associating by an obscure instinct of\nconsolation the ideas of evil and wealth, will tell you that it is\ndeadly because of its forbidden treasures. The common folk of the\nneighbourhood, peons of the estancias, vaqueros of the seaboard plains,\ntame Indians coming miles to market with a bundle of sugar-cane or a\nbasket of maize worth about threepence, are well aware that heaps of\nshining gold lie in the gloom of the deep precipices cleaving the stony\nlevels of Azuera. Tradition has it that many adventurers of olden time\nhad perished in the search. The story goes also that within men's memory\ntwo wandering sailors--Americanos, perhaps, but gringos of some sort for\ncertain--talked over a gambling, good-for-nothing mozo, and the three\nstole a donkey to carry for them a bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin,\nand provisions enough to last a few days. Thus accompanied, and with\nrevolvers at their belts, they had started to chop their way with\nmachetes through the thorny scrub on the neck of the peninsula.\n\nOn the second evening an upright spiral of smoke (it could only have\nbeen from their camp-fire) was seen for the first time within memory of\nman standing up faintly upon the sky above a razor-backed ridge on the\nstony head. The crew of a coasting schooner, lying becalmed three miles\noff the shore, stared at it with amazement till dark. A negro fisherman,\nliving in a lonely hut in a little bay near by, had seen the start and\nwas on the lookout for some sign. He called to his wife just as the\nsun was about to set. They had watched the strange portent with envy,\nincredulity, and awe.\n\nThe impious adventurers gave no other sign. The sailors, the Indian,\nand the stolen burro were never seen again. As to the mozo, a Sulaco\nman--his wife paid for some masses, and the poor four-footed beast,\nbeing without sin, had been probably permitted to die; but the two\ngringos, spectral and alive, are believed to be dwelling to this day\namongst the rocks, under the fatal spell of their success. Their souls\ncannot tear themselves away from their bodies mounting guard over the\ndiscovered treasure. They are now rich and hungry and thirsty--a strange\ntheory of tenacious gringo ghosts suffering in their starved and parched\nflesh of defiant heretics, where a Christian would have renounced and\nbeen released.\n\nThese, then, are the legendary inhabitants of Azuera guarding its\nforbidden wealth; and the shadow on the sky on one side with the round\npatch of blue haze blurring the bright skirt of the horizon on the\nother, mark the two outermost points of the bend which bears the name of\nGolfo Placido, because never a strong wind had been known to blow upon\nits waters.\n\nOn crossing the imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera the\nships from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezes of the\nocean. They become the prey of capricious airs that play with them for\nthirty hours at a stretch sometimes. Before them the head of the calm\ngulf is filled on most days of the year by a great body of motionless\nand opaque clouds. On the rare clear mornings another shadow is cast\nupon the sweep of the gulf. The dawn breaks high behind the towering\nand serrated wall of the Cordillera, a clear-cut vision of dark peaks\nrearing their steep slopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from the\nvery edge of the shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota rises\nmajestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinkle\nwith tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow.\n\nThen, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow of the\nmountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys. They\nswathe in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices above the wooded\nslopes, hide the peaks, smoke in stormy trails across the snows of\nHiguerota. The Cordillera is gone from you as if it had dissolved itself\ninto great piles of grey and black vapours that travel out slowly to\nseaward and vanish into thin air all along the front before the blazing\nheat of the day. The wasting edge of the cloud-bank always strives for,\nbut seldom wins, the middle of the gulf. The sun--as the sailors say--is\neating it up. Unless perchance a sombre thunder-head breaks away from\nthe main body to career all over the gulf till it escapes into the\noffing beyond Azuera, where it bursts suddenly into flame and crashes\nlike a sinster pirate-ship of the air, hove-to above the horizon,\nengaging the sea.\n\nAt night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothers the\nwhole quiet gulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in which the sound\nof the falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasing abruptly--now\nhere, now there. Indeed, these cloudy nights are proverbial with the\nseamen along the whole west coast of a great continent. Sky, land, and\nsea disappear together out of the world when the Placido--as the saying\nis--goes to sleep under its black poncho. The few stars left below the\nseaward frown of the vault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black\ncavern. In its vastness your ship floats unseen under your feet, her\nsails flutter invisible above your head. The eye of God Himself--they\nadd with grim profanity--could not find out what work a man's hand is\ndoing in there; and you would be free to call the devil to your aid with\nimpunity if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.\n\nThe shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabited islets\nbasking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, and opposite the\nentrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of \"The Isabels.\"\n\nThere is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel, which is round; and\nHermosa, which is the smallest.\n\nThat last is no more than a foot high, and about seven paces across,\na mere flat top of a grey rock which smokes like a hot cinder after\na shower, and where no man would care to venture a naked sole before\nsunset. On the Little Isabel an old ragged palm, with a thick bulging\ntrunk rough with spines, a very witch amongst palm trees, rustles a\ndismal bunch of dead leaves above the coarse sand. The Great Isabel has\na spring of fresh water issuing from the overgrown side of a ravine.\nResembling an emerald green wedge of land a mile long, and laid flat\nupon the sea, it bears two forest trees standing close together, with\na wide spread of shade at the foot of their smooth trunks. A ravine\nextending the whole length of the island is full of bushes; and\npresenting a deep tangled cleft on the high side spreads itself out on\nthe other into a shallow depression abutting on a small strip of sandy\nshore.\n\nFrom that low end of the Great Isabel the eye plunges through an opening\ntwo miles away, as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out of the regular\nsweep of the coast, right into the harbour of Sulaco. It is an oblong,\nlake-like piece of water. On one side the short wooded spurs and valleys\nof the Cordillera come down at right angles to the very strand; on\nthe other the open view of the great Sulaco plain passes into the opal\nmystery of great distances overhung by dry haze. The town of Sulaco\nitself--tops of walls, a great cupola, gleams of white miradors in a\nvast grove of orange trees--lies between the mountains and the plain,\nat some little distance from its harbour and out of the direct line of\nsight from the sea.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nThe only sign of commercial activity within the harbour, visible from\nthe beach of the Great Isabel, is the square blunt end of the wooden\njetty which the Oceanic Steam Navigation Company (the O.S.N. of familiar\nspeech) had thrown over the shallow part of the bay soon after they had\nresolved to make of Sulaco one of their ports of call for the Republic\nof Costaguana. The State possesses several harbours on its long\nseaboard, but except Cayta, an important place, all are either small\nand inconvenient inlets in an iron-bound coast--like Esmeralda, for\ninstance, sixty miles to the south--or else mere open roadsteads exposed\nto the winds and fretted by the surf.\n\nPerhaps the very atmospheric conditions which had kept away the\nmerchant fleets of bygone ages induced the O.S.N. Company to violate the\nsanctuary of peace sheltering the calm existence of Sulaco. The variable\nairs sporting lightly with the vast semicircle of waters within the head\nof Azuera could not baffle the steam power of their excellent fleet.\nYear after year the black hulls of their ships had gone up and down\nthe coast, in and out, past Azuera, past the Isabels, past Punta\nMala--disregarding everything but the tyranny of time. Their names, the\nnames of all mythology, became the household words of a coast that had\nnever been ruled by the gods of Olympus. The Juno was known only for\nher comfortable cabins amidships, the Saturn for the geniality of her\ncaptain and the painted and gilt luxuriousness of her saloon, whereas\nthe Ganymede was fitted out mainly for cattle transport, and to be\navoided by coastwise passengers. The humblest Indian in the obscurest\nvillage on the coast was familiar with the Cerberus, a little black\npuffer without charm or living accommodation to speak of, whose mission\nwas to creep inshore along the wooded beaches close to mighty ugly\nrocks, stopping obligingly before every cluster of huts to collect\nproduce, down to three-pound parcels of indiarubber bound in a wrapper\nof dry grass.\n\nAnd as they seldom failed to account for the smallest package, rarely\nlost a bullock, and had never drowned a single passenger, the name of\nthe O.S.N. stood very high for trustworthiness. People declared that\nunder the Company's care their lives and property were safer on the\nwater than in their own houses on shore.\n\nThe O.S.N.'s superintendent in Sulaco for the whole Costaguana section\nof the service was very proud of his Company's standing. He resumed it\nin a saying which was very often on his lips, \"We never make mistakes.\"\nTo the Company's officers it took the form of a severe injunction, \"We\nmust make no mistakes. I'll have no mistakes here, no matter what Smith\nmay do at his end.\"\n\nSmith, on whom he had never set eyes in his life, was the other\nsuperintendent of the service, quartered some fifteen hundred miles away\nfrom Sulaco. \"Don't talk to me of your Smith.\"\n\nThen, calming down suddenly, he would dismiss the subject with studied\nnegligence.\n\n\"Smith knows no more of this continent than a baby.\"\n\n\"Our excellent Senor Mitchell\" for the business and official world of\nSulaco; \"Fussy Joe\" for the commanders of the Company's ships, Captain\nJoseph Mitchell prided himself on his profound knowledge of men and\nthings in the country--cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last he\naccounted as most unfavourable to the orderly working of his Company\nthe frequent changes of government brought about by revolutions of the\nmilitary type.\n\nThe political atmosphere of the Republic was generally stormy in these\ndays. The fugitive patriots of the defeated party had the knack of\nturning up again on the coast with half a steamer's load of small arms\nand ammunition. Such resourcefulness Captain Mitchell considered as\nperfectly wonderful in view of their utter destitution at the time of\nflight. He had observed that \"they never seemed to have enough change\nabout them to pay for their passage ticket out of the country.\" And\nhe could speak with knowledge; for on a memorable occasion he had been\ncalled upon to save the life of a dictator, together with the lives of a\nfew Sulaco officials--the political chief, the director of the customs,\nand the head of police--belonging to an overturned government. Poor\nSenor Ribiera (such was the dictator's name) had come pelting eighty\nmiles over mountain tracks after the lost battle of Socorro, in the hope\nof out-distancing the fatal news--which, of course, he could not manage\nto do on a lame mule. The animal, moreover, expired under him at the end\nof the Alameda, where the military band plays sometimes in the evenings\nbetween the revolutions. \"Sir,\" Captain Mitchell would pursue with\nportentous gravity, \"the ill-timed end of that mule attracted attention\nto the unfortunate rider. His features were recognized by several\ndeserters from the Dictatorial army amongst the rascally mob already\nengaged in smashing the windows of the Intendencia.\"\n\nEarly on the morning of that day the local authorities of Sulaco had\nfled for refuge to the O.S.N. Company's offices, a strong building\nnear the shore end of the jetty, leaving the town to the mercies of a\nrevolutionary rabble; and as the Dictator was execrated by the populace\non account of the severe recruitment law his necessities had compelled\nhim to enforce during the struggle, he stood a good chance of being\ntorn to pieces. Providentially, Nostromo--invaluable fellow--with some\nItalian workmen, imported to work upon the National Central Railway,\nwas at hand, and managed to snatch him away--for the time at least.\nUltimately, Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking everybody off in his\nown gig to one of the Company's steamers--it was the Minerva--just then,\nas luck would have it, entering the harbour.\n\nHe had to lower these gentlemen at the end of a rope out of a hole in\nthe wall at the back, while the mob which, pouring out of the town, had\nspread itself all along the shore, howled and foamed at the foot of the\nbuilding in front. He had to hurry them then the whole length of the\njetty; it had been a desperate dash, neck or nothing--and again it was\nNostromo, a fellow in a thousand, who, at the head, this time, of the\nCompany's body of lightermen, held the jetty against the rushes of the\nrabble, thus giving the fugitives time to reach the gig lying ready\nfor them at the other end with the Company's flag at the stern. Sticks,\nstones, shots flew; knives, too, were thrown. Captain Mitchell exhibited\nwillingly the long cicatrice of a cut over his left ear and temple, made\nby a razor-blade fastened to a stick--a weapon, he explained, very much\nin favour with the \"worst kind of nigger out here.\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointed collars\nand short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, and really very\ncommunicative under his air of pompous reserve.\n\n\"These gentlemen,\" he would say, staring with great solemnity, \"had\nto run like rabbits, sir. I ran like a rabbit myself. Certain forms of\ndeath are--er--distasteful to a--a--er--respectable man. They would have\npounded me to death, too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate. Under\nprovidence we owed our preservation to my Capataz de Cargadores, as they\ncalled him in the town, a man who, when I discovered his value, sir, was\njust the bos'n of an Italian ship, a big Genoese ship, one of the few\nEuropean ships that ever came to Sulaco with a general cargo before the\nbuilding of the National Central. He left her on account of some very\nrespectable friends he made here, his own countrymen, but also, I\nsuppose, to better himself. Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character.\nI engaged him to be the foreman of our lightermen, and caretaker of our\njetty. That's all that he was. But without him Senor Ribiera would have\nbeen a dead man. This Nostromo, sir, a man absolutely above reproach,\nbecame the terror of all the thieves in the town. We were infested,\ninfested, overrun, sir, here at that time by ladrones and matreros,\nthieves and murderers from the whole province. On this occasion they\nhad been flocking into Sulaco for a week past. They had scented the end,\nsir. Fifty per cent. of that murdering mob were professional bandits\nfrom the Campo, sir, but there wasn't one that hadn't heard of Nostromo.\nAs to the town leperos, sir, the sight of his black whiskers and white\nteeth was enough for them. They quailed before him, sir. That's what the\nforce of character will do for you.\"\n\nIt could very well be said that it was Nostromo alone who saved the\nlives of these gentlemen. Captain Mitchell, on his part, never left them\ntill he had seen them collapse, panting, terrified, and exasperated,\nbut safe, on the luxuriant velvet sofas in the first-class saloon of the\nMinerva. To the very last he had been careful to address the ex-Dictator\nas \"Your Excellency.\"\n\n\"Sir, I could do no other. The man was down--ghastly, livid, one mass of\nscratches.\"\n\nThe Minerva never let go her anchor that call. The superintendent\nordered her out of the harbour at once. No cargo could be landed, of\ncourse, and the passengers for Sulaco naturally refused to go ashore.\nThey could hear the firing and see plainly the fight going on at the\nedge of the water. The repulsed mob devoted its energies to an attack\nupon the Custom House, a dreary, unfinished-looking structure with many\nwindows two hundred yards away from the O.S.N. Offices, and the only\nother building near the harbour. Captain Mitchell, after directing the\ncommander of the Minerva to land \"these gentlemen\" in the first port of\ncall outside Costaguana, went back in his gig to see what could be done\nfor the protection of the Company's property. That and the property\nof the railway were preserved by the European residents; that is, by\nCaptain Mitchell himself and the staff of engineers building the road,\naided by the Italian and Basque workmen who rallied faithfully round\ntheir English chiefs. The Company's lightermen, too, natives of the\nRepublic, behaved very well under their Capataz. An outcast lot of\nvery mixed blood, mainly negroes, everlastingly at feud with the other\ncustomers of low grog shops in the town, they embraced with delight\nthis opportunity to settle their personal scores under such favourable\nauspices. There was not one of them that had not, at some time or other,\nlooked with terror at Nostromo's revolver poked very close at his face,\nor been otherwise daunted by Nostromo's resolution. He was \"much of a\nman,\" their Capataz was, they said, too scornful in his temper ever to\nutter abuse, a tireless taskmaster, and the more to be feared because\nof his aloofness. And behold! there he was that day, at their head,\ncondescending to make jocular remarks to this man or the other.\n\nSuch leadership was inspiriting, and in truth all the harm the\nmob managed to achieve was to set fire to one--only one--stack of\nrailway-sleepers, which, being creosoted, burned well. The main attack\non the railway yards, on the O.S.N. Offices, and especially on the\nCustom House, whose strong room, it was well known, contained a large\ntreasure in silver ingots, failed completely. Even the little hotel kept\nby old Giorgio, standing alone halfway between the harbour and the town,\nescaped looting and destruction, not by a miracle, but because with the\nsafes in view they had neglected it at first, and afterwards found no\nleisure to stop. Nostromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing them too\nhard then.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nIt might have been said that there he was only protecting his own. From\nthe first he had been admitted to live in the intimacy of the family\nof the hotel-keeper who was a countryman of his. Old Giorgio Viola,\na Genoese with a shaggy white leonine head--often called simply \"the\nGaribaldino\" (as Mohammedans are called after their prophet)--was, to\nuse Captain Mitchell's own words, the \"respectable married friend\" by\nwhose advice Nostromo had left his ship to try for a run of shore luck\nin Costaguana.\n\nThe old man, full of scorn for the populace, as your austere republican\nso often is, had disregarded the preliminary sounds of trouble. He\nwent on that day as usual pottering about the \"casa\" in his slippers,\nmuttering angrily to himself his contempt of the non-political nature of\nthe riot, and shrugging his shoulders. In the end he was taken unawares\nby the out-rush of the rabble. It was too late then to remove his\nfamily, and, indeed, where could he have run to with the portly Signora\nTeresa and two little girls on that great plain? So, barricading every\nopening, the old man sat down sternly in the middle of the darkened cafe\nwith an old shot-gun on his knees. His wife sat on another chair by his\nside, muttering pious invocations to all the saints of the calendar.\n\nThe old republican did not believe in saints, or in prayers, or in\nwhat he called \"priest's religion.\" Liberty and Garibaldi were his\ndivinities; but he tolerated \"superstition\" in women, preserving in\nthese matters a lofty and silent attitude.\n\nHis two girls, the eldest fourteen, and the other two years younger,\ncrouched on the sanded floor, on each side of the Signora Teresa, with\ntheir heads on their mother's lap, both scared, but each in her own\nway, the dark-haired Linda indignant and angry, the fair Giselle, the\nyounger, bewildered and resigned. The Patrona removed her arms, which\nembraced her daughters, for a moment to cross herself and wring her\nhands hurriedly. She moaned a little louder.\n\n\"Oh! Gian' Battista, why art thou not here? Oh! why art thou not here?\"\n\nShe was not then invoking the saint himself, but calling upon Nostromo,\nwhose patron he was. And Giorgio, motionless on the chair by her side,\nwould be provoked by these reproachful and distracted appeals.\n\n\"Peace, woman! Where's the sense of it? There's his duty,\" he murmured\nin the dark; and she would retort, panting--\n\n\"Eh! I have no patience. Duty! What of the woman who has been like a\nmother to him? I bent my knee to him this morning; don't you go out,\nGian' Battista--stop in the house, Battistino--look at those two little\ninnocent children!\"\n\nMrs. Viola was an Italian, too, a native of Spezzia, and though\nconsiderably younger than her husband, already middle-aged. She had a\nhandsome face, whose complexion had turned yellow because the climate\nof Sulaco did not suit her at all. Her voice was a rich contralto. When,\nwith her arms folded tight under her ample bosom, she scolded the squat,\nthick-legged China girls handling linen, plucking fowls, pounding corn\nin wooden mortars amongst the mud outbuildings at the back of the house,\nshe could bring out such an impassioned, vibrating, sepulchral note that\nthe chained watch-dog bolted into his kennel with a great rattle. Luis,\na cinnamon-coloured mulatto with a sprouting moustache and thick, dark\nlips, would stop sweeping the cafe with a broom of palm-leaves to let\na gentle shudder run down his spine. His languishing almond eyes would\nremain closed for a long time.\n\nThis was the staff of the Casa Viola, but all these people had fled\nearly that morning at the first sounds of the riot, preferring to hide\non the plain rather than trust themselves in the house; a preference for\nwhich they were in no way to blame, since, whether true or not, it\nwas generally believed in the town that the Garibaldino had some money\nburied under the clay floor of the kitchen. The dog, an irritable,\nshaggy brute, barked violently and whined plaintively in turns at the\nback, running in and out of his kennel as rage or fear prompted him.\n\nBursts of great shouting rose and died away, like wild gusts of wind on\nthe plain round the barricaded house; the fitful popping of shots\ngrew louder above the yelling. Sometimes there were intervals of\nunaccountable stillness outside, and nothing could have been more gaily\npeaceful than the narrow bright lines of sunlight from the cracks in the\nshutters, ruled straight across the cafe over the disarranged chairs\nand tables to the wall opposite. Old Giorgio had chosen that bare,\nwhitewashed room for a retreat. It had only one window, and its only\ndoor swung out upon the track of thick dust fenced by aloe hedges\nbetween the harbour and the town, where clumsy carts used to creak along\nbehind slow yokes of oxen guided by boys on horseback.\n\nIn a pause of stillness Giorgio cocked his gun. The ominous sound wrung\na low moan from the rigid figure of the woman sitting by his side. A\nsudden outbreak of defiant yelling quite near the house sank all at once\nto a confused murmur of growls. Somebody ran along; the loud catching of\nhis breath was heard for an instant passing the door; there were hoarse\nmutters and footsteps near the wall; a shoulder rubbed against the\nshutter, effacing the bright lines of sunshine pencilled across the\nwhole breadth of the room. Signora Teresa's arms thrown about the\nkneeling forms of her daughters embraced them closer with a convulsive\npressure.\n\nThe mob, driven away from the Custom House, had broken up into several\nbands, retreating across the plain in the direction of the town. The\nsubdued crash of irregular volleys fired in the distance was answered by\nfaint yells far away. In the intervals the single shots rang feebly, and\nthe low, long, white building blinded in every window seemed to be\nthe centre of a turmoil widening in a great circle about its closed-up\nsilence. But the cautious movements and whispers of a routed party\nseeking a momentary shelter behind the wall made the darkness of the\nroom, striped by threads of quiet sunlight, alight with evil, stealthy\nsounds. The Violas had them in their ears as though invisible ghosts\nhovering about their chairs had consulted in mutters as to the\nadvisability of setting fire to this foreigner's casa.\n\nIt was trying to the nerves. Old Viola had risen slowly, gun in hand,\nirresolute, for he did not see how he could prevent them. Already voices\ncould be heard talking at the back. Signora Teresa was beside herself\nwith terror.\n\n\"Ah! the traitor! the traitor!\" she mumbled, almost inaudibly. \"Now we\nare going to be burnt; and I bent my knee to him. No! he must run at the\nheels of his English.\"\n\nShe seemed to think that Nostromo's mere presence in the house would\nhave made it perfectly safe. So far, she, too, was under the spell of\nthat reputation the Capataz de Cargadores had made for himself by\nthe waterside, along the railway line, with the English and with the\npopulace of Sulaco. To his face, and even against her husband, she\ninvariably affected to laugh it to scorn, sometimes good-naturedly,\nmore often with a curious bitterness. But then women are unreasonable in\ntheir opinions, as Giorgio used to remark calmly on fitting occasions.\nOn this occasion, with his gun held at ready before him, he stooped down\nto his wife's head, and, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the barricaded\ndoor, he breathed out into her ear that Nostromo would have been\npowerless to help. What could two men shut up in a house do against\ntwenty or more bent upon setting fire to the roof? Gian' Battista was\nthinking of the casa all the time, he was sure.\n\n\"He think of the casa! He!\" gasped Signora Viola, crazily. She struck\nher breast with her open hands. \"I know him. He thinks of nobody but\nhimself.\"\n\nA discharge of firearms near by made her throw her head back and close\nher eyes. Old Giorgio set his teeth hard under his white moustache, and\nhis eyes began to roll fiercely. Several bullets struck the end of the\nwall together; pieces of plaster could be heard falling outside; a voice\nscreamed \"Here they come!\" and after a moment of uneasy silence there\nwas a rush of running feet along the front.\n\nThen the tension of old Giorgio's attitude relaxed, and a smile of\ncontemptuous relief came upon his lips of an old fighter with a leonine\nface. These were not a people striving for justice, but thieves. Even to\ndefend his life against them was a sort of degradation for a man who had\nbeen one of Garibaldi's immortal thousand in the conquest of Sicily. He\nhad an immense scorn for this outbreak of scoundrels and leperos, who\ndid not know the meaning of the word \"liberty.\"\n\nHe grounded his old gun, and, turning his head, glanced at the coloured\nlithograph of Garibaldi in a black frame on the white wall; a thread\nof strong sunshine cut it perpendicularly. His eyes, accustomed to the\nluminous twilight, made out the high colouring of the face, the red of\nthe shirt, the outlines of the square shoulders, the black patch of the\nBersagliere hat with cock's feathers curling over the crown. An immortal\nhero! This was your liberty; it gave you not only life, but immortality\nas well!\n\nFor that one man his fanaticism had suffered no diminution. In the\nmoment of relief from the apprehension of the greatest danger, perhaps,\nhis family had been exposed to in all their wanderings, he had turned to\nthe picture of his old chief, first and only, then laid his hand on his\nwife's shoulder.\n\nThe children kneeling on the floor had not moved. Signora Teresa opened\nher eyes a little, as though he had awakened her from a very deep and\ndreamless slumber. Before he had time in his deliberate way to say a\nreassuring word she jumped up, with the children clinging to her, one on\neach side, gasped for breath, and let out a hoarse shriek.\n\nIt was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck on the\noutside of the shutter. They could hear suddenly the snorting of a\nhorse, the restive tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hard path in front\nof the house; the toe of a boot struck at the shutter again; a spur\njingled at every blow, and an excited voice shouted, \"Hola! hola, in\nthere!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nAll the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola,\neven in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. \"If\nI see smoke rising over there,\" he thought to himself, \"they are lost.\"\nDirectly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian\nworkmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards\nthe town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of\nmaking a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from\nbehind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for\nthe rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on\nhis silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his\nrevolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an idea that old\nGiorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.\n\nHis voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: \"Hola!\nVecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?\"\n\n\"You see--\" murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent\nnow. Outside Nostromo laughed.\n\n\"I can hear the padrona is not dead.\"\n\n\"You have done your best to kill me with fear,\" cried Signora Teresa.\nShe wanted to say something more, but her voice failed her.\n\nLinda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted\napologetically--\n\n\"She is a little upset.\"\n\nOutside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh--\n\n\"She cannot upset me.\"\n\nSignora Teresa found her voice.\n\n\"It is what I say. You have no heart--and you have no conscience, Gian'\nBattista--\"\n\nThey heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The party he led\nwere babbling excitedly in Italian and Spanish, inciting each other to\nthe pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying, \"Avanti!\"\n\n\"He has not stopped very long with us. There is no praise from strangers\nto be got here,\" Signora Teresa said tragically. \"Avanti! Yes! That is\nall he cares for. To be first somewhere--somehow--to be first with these\nEnglish. They will be showing him to everybody. 'This is our Nostromo!'\"\nShe laughed ominously. \"What a name! What is that? Nostromo? He would\ntake a name that is properly no word from them.\"\n\nMeantime Giorgio, with tranquil movements, had been unfastening the\ndoor; the flood of light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girls\ngathered to her side, a picturesque woman in a pose of maternal\nexaltation. Behind her the wall was dazzlingly white, and the crude\ncolours of the Garibaldi lithograph paled in the sunshine.\n\nOld Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwards as if referring all his\nquick, fleeting thoughts to the picture of his old chief on the wall.\nEven when he was cooking for the \"Signori Inglesi\"--the engineers (he\nwas a famous cook, though the kitchen was a dark place)--he was, as\nit were, under the eye of the great man who had led him in a glorious\nstruggle where, under the walls of Gaeta, tyranny would have expired\nfor ever had it not been for that accursed Piedmontese race of kings\nand ministers. When sometimes a frying-pan caught fire during a delicate\noperation with some shredded onions, and the old man was seen backing\nout of the doorway, swearing and coughing violently in an acrid cloud\nof smoke, the name of Cavour--the arch intriguer sold to kings and\ntyrants--could be heard involved in imprecations against the China\ngirls, cooking in general, and the brute of a country where he was\nreduced to live for the love of liberty that traitor had strangled.\n\nThen Signora Teresa, all in black, issuing from another door, advanced,\nportly and anxious, inclining her fine, black-browed head, opening her\narms, and crying in a profound tone--\n\n\"Giorgio! thou passionate man! Misericordia Divina! In the sun like\nthis! He will make himself ill.\"\n\nAt her feet the hens made off in all directions, with immense strides;\nif there were any engineers from up the line staying in Sulaco, a young\nEnglish face or two would appear at the billiard-room occupying one end\nof the house; but at the other end, in the cafe, Luis, the mulatto, took\ngood care not to show himself. The Indian girls, with hair like flowing\nblack manes, and dressed only in a shift and short petticoat, stared\ndully from under the square-cut fringes on their foreheads; the noisy\nfrizzling of fat had stopped, the fumes floated upwards in sunshine,\na strong smell of burnt onions hung in the drowsy heat, enveloping the\nhouse; and the eye lost itself in a vast flat expanse of grass to the\nwest, as if the plain between the Sierra overtopping Sulaco and the\ncoast range away there towards Esmeralda had been as big as half the\nworld.\n\nSignora Teresa, after an impressive pause, remonstrated--\n\n\"Eh, Giorgio! Leave Cavour alone and take care of yourself now we are\nlost in this country all alone with the two children, because you cannot\nlive under a king.\"\n\nAnd while she looked at him she would sometimes put her hand hastily\nto her side with a short twitch of her fine lips and a knitting of\nher black, straight eyebrows like a flicker of angry pain or an angry\nthought on her handsome, regular features.\n\nIt was pain; she suppressed the twinge. It had come to her first a few\nyears after they had left Italy to emigrate to America and settle at\nlast in Sulaco after wandering from town to town, trying shopkeeping\nin a small way here and there; and once an organized enterprise of\nfishing--in Maldonado--for Giorgio, like the great Garibaldi, had been a\nsailor in his time.\n\nSometimes she had no patience with pain. For years its gnawing had been\npart of the landscape embracing the glitter of the harbour under\nthe wooded spurs of the range; and the sunshine itself was heavy and\ndull--heavy with pain--not like the sunshine of her girlhood, in which\nmiddle-aged Giorgio had wooed her gravely and passionately on the shores\nof the gulf of Spezzia.\n\n\"You go in at once, Giorgio,\" she directed. \"One would think you do not\nwish to have any pity on me--with four Signori Inglesi staying in the\nhouse.\" \"_Va bene, va bene_,\" Giorgio would mutter. He obeyed. The Signori\nInglesi would require their midday meal presently. He had been one\nof the immortal and invincible band of liberators who had made the\nmercenaries of tyranny fly like chaff before a hurricane, \"_un uragano\nterribile_.\" But that was before he was married and had children; and\nbefore tyranny had reared its head again amongst the traitors who had\nimprisoned Garibaldi, his hero.\n\nThere were three doors in the front of the house, and each afternoon the\nGaribaldino could be seen at one or another of them with his big bush of\nwhite hair, his arms folded, his legs crossed, leaning back his leonine\nhead against the side, and looking up the wooded slopes of the foothills\nat the snowy dome of Higuerota. The front of his house threw off a black\nlong rectangle of shade, broadening slowly over the soft ox-cart track.\nThrough the gaps, chopped out in the oleander hedges, the harbour branch\nrailway, laid out temporarily on the level of the plain, curved away its\nshining parallel ribbons on a belt of scorched and withered grass within\nsixty yards of the end of the house. In the evening the empty material\ntrains of flat cars circled round the dark green grove of Sulaco,\nand ran, undulating slightly with white jets of steam, over the plain\ntowards the Casa Viola, on their way to the railway yards by the\nharbour. The Italian drivers saluted him from the foot-plate with raised\nhand, while the negro brakesmen sat carelessly on the brakes, looking\nstraight forward, with the rims of their big hats flapping in the wind.\nIn return Giorgio would give a slight sideways jerk of the head, without\nunfolding his arms.\n\nOn this memorable day of the riot his arms were not folded on his chest.\nHis hand grasped the barrel of the gun grounded on the threshold; he\ndid not look up once at the white dome of Higuerota, whose cool purity\nseemed to hold itself aloof from a hot earth. His eyes examined the\nplain curiously. Tall trails of dust subsided here and there. In\na speckless sky the sun hung clear and blinding. Knots of men ran\nheadlong; others made a stand; and the irregular rattle of firearms came\nrippling to his ears in the fiery, still air. Single figures on foot\nraced desperately. Horsemen galloped towards each other, wheeled round\ntogether, separated at speed. Giorgio saw one fall, rider and horse\ndisappearing as if they had galloped into a chasm, and the movements of\nthe animated scene were like the passages of a violent game played upon\nthe plain by dwarfs mounted and on foot, yelling with tiny throats,\nunder the mountain that seemed a colossal embodiment of silence. Never\nbefore had Giorgio seen this bit of plain so full of active life; his\ngaze could not take in all its details at once; he shaded his eyes with\nhis hand, till suddenly the thundering of many hoofs near by startled\nhim.\n\nA troop of horses had broken out of the fenced paddock of the Railway\nCompany. They came on like a whirlwind, and dashed over the line\nsnorting, kicking, squealing in a compact, piebald, tossing mob of bay,\nbrown, grey backs, eyes staring, necks extended, nostrils red, long\ntails streaming. As soon as they had leaped upon the road the thick dust\nflew upwards from under their hoofs, and within six yards of Giorgio\nonly a brown cloud with vague forms of necks and cruppers rolled by,\nmaking the soil tremble on its passage.\n\nViola coughed, turning his face away from the dust, and shaking his head\nslightly.\n\n\"There will be some horse-catching to be done before to-night,\" he\nmuttered.\n\nIn the square of sunlight falling through the door Signora Teresa,\nkneeling before the chair, had bowed her head, heavy with a twisted\nmass of ebony hair streaked with silver, into the palm of her hands.\nThe black lace shawl she used to drape about her face had dropped to\nthe ground by her side. The two girls had got up, hand-in-hand, in short\nskirts, their loose hair falling in disorder. The younger had thrown\nher arm across her eyes, as if afraid to face the light. Linda, with\nher hand on the other's shoulder, stared fearlessly. Viola looked at his\nchildren. The sun brought out the deep lines on his face, and, energetic\nin expression, it had the immobility of a carving. It was impossible to\ndiscover what he thought. Bushy grey eyebrows shaded his dark glance.\n\n\"Well! And do you not pray like your mother?\"\n\nLinda pouted, advancing her red lips, which were almost too red; but she\nhad admirable eyes, brown, with a sparkle of gold in the irises, full of\nintelligence and meaning, and so clear that they seemed to throw a glow\nupon her thin, colourless face. There were bronze glints in the sombre\nclusters of her hair, and the eyelashes, long and coal black, made her\ncomplexion appear still more pale.\n\n\"Mother is going to offer up a lot of candles in the church. She always\ndoes when Nostromo has been away fighting. I shall have some to carry up\nto the Chapel of the Madonna in the Cathedral.\"\n\nShe said all this quickly, with great assurance, in an animated,\npenetrating voice. Then, giving her sister's shoulder a slight shake,\nshe added--\n\n\"And she will be made to carry one, too!\"\n\n\"Why made?\" inquired Giorgio, gravely. \"Does she not want to?\"\n\n\"She is timid,\" said Linda, with a little burst of laughter. \"People\nnotice her fair hair as she goes along with us. They call out after\nher, 'Look at the Rubia! Look at the Rubiacita!' They call out in the\nstreets. She is timid.\"\n\n\"And you? You are not timid--eh?\" the father pronounced, slowly.\n\nShe tossed back all her dark hair.\n\n\"Nobody calls out after me.\"\n\nOld Giorgio contemplated his children thoughtfully. There was two years\ndifference between them. They had been born to him late, years after\nthe boy had died. Had he lived he would have been nearly as old as Gian'\nBattista--he whom the English called Nostromo; but as to his daughters,\nthe severity of his temper, his advancing age, his absorption in his\nmemories, had prevented his taking much notice of them. He loved his\nchildren, but girls belong more to the mother, and much of his affection\nhad been expended in the worship and service of liberty.\n\nWhen quite a youth he had deserted from a ship trading to La Plata, to\nenlist in the navy of Montevideo, then under the command of Garibaldi.\nAfterwards, in the Italian legion of the Republic struggling against the\nencroaching tyranny of Rosas, he had taken part, on great plains, on the\nbanks of immense rivers, in the fiercest fighting perhaps the world had\never known. He had lived amongst men who had declaimed about liberty,\nsuffered for liberty, died for liberty, with a desperate exaltation, and\nwith their eyes turned towards an oppressed Italy. His own enthusiasm\nhad been fed on scenes of carnage, on the examples of lofty devotion, on\nthe din of armed struggle, on the inflamed language of proclamations.\nHe had never parted from the chief of his choice--the fiery apostle of\nindependence--keeping by his side in America and in Italy till after\nthe fatal day of Aspromonte, when the treachery of kings, emperors,\nand ministers had been revealed to the world in the wounding and\nimprisonment of his hero--a catastrophe that had instilled into him\na gloomy doubt of ever being able to understand the ways of Divine\njustice.\n\nHe did not deny it, however. It required patience, he would say. Though\nhe disliked priests, and would not put his foot inside a church for\nanything, he believed in God. Were not the proclamations against tyrants\naddressed to the peoples in the name of God and liberty? \"God for\nmen--religions for women,\" he muttered sometimes. In Sicily, an\nEnglishman who had turned up in Palermo after its evacuation by the army\nof the king, had given him a Bible in Italian--the publication of the\nBritish and Foreign Bible Society, bound in a dark leather cover.\nIn periods of political adversity, in the pauses of silence when the\nrevolutionists issued no proclamations, Giorgio earned his living with\nthe first work that came to hand--as sailor, as dock labourer on the\nquays of Genoa, once as a hand on a farm in the hills above Spezzia--and\nin his spare time he studied the thick volume. He carried it with\nhim into battles. Now it was his only reading, and in order not to be\ndeprived of it (the print was small) he had consented to accept the\npresent of a pair of silver-mounted spectacles from Senora Emilia Gould,\nthe wife of the Englishman who managed the silver mine in the mountains\nthree leagues from the town. She was the only Englishwoman in Sulaco.\n\nGiorgio Viola had a great consideration for the English. This feeling,\nborn on the battlefields of Uruguay, was forty years old at the very\nleast. Several of them had poured their blood for the cause of freedom\nin America, and the first he had ever known he remembered by the name of\nSamuel; he commanded a negro company under Garibaldi, during the famous\nsiege of Montevideo, and died heroically with his negroes at the fording\nof the Boyana. He, Giorgio, had reached the rank of ensign-alferez-and\ncooked for the general. Later, in Italy, he, with the rank of\nlieutenant, rode with the staff and still cooked for the general. He had\ncooked for him in Lombardy through the whole campaign; on the march to\nRome he had lassoed his beef in the Campagna after the American manner;\nhe had been wounded in the defence of the Roman Republic; he was one of\nthe four fugitives who, with the general, carried out of the woods the\ninanimate body of the general's wife into the farmhouse where she died,\nexhausted by the hardships of that terrible retreat. He had survived\nthat disastrous time to attend his general in Palermo when the\nNeapolitan shells from the castle crashed upon the town. He had cooked\nfor him on the field of Volturno after fighting all day. And everywhere\nhe had seen Englishmen in the front rank of the army of freedom.\nHe respected their nation because they loved Garibaldi. Their very\ncountesses and princesses had kissed the general's hands in London, it\nwas said. He could well believe it; for the nation was noble, and the\nman was a saint. It was enough to look once at his face to see the\ndivine force of faith in him and his great pity for all that was poor,\nsuffering, and oppressed in this world.\n\nThe spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devotion to a vast\nhumanitarian idea which inspired the thought and stress of that\nrevolutionary time, had left its mark upon Giorgio in a sort of austere\ncontempt for all personal advantage. This man, whom the lowest class in\nSulaco suspected of having a buried hoard in his kitchen, had all his\nlife despised money. The leaders of his youth had lived poor, had died\npoor. It had been a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It was\nengendered partly by an existence of excitement, adventure, and wild\nwarfare. But mostly it was a matter of principle. It did not resemble\nthe carelessness of a condottiere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born\nof stern enthusiasm like the puritanism of religion.\n\nThis stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloom upon Giorgio's old\nage. It cast a gloom because the cause seemed lost. Too many kings and\nemperors flourished yet in the world which God had meant for the people.\nHe was sad because of his simplicity. Though always ready to help his\ncountrymen, and greatly respected by the Italian emigrants wherever he\nlived (in his exile he called it), he could not conceal from himself\nthat they cared nothing for the wrongs of down-trodden nations. They\nlistened to his tales of war readily, but seemed to ask themselves what\nhe had got out of it after all. There was nothing that they could see.\n\"We wanted nothing, we suffered for the love of all humanity!\" he cried\nout furiously sometimes, and the powerful voice, the blazing eyes, the\nshaking of the white mane, the brown, sinewy hand pointing upwards as\nif to call heaven to witness, impressed his hearers. After the old man\nhad broken off abruptly with a jerk of the head and a movement of the\narm, meaning clearly, \"But what's the good of talking to you?\" they\nnudged each other. There was in old Giorgio an energy of feeling, a\npersonal quality of conviction, something they called \"terribilita\"--\"an\nold lion,\" they used to say of him. Some slight incident, a chance\nword would set him off talking on the beach to the Italian fishermen of\nMaldonado, in the little shop he kept afterwards (in Valparaiso) to his\ncountrymen customers; of an evening, suddenly, in the cafe at one end of\nthe Casa Viola (the other was reserved for the English engineers) to the\nselect clientele of engine-drivers and foremen of the railway shops.\n\nWith their handsome, bronzed, lean faces, shiny black ringlets,\nglistening eyes, broad-chested, bearded, sometimes a tiny gold ring in\nthe lobe of the ear, the aristocracy of the railway works listened\nto him, turning away from their cards or dominoes. Here and there a\nfair-haired Basque studied his hand meantime, waiting without protest.\nNo native of Costaguana intruded there. This was the Italian stronghold.\nEven the Sulaco policemen on a night patrol let their horses pace softly\nby, bending low in the saddle to glance through the window at the heads\nin a fog of smoke; and the drone of old Giorgio's declamatory narrative\nseemed to sink behind them into the plain. Only now and then the\nassistant of the chief of police, some broad-faced, brown little\ngentleman, with a great deal of Indian in him, would put in an\nappearance. Leaving his man outside with the horses he advanced with a\nconfident, sly smile, and without a word up to the long trestle table.\nHe pointed to one of the bottles on the shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his\npipe into his mouth abruptly, served him in person. Nothing would be\nheard but the slight jingle of the spurs. His glass emptied, he would\ntake a leisurely, scrutinizing look all round the room, go out, and ride\naway slowly, circling towards the town.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nIn this way only was the power of the local authorities vindicated\namongst the great body of strong-limbed foreigners who dug the earth,\nblasted the rocks, drove the engines for the \"progressive and\npatriotic undertaking.\" In these very words eighteen months before the\nExcellentissimo Senor don Vincente Ribiera, the Dictator of Costaguana,\nhad described the National Central Railway in his great speech at the\nturning of the first sod.\n\nHe had come on purpose to Sulaco, and there was a one-o'clock\ndinner-party, a convite offered by the O.S.N. Company on board the Juno\nafter the function on shore. Captain Mitchell had himself steered the\ncargo lighter, all draped with flags, which, in tow of the Juno's steam\nlaunch, took the Excellentissimo from the jetty to the ship. Everybody\nof note in Sulaco had been invited--the one or two foreign merchants,\nall the representatives of the old Spanish families then in town, the\ngreat owners of estates on the plain, grave, courteous, simple men,\ncaballeros of pure descent, with small hands and feet, conservative,\nhospitable, and kind. The Occidental Province was their stronghold;\ntheir Blanco party had triumphed now; it was their President-Dictator,\na Blanco of the Blancos, who sat smiling urbanely between the\nrepresentatives of two friendly foreign powers. They had come with him\nfrom Sta. Marta to countenance by their presence the enterprise in\nwhich the capital of their countries was engaged. The only lady of that\ncompany was Mrs. Gould, the wife of Don Carlos, the administrator of the\nSan Tome silver mine. The ladies of Sulaco were not advanced enough to\ntake part in the public life to that extent. They had come out strongly\nat the great ball at the Intendencia the evening before, but Mrs. Gould\nalone had appeared, a bright spot in the group of black coats behind the\nPresident-Dictator, on the crimson cloth-covered stage erected under a\nshady tree on the shore of the harbour, where the ceremony of turning\nthe first sod had taken place. She had come off in the cargo lighter,\nfull of notabilities, sitting under the flutter of gay flags, in the\nplace of honour by the side of Captain Mitchell, who steered, and her\nclear dress gave the only truly festive note to the sombre gathering in\nthe long, gorgeous saloon of the Juno.\n\nThe head of the chairman of the railway board (from London), handsome\nand pale in a silvery mist of white hair and clipped beard, hovered near\nher shoulder attentive, smiling, and fatigued. The journey from London\nto Sta. Marta in mail boats and the special carriages of the Sta.\nMarta coast-line (the only railway so far) had been tolerable--even\npleasant--quite tolerable. But the trip over the mountains to Sulaco was\nanother sort of experience, in an old diligencia over impassable roads\nskirting awful precipices.\n\n\"We have been upset twice in one day on the brink of very deep ravines,\"\nhe was telling Mrs. Gould in an undertone. \"And when we arrived here\nat last I don't know what we should have done without your hospitality.\nWhat an out-of-the-way place Sulaco is!--and for a harbour, too!\nAstonishing!\"\n\n\"Ah, but we are very proud of it. It used to be historically important.\nThe highest ecclesiastical court for two viceroyalties, sat here in the\nolden time,\" she instructed him with animation.\n\n\"I am impressed. I didn't mean to be disparaging. You seem very\npatriotic.\"\n\n\"The place is lovable, if only by its situation. Perhaps you don't know\nwhat an old resident I am.\"\n\n\"How old, I wonder,\" he murmured, looking at her with a slight smile.\nMrs. Gould's appearance was made youthful by the mobile intelligence of\nher face. \"We can't give you your ecclesiastical court back again; but\nyou shall have more steamers, a railway, a telegraph-cable--a future\nin the great world which is worth infinitely more than any amount\nof ecclesiastical past. You shall be brought in touch with something\ngreater than two viceroyalties. But I had no notion that a place on\na sea-coast could remain so isolated from the world. If it had been a\nthousand miles inland now--most remarkable! Has anything ever happened\nhere for a hundred years before to-day?\"\n\nWhile he talked in a slow, humorous tone, she kept her little smile.\nAgreeing ironically, she assured him that certainly not--nothing ever\nhappened in Sulaco. Even the revolutions, of which there had been two in\nher time, had respected the repose of the place. Their course ran in the\nmore populous southern parts of the Republic, and the great valley of\nSta. Marta, which was like one great battlefield of the parties, with\nthe possession of the capital for a prize and an outlet to another\nocean. They were more advanced over there. Here in Sulaco they heard\nonly the echoes of these great questions, and, of course, their official\nworld changed each time, coming to them over their rampart of mountains\nwhich he himself had traversed in an old diligencia, with such a risk to\nlife and limb.\n\nThe chairman of the railway had been enjoying her hospitality for\nseveral days, and he was really grateful for it. It was only since he\nhad left Sta. Marta that he had utterly lost touch with the feeling\nof European life on the background of his exotic surroundings. In the\ncapital he had been the guest of the Legation, and had been kept busy\nnegotiating with the members of Don Vincente's Government--cultured men,\nmen to whom the conditions of civilized business were not unknown.\n\nWhat concerned him most at the time was the acquisition of land for the\nrailway. In the Sta. Marta Valley, where there was already one line in\nexistence, the people were tractable, and it was only a matter of price.\nA commission had been nominated to fix the values, and the difficulty\nresolved itself into the judicious influencing of the Commissioners.\nBut in Sulaco--the Occidental Province for whose very development the\nrailway was intended--there had been trouble. It had been lying for ages\nensconced behind its natural barriers, repelling modern enterprise by\nthe precipices of its mountain range, by its shallow harbour opening\ninto the everlasting calms of a gulf full of clouds, by the benighted\nstate of mind of the owners of its fertile territory--all these\naristocratic old Spanish families, all those Don Ambrosios this and Don\nFernandos that, who seemed actually to dislike and distrust the coming\nof the railway over their lands. It had happened that some of the\nsurveying parties scattered all over the province had been warned off\nwith threats of violence. In other cases outrageous pretensions as to\nprice had been raised. But the man of railways prided himself on being\nequal to every emergency. Since he was met by the inimical sentiment of\nblind conservatism in Sulaco he would meet it by sentiment, too, before\ntaking his stand on his right alone. The Government was bound to carry\nout its part of the contract with the board of the new railway company,\neven if it had to use force for the purpose. But he desired nothing less\nthan an armed disturbance in the smooth working of his plans. They\nwere much too vast and far-reaching, and too promising to leave a stone\nunturned; and so he imagined to get the President-Dictator over there\non a tour of ceremonies and speeches, culminating in a great function\nat the turning of the first sod by the harbour shore. After all he was\ntheir own creature--that Don Vincente. He was the embodied triumph of\nthe best elements in the State. These were facts, and, unless facts\nmeant nothing, Sir John argued to himself, such a man's influence must\nbe real, and his personal action would produce the conciliatory effect\nhe required. He had succeeded in arranging the trip with the help of a\nvery clever advocate, who was known in Sta. Marta as the agent of the\nGould silver mine, the biggest thing in Sulaco, and even in the whole\nRepublic. It was indeed a fabulously rich mine. Its so-called agent,\nevidently a man of culture and ability, seemed, without official\nposition, to possess an extraordinary influence in the highest\nGovernment spheres. He was able to assure Sir John that the\nPresident-Dictator would make the journey. He regretted, however, in\nthe course of the same conversation, that General Montero insisted upon\ngoing, too.\n\nGeneral Montero, whom the beginning of the struggle had found an obscure\narmy captain employed on the wild eastern frontier of the State, had\nthrown in his lot with the Ribiera party at a moment when special\ncircumstances had given that small adhesion a fortuitous importance.\nThe fortunes of war served him marvellously, and the victory of Rio Seco\n(after a day of desperate fighting) put a seal to his success. At the\nend he emerged General, Minister of War, and the military head of the\nBlanco party, although there was nothing aristocratic in his descent.\nIndeed, it was said that he and his brother, orphans, had been brought\nup by the munificence of a famous European traveller, in whose service\ntheir father had lost his life. Another story was that their father\nhad been nothing but a charcoal burner in the woods, and their mother a\nbaptised Indian woman from the far interior.\n\nHowever that might be, the Costaguana Press was in the habit of styling\nMontero's forest march from his commandancia to join the Blanco forces\nat the beginning of the troubles, the \"most heroic military exploit of\nmodern times.\" About the same time, too, his brother had turned up from\nEurope, where he had gone apparently as secretary to a consul. Having,\nhowever, collected a small band of outlaws, he showed some talent as\nguerilla chief and had been rewarded at the pacification by the post of\nMilitary Commandant of the capital.\n\nThe Minister of War, then, accompanied the Dictator. The board of the\nO.S.N. Company, working hand-in-hand with the railway people for the\ngood of the Republic, had on this important occasion instructed Captain\nMitchell to put the mail-boat Juno at the disposal of the distinguished\nparty. Don Vincente, journeying south from Sta. Marta, had embarked at\nCayta, the principal port of Costaguana, and came to Sulaco by sea.\nBut the chairman of the railway company had courageously crossed the\nmountains in a ramshackle diligencia, mainly for the purpose of meeting\nhis engineer-in-chief engaged in the final survey of the road.\n\nFor all the indifference of a man of affairs to nature, whose hostility\ncan always be overcome by the resources of finance, he could not help\nbeing impressed by his surroundings during his halt at the surveying\ncamp established at the highest point his railway was to reach. He spent\nthe night there, arriving just too late to see the last dying glow of\nsunlight upon the snowy flank of Higuerota. Pillared masses of black\nbasalt framed like an open portal a portion of the white field lying\naslant against the west. In the transparent air of the high altitudes\neverything seemed very near, steeped in a clear stillness as in an\nimponderable liquid; and with his ear ready to catch the first sound of\nthe expected diligencia the engineer-in-chief, at the door of a hut of\nrough stones, had contemplated the changing hues on the enormous side\nof the mountain, thinking that in this sight, as in a piece of inspired\nmusic, there could be found together the utmost delicacy of shaded\nexpression and a stupendous magnificence of effect.\n\nSir John arrived too late to hear the magnificent and inaudible strain\nsung by the sunset amongst the high peaks of the Sierra. It had sung\nitself out into the breathless pause of deep dusk before, climbing down\nthe fore wheel of the diligencia with stiff limbs, he shook hands with\nthe engineer.\n\nThey gave him his dinner in a stone hut like a cubical boulder, with no\ndoor or windows in its two openings; a bright fire of sticks (brought\non muleback from the first valley below) burning outside, sent in a\nwavering glare; and two candles in tin candlesticks--lighted, it was\nexplained to him, in his honour--stood on a sort of rough camp table, at\nwhich he sat on the right hand of the chief. He knew how to be amiable;\nand the young men of the engineering staff, for whom the surveying of\nthe railway track had the glamour of the first steps on the path of\nlife, sat there, too, listening modestly, with their smooth faces tanned\nby the weather, and very pleased to witness so much affability in so\ngreat a man.\n\nAfterwards, late at night, pacing to and fro outside, he had a long talk\nwith his chief engineer. He knew him well of old. This was not the first\nundertaking in which their gifts, as elementally different as fire\nand water, had worked in conjunction. From the contact of these two\npersonalities, who had not the same vision of the world, there was\ngenerated a power for the world's service--a subtle force that could\nset in motion mighty machines, men's muscles, and awaken also in human\nbreasts an unbounded devotion to the task. Of the young fellows at the\ntable, to whom the survey of the track was like the tracing of the path\nof life, more than one would be called to meet death before the work was\ndone. But the work would be done: the force would be almost as strong\nas a faith. Not quite, however. In the silence of the sleeping camp upon\nthe moonlit plateau forming the top of the pass like the floor of a\nvast arena surrounded by the basalt walls of precipices, two strolling\nfigures in thick ulsters stood still, and the voice of the engineer\npronounced distinctly the words--\n\n\"We can't move mountains!\"\n\nSir John, raising his head to follow the pointing gesture, felt the full\nforce of the words. The white Higuerota soared out of the shadows of\nrock and earth like a frozen bubble under the moon. All was still, till\nnear by, behind the wall of a corral for the camp animals, built\nroughly of loose stones in the form of a circle, a pack mule stamped his\nforefoot and blew heavily twice.\n\nThe engineer-in-chief had used the phrase in answer to the chairman's\ntentative suggestion that the tracing of the line could, perhaps, be\naltered in deference to the prejudices of the Sulaco landowners.\nThe chief engineer believed that the obstinacy of men was the lesser\nobstacle. Moreover, to combat that they had the great influence of\nCharles Gould, whereas tunnelling under Higuerota would have been a\ncolossal undertaking.\n\n\"Ah, yes! Gould. What sort of a man is he?\"\n\nSir John had heard much of Charles Gould in Sta. Marta, and wanted to\nknow more. The engineer-in-chief assured him that the administrator of\nthe San Tome silver mine had an immense influence over all these Spanish\nDons. He had also one of the best houses in Sulaco, and the Gould\nhospitality was beyond all praise.\n\n\"They received me as if they had known me for years,\" he said. \"The\nlittle lady is kindness personified. I stayed with them for a month. He\nhelped me to organize the surveying parties. His practical ownership of\nthe San Tome silver mine gives him a special position. He seems to have\nthe ear of every provincial authority apparently, and, as I said, he can\nwind all the hidalgos of the province round his little finger. If you\nfollow his advice the difficulties will fall away, because he wants the\nrailway. Of course, you must be careful in what you say. He's English,\nand besides he must be immensely wealthy. The Holroyd house is in with\nhim in that mine, so you may imagine--\"\n\nHe interrupted himself as, from before one of the little fires burning\noutside the low wall of the corral, arose the figure of a man wrapped in\na poncho up to the neck. The saddle which he had been using for a pillow\nmade a dark patch on the ground against the red glow of embers.\n\n\"I shall see Holroyd himself on my way back through the States,\" said\nSir John. \"I've ascertained that he, too, wants the railway.\"\n\nThe man who, perhaps disturbed by the proximity of the voices, had\narisen from the ground, struck a match to light a cigarette. The flame\nshowed a bronzed, black-whiskered face, a pair of eyes gazing straight;\nthen, rearranging his wrappings, he sank full length and laid his head\nagain on the saddle.\n\n\"That's our camp-master, whom I must send back to Sulaco now we\nare going to carry our survey into the Sta. Marta Valley,\" said the\nengineer. \"A most useful fellow, lent me by Captain Mitchell of the\nO.S.N. Company. It was very good of Mitchell. Charles Gould told me I\ncouldn't do better than take advantage of the offer. He seems to know\nhow to rule all these muleteers and peons. We had not the slightest\ntrouble with our people. He shall escort your diligencia right into\nSulaco with some of our railway peons. The road is bad. To have him at\nhand may save you an upset or two. He promised me to take care of your\nperson all the way down as if you were his father.\"\n\nThis camp-master was the Italian sailor whom all the Europeans in\nSulaco, following Captain Mitchell's mispronunciation, were in the\nhabit of calling Nostromo. And indeed, taciturn and ready, he did take\nexcellent care of his charge at the bad parts of the road, as Sir John\nhimself acknowledged to Mrs. Gould afterwards.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nAt that time Nostromo had been already long enough in the country\nto raise to the highest pitch Captain Mitchell's opinion of the\nextraordinary value of his discovery. Clearly he was one of those\ninvaluable subordinates whom to possess is a legitimate cause of\nboasting. Captain Mitchell plumed himself upon his eye for men--but\nhe was not selfish--and in the innocence of his pride was already\ndeveloping that mania for \"lending you my Capataz de Cargadores\" which\nwas to bring Nostromo into personal contact, sooner or later, with\nevery European in Sulaco, as a sort of universal factotum--a prodigy of\nefficiency in his own sphere of life.\n\n\"The fellow is devoted to me, body and soul!\" Captain Mitchell was\ngiven to affirm; and though nobody, perhaps, could have explained why it\nshould be so, it was impossible on a survey of their relation to throw\ndoubt on that statement, unless, indeed, one were a bitter, eccentric\ncharacter like Dr. Monygham--for instance--whose short, hopeless laugh\nexpressed somehow an immense mistrust of mankind. Not that Dr. Monygham\nwas a prodigal either of laughter or of words. He was bitterly taciturn\nwhen at his best. At his worst people feared the open scornfulness of\nhis tongue. Only Mrs. Gould could keep his unbelief in men's motives\nwithin due bounds; but even to her (on an occasion not connected with\nNostromo, and in a tone which for him was gentle), even to her, he had\nsaid once, \"Really, it is most unreasonable to demand that a man\nshould think of other people so much better than he is able to think of\nhimself.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Gould had hastened to drop the subject. There were strange\nrumours of the English doctor. Years ago, in the time of Guzman Bento,\nhe had been mixed up, it was whispered, in a conspiracy which was\nbetrayed and, as people expressed it, drowned in blood. His hair had\nturned grey, his hairless, seamed face was of a brick-dust colour; the\nlarge check pattern of his flannel shirt and his old stained Panama hat\nwere an established defiance to the conventionalities of Sulaco. Had\nit not been for the immaculate cleanliness of his apparel he might have\nbeen taken for one of those shiftless Europeans that are a moral eyesore\nto the respectability of a foreign colony in almost every exotic part of\nthe world. The young ladies of Sulaco, adorning with clusters of pretty\nfaces the balconies along the Street of the Constitution, when they saw\nhim pass, with his limping gait and bowed head, a short linen jacket\ndrawn on carelessly over the flannel check shirt, would remark to each\nother, \"Here is the Senor doctor going to call on Dona Emilia. He has\ngot his little coat on.\" The inference was true. Its deeper meaning was\nhidden from their simple intelligence. Moreover, they expended no\nstore of thought on the doctor. He was old, ugly, learned--and a little\n\"loco\"--mad, if not a bit of a sorcerer, as the common people suspected\nhim of being. The little white jacket was in reality a concession\nto Mrs. Gould's humanizing influence. The doctor, with his habit of\nsceptical, bitter speech, had no other means of showing his profound\nrespect for the character of the woman who was known in the country as\nthe English Senora. He presented this tribute very seriously indeed;\nit was no trifle for a man of his habits. Mrs. Gould felt that, too,\nperfectly. She would never have thought of imposing upon him this marked\nshow of deference.\n\nShe kept her old Spanish house (one of the finest specimens in Sulaco)\nopen for the dispensation of the small graces of existence. She\ndispensed them with simplicity and charm because she was guided by an\nalert perception of values. She was highly gifted in the art of human\nintercourse which consists in delicate shades of self-forgetfulness and\nin the suggestion of universal comprehension. Charles Gould (the Gould\nfamily, established in Costaguana for three generations, always went to\nEngland for their education and for their wives) imagined that he had\nfallen in love with a girl's sound common sense like any other man,\nbut these were not exactly the reasons why, for instance, the whole\nsurveying camp, from the youngest of the young men to their mature\nchief, should have found occasion to allude to Mrs. Gould's house\nso frequently amongst the high peaks of the Sierra. She would have\nprotested that she had done nothing for them, with a low laugh and\na surprised widening of her grey eyes, had anybody told her how\nconvincingly she was remembered on the edge of the snow-line above\nSulaco. But directly, with a little capable air of setting her wits to\nwork, she would have found an explanation. \"Of course, it was such a\nsurprise for these boys to find any sort of welcome here. And I suppose\nthey are homesick. I suppose everybody must be always just a little\nhomesick.\"\n\nShe was always sorry for homesick people.\n\nBorn in the country, as his father before him, spare and tall, with\na flaming moustache, a neat chin, clear blue eyes, auburn hair, and a\nthin, fresh, red face, Charles Gould looked like a new arrival from over\nthe sea. His grandfather had fought in the cause of independence under\nBolivar, in that famous English legion which on the battlefield of\nCarabobo had been saluted by the great Liberator as Saviours of his\ncountry. One of Charles Gould's uncles had been the elected President\nof that very province of Sulaco (then called a State) in the days of\nFederation, and afterwards had been put up against the wall of a church\nand shot by the order of the barbarous Unionist general, Guzman Bento.\nIt was the same Guzman Bento who, becoming later Perpetual President,\nfamed for his ruthless and cruel tyranny, readied his apotheosis in the\npopular legend of a sanguinary land-haunting spectre whose body had been\ncarried off by the devil in person from the brick mausoleum in the nave\nof the Church of Assumption in Sta. Marta. Thus, at least, the priests\nexplained its disappearance to the barefooted multitude that streamed\nin, awestruck, to gaze at the hole in the side of the ugly box of bricks\nbefore the great altar.\n\nGuzman Bento of cruel memory had put to death great numbers of people\nbesides Charles Gould's uncle; but with a relative martyred in the cause\nof aristocracy, the Sulaco Oligarchs (this was the phraseology of Guzman\nBento's time; now they were called Blancos, and had given up the federal\nidea), which meant the families of pure Spanish descent, considered\nCharles as one of themselves. With such a family record, no one could\nbe more of a Costaguanero than Don Carlos Gould; but his aspect was\nso characteristic that in the talk of common people he was just the\nInglez--the Englishman of Sulaco. He looked more English than a casual\ntourist, a sort of heretic pilgrim, however, quite unknown in Sulaco.\nHe looked more English than the last arrived batch of young railway\nengineers, than anybody out of the hunting-field pictures in the numbers\nof Punch reaching his wife's drawing-room two months or so after date.\nIt astonished you to hear him talk Spanish (Castillan, as the natives\nsay) or the Indian dialect of the country-people so naturally. His\naccent had never been English; but there was something so indelible\nin all these ancestral Goulds--liberators, explorers, coffee\nplanters, merchants, revolutionists--of Costaguana, that he, the only\nrepresentative of the third generation in a continent possessing its\nown style of horsemanship, went on looking thoroughly English even\non horseback. This is not said of him in the mocking spirit of the\nLlaneros--men of the great plains--who think that no one in the world\nknows how to sit a horse but themselves. Charles Gould, to use the\nsuitably lofty phrase, rode like a centaur. Riding for him was not a\nspecial form of exercise; it was a natural faculty, as walking straight\nis to all men sound of mind and limb; but, all the same, when cantering\nbeside the rutty ox-cart track to the mine he looked in his English\nclothes and with his imported saddlery as though he had come this moment\nto Costaguana at his easy swift pasotrote, straight out of some green\nmeadow at the other side of the world.\n\nHis way would lie along the old Spanish road--the Camino Real of popular\nspeech--the only remaining vestige of a fact and name left by that\nroyalty old Giorgio Viola hated, and whose very shadow had departed from\nthe land; for the big equestrian statue of Charles IV. at the entrance\nof the Alameda, towering white against the trees, was only known to the\nfolk from the country and to the beggars of the town that slept on the\nsteps around the pedestal, as the Horse of Stone. The other Carlos,\nturning off to the left with a rapid clatter of hoofs on the disjointed\npavement--Don Carlos Gould, in his English clothes, looked as\nincongruous, but much more at home than the kingly cavalier reining in\nhis steed on the pedestal above the sleeping leperos, with his marble\narm raised towards the marble rim of a plumed hat.\n\nThe weather-stained effigy of the mounted king, with its vague\nsuggestion of a saluting gesture, seemed to present an inscrutable\nbreast to the political changes which had robbed it of its very name;\nbut neither did the other horseman, well known to the people, keen and\nalive on his well-shaped, slate-coloured beast with a white eye, wear\nhis heart on the sleeve of his English coat. His mind preserved its\nsteady poise as if sheltered in the passionless stability of private\nand public decencies at home in Europe. He accepted with a like calm the\nshocking manner in which the Sulaco ladies smothered their faces with\npearl powder till they looked like white plaster casts with beautiful\nliving eyes, the peculiar gossip of the town, and the continuous\npolitical changes, the constant \"saving of the country,\" which to his\nwife seemed a puerile and bloodthirsty game of murder and rapine played\nwith terrible earnestness by depraved children. In the early days of\nher Costaguana life, the little lady used to clench her hands with\nexasperation at not being able to take the public affairs of the country\nas seriously as the incidental atrocity of methods deserved. She saw in\nthem a comedy of naive pretences, but hardly anything genuine except\nher own appalled indignation. Charles, very quiet and twisting his long\nmoustaches, would decline to discuss them at all. Once, however, he\nobserved to her gently--\n\n\"My dear, you seem to forget that I was born here.\" These few words made\nher pause as if they had been a sudden revelation. Perhaps the mere\nfact of being born in the country did make a difference. She had a great\nconfidence in her husband; it had always been very great. He had struck\nher imagination from the first by his unsentimentalism, by that very\nquietude of mind which she had erected in her thought for a sign of\nperfect competency in the business of living. Don Jose Avellanos, their\nneighbour across the street, a statesman, a poet, a man of culture, who\nhad represented his country at several European Courts (and had suffered\nuntold indignities as a state prisoner in the time of the tyrant Guzman\nBento), used to declare in Dona Emilia's drawing-room that Carlos had\nall the English qualities of character with a truly patriotic heart.\n\nMrs. Gould, raising her eyes to her husband's thin, red and tan face,\ncould not detect the slightest quiver of a feature at what he must have\nheard said of his patriotism. Perhaps he had just dismounted on his\nreturn from the mine; he was English enough to disregard the hottest\nhours of the day. Basilio, in a livery of white linen and a red sash,\nhad squatted for a moment behind his heels to unstrap the heavy, blunt\nspurs in the patio; and then the Senor Administrator would go up the\nstaircase into the gallery. Rows of plants in pots, ranged on the\nbalustrade between the pilasters of the arches, screened the corredor\nwith their leaves and flowers from the quadrangle below, whose paved\nspace is the true hearthstone of a South American house, where the quiet\nhours of domestic life are marked by the shifting of light and shadow on\nthe flagstones.\n\nSenor Avellanos was in the habit of crossing the patio at five o'clock\nalmost every day. Don Jose chose to come over at tea-time because the\nEnglish rite at Dona Emilia's house reminded him of the time he lived in\nLondon as Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. He did\nnot like tea; and, usually, rocking his American chair, his neat little\nshiny boots crossed on the foot-rest, he would talk on and on with a\nsort of complacent virtuosity wonderful in a man of his age, while he\nheld the cup in his hands for a long time. His close-cropped head was\nperfectly white; his eyes coalblack.\n\nOn seeing Charles Gould step into the sala he would nod provisionally\nand go on to the end of the oratorial period. Only then he would say--\n\n\"Carlos, my friend, you have ridden from San Tome in the heat of the\nday. Always the true English activity. No? What?\"\n\nHe drank up all the tea at once in one draught. This performance\nwas invariably followed by a slight shudder and a low, involuntary\n\"br-r-r-r,\" which was not covered by the hasty exclamation, \"Excellent!\"\n\nThen giving up the empty cup into his young friend's hand, extended with\na smile, he continued to expatiate upon the patriotic nature of the San\nTome mine for the simple pleasure of talking fluently, it seemed, while\nhis reclining body jerked backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair of\nthe sort exported from the United States. The ceiling of the largest\ndrawing-room of the Casa Gould extended its white level far above\nhis head. The loftiness dwarfed the mixture of heavy, straight-backed\nSpanish chairs of brown wood with leathern seats, and European\nfurniture, low, and cushioned all over, like squat little monsters\ngorged to bursting with steel springs and horsehair. There were\nknick-knacks on little tables, mirrors let into the wall above marble\nconsoles, square spaces of carpet under the two groups of armchairs,\neach presided over by a deep sofa; smaller rugs scattered all over the\nfloor of red tiles; three windows from the ceiling down to the ground,\nopening on a balcony, and flanked by the perpendicular folds of the\ndark hangings. The stateliness of ancient days lingered between the four\nhigh, smooth walls, tinted a delicate primrose-colour; and Mrs. Gould,\nwith her little head and shining coils of hair, sitting in a cloud of\nmuslin and lace before a slender mahogany table, resembled a fairy posed\nlightly before dainty philtres dispensed out of vessels of silver and\nporcelain.\n\nMrs. Gould knew the history of the San Tome mine. Worked in the early\ndays mostly by means of lashes on the backs of slaves, its yield had\nbeen paid for in its own weight of human bones. Whole tribes of Indians\nhad perished in the exploitation; and then the mine was abandoned, since\nwith this primitive method it had ceased to make a profitable return,\nno matter how many corpses were thrown into its maw. Then it became\nforgotten. It was rediscovered after the War of Independence. An English\ncompany obtained the right to work it, and found so rich a vein that\nneither the exactions of successive governments, nor the periodical\nraids of recruiting officers upon the population of paid miners they had\ncreated, could discourage their perseverance. But in the end, during the\nlong turmoil of pronunciamentos that followed the death of the famous\nGuzman Bento, the native miners, incited to revolt by the emissaries\nsent out from the capital, had risen upon their English chiefs and\nmurdered them to a man. The decree of confiscation which appeared\nimmediately afterwards in the Diario Official, published in Sta. Marta,\nbegan with the words: \"Justly incensed at the grinding oppression of\nforeigners, actuated by sordid motives of gain rather than by love for a\ncountry where they come impoverished to seek their fortunes, the mining\npopulation of San Tome, etc. . . .\" and ended with the declaration: \"The\nchief of the State has resolved to exercise to the full his power\nof clemency. The mine, which by every law, international, human, and\ndivine, reverts now to the Government as national property, shall remain\nclosed till the sword drawn for the sacred defence of liberal principles\nhas accomplished its mission of securing the happiness of our beloved\ncountry.\"\n\nAnd for many years this was the last of the San Tome mine. What\nadvantage that Government had expected from the spoliation, it is\nimpossible to tell now. Costaguana was made with difficulty to pay a\nbeggarly money compensation to the families of the victims, and then\nthe matter dropped out of diplomatic despatches. But afterwards another\nGovernment bethought itself of that valuable asset. It was an ordinary\nCostaguana Government--the fourth in six years--but it judged of its\nopportunities sanely. It remembered the San Tome mine with a secret\nconviction of its worthlessness in their own hands, but with an\ningenious insight into the various uses a silver mine can be put to,\napart from the sordid process of extracting the metal from under the\nground. The father of Charles Gould, for a long time one of the most\nwealthy merchants of Costaguana, had already lost a considerable part of\nhis fortune in forced loans to the successive Governments. He was a man\nof calm judgment, who never dreamed of pressing his claims; and when,\nsuddenly, the perpetual concession of the San Tome mine was offered to\nhim in full settlement, his alarm became extreme. He was versed in the\nways of Governments. Indeed, the intention of this affair, though no\ndoubt deeply meditated in the closet, lay open on the surface of the\ndocument presented urgently for his signature. The third and most\nimportant clause stipulated that the concession-holder should pay at\nonce to the Government five years' royalties on the estimated output of\nthe mine.\n\nMr. Gould, senior, defended himself from this fatal favour with many\narguments and entreaties, but without success. He knew nothing of\nmining; he had no means to put his concession on the European market;\nthe mine as a working concern did not exist. The buildings had been\nburnt down, the mining plant had been destroyed, the mining population\nhad disappeared from the neighbourhood years and years ago; the very\nroad had vanished under a flood of tropical vegetation as effectually\nas if swallowed by the sea; and the main gallery had fallen in within a\nhundred yards from the entrance. It was no longer an abandoned mine; it\nwas a wild, inaccessible, and rocky gorge of the Sierra, where vestiges\nof charred timber, some heaps of smashed bricks, and a few shapeless\npieces of rusty iron could have been found under the matted mass of\nthorny creepers covering the ground. Mr. Gould, senior, did not desire\nthe perpetual possession of that desolate locality; in fact, the mere\nvision of it arising before his mind in the still watches of the night\nhad the power to exasperate him into hours of hot and agitated insomnia.\n\nIt so happened, however, that the Finance Minister of the time was a\nman to whom, in years gone by, Mr. Gould had, unfortunately, declined to\ngrant some small pecuniary assistance, basing his refusal on the ground\nthat the applicant was a notorious gambler and cheat, besides being more\nthan half suspected of a robbery with violence on a wealthy ranchero in\na remote country district, where he was actually exercising the function\nof a judge. Now, after reaching his exalted position, that politician\nhad proclaimed his intention to repay evil with good to Senor\nGould--the poor man. He affirmed and reaffirmed this resolution in the\ndrawing-rooms of Sta. Marta, in a soft and implacable voice, and\nwith such malicious glances that Mr. Gould's best friends advised him\nearnestly to attempt no bribery to get the matter dropped. It would have\nbeen useless. Indeed, it would not have been a very safe proceeding.\nSuch was also the opinion of a stout, loud-voiced lady of French\nextraction, the daughter, she said, of an officer of high rank (_officier\nsuperieur de l'armee_), who was accommodated with lodgings within the\nwalls of a secularized convent next door to the Ministry of Finance.\nThat florid person, when approached on behalf of Mr. Gould in a proper\nmanner, and with a suitable present, shook her head despondently. She\nwas good-natured, and her despondency was genuine. She imagined she\ncould not take money in consideration of something she could not\naccomplish. The friend of Mr. Gould, charged with the delicate mission,\nused to say afterwards that she was the only honest person closely or\nremotely connected with the Government he had ever met. \"No go,\" she\nhad said with a cavalier, husky intonation which was natural to her, and\nusing turns of expression more suitable to a child of parents unknown\nthan to the orphaned daughter of a general officer. \"No; it's no go. _Pas\nmoyen, mon garcon. C'est dommage, tout de meme. Ah! zut! Je ne vole\npas mon monde. Je ne suis pas ministre--moi! Vous pouvez emporter votre\npetit sac_.\"\n\nFor a moment, biting her carmine lip, she deplored inwardly the tyranny\nof the rigid principles governing the sale of her influence in high\nplaces. Then, significantly, and with a touch of impatience, \"_Allez_,\"\nshe added, \"_et dites bien a votre bonhomme--entendez-vous?--qu'il faut\navaler la pilule_.\"\n\nAfter such a warning there was nothing for it but to sign and pay.\nMr. Gould had swallowed the pill, and it was as though it had been\ncompounded of some subtle poison that acted directly on his brain. He\nbecame at once mine-ridden, and as he was well read in light literature\nit took to his mind the form of the Old Man of the Sea fastened upon his\nshoulders. He also began to dream of vampires. Mr. Gould exaggerated\nto himself the disadvantages of his new position, because he viewed it\nemotionally. His position in Costaguana was no worse than before. But\nman is a desperately conservative creature, and the extravagant novelty\nof this outrage upon his purse distressed his sensibilities. Everybody\naround him was being robbed by the grotesque and murderous bands that\nplayed their game of governments and revolutions after the death of\nGuzman Bento. His experience had taught him that, however short\nthe plunder might fall of their legitimate expectations, no gang in\npossession of the Presidential Palace would be so incompetent as to\nsuffer itself to be baffled by the want of a pretext. The first casual\ncolonel of the barefooted army of scarecrows that came along was able to\nexpose with force and precision to any mere civilian his titles to a sum\nof 10,000 dollars; the while his hope would be immutably fixed upon a\ngratuity, at any rate, of no less than a thousand. Mr. Gould knew that\nvery well, and, armed with resignation, had waited for better times. But\nto be robbed under the forms of legality and business was intolerable to\nhis imagination. Mr. Gould, the father, had one fault in his sagacious\nand honourable character: he attached too much importance to form. It is\na failing common to mankind, whose views are tinged by prejudices. There\nwas for him in that affair a malignancy of perverted justice which, by\nmeans of a moral shock, attacked his vigorous physique. \"It will end\nby killing me,\" he used to affirm many times a day. And, in fact, since\nthat time he began to suffer from fever, from liver pains, and mostly\nfrom a worrying inability to think of anything else. The Finance\nMinister could have formed no conception of the profound subtlety of his\nrevenge. Even Mr. Gould's letters to his fourteen-year-old boy Charles,\nthen away in England for his education, came at last to talk of\npractically nothing but the mine. He groaned over the injustice, the\npersecution, the outrage of that mine; he occupied whole pages in the\nexposition of the fatal consequences attaching to the possession of that\nmine from every point of view, with every dismal inference, with words\nof horror at the apparently eternal character of that curse. For the\nConcession had been granted to him and his descendants for ever. He\nimplored his son never to return to Costaguana, never to claim any\npart of his inheritance there, because it was tainted by the infamous\nConcession; never to touch it, never to approach it, to forget that\nAmerica existed, and pursue a mercantile career in Europe. And each\nletter ended with bitter self-reproaches for having stayed too long in\nthat cavern of thieves, intriguers, and brigands.\n\nTo be told repeatedly that one's future is blighted because of the\npossession of a silver mine is not, at the age of fourteen, a matter\nof prime importance as to its main statement; but in its form it is\ncalculated to excite a certain amount of wonder and attention. In course\nof time the boy, at first only puzzled by the angry jeremiads, but\nrather sorry for his dad, began to turn the matter over in his mind in\nsuch moments as he could spare from play and study. In about a year he\nhad evolved from the lecture of the letters a definite conviction\nthat there was a silver mine in the Sulaco province of the Republic of\nCostaguana, where poor Uncle Harry had been shot by soldiers a great\nmany years before. There was also connected closely with that mine a\nthing called the \"iniquitous Gould Concession,\" apparently written on\na paper which his father desired ardently to \"tear and fling into the\nfaces\" of presidents, members of judicature, and ministers of State.\nAnd this desire persisted, though the names of these people, he noticed,\nseldom remained the same for a whole year together. This desire (since\nthe thing was iniquitous) seemed quite natural to the boy, though why\nthe affair was iniquitous he did not know. Afterwards, with advancing\nwisdom, he managed to clear the plain truth of the business from the\nfantastic intrusions of the Old Man of the Sea, vampires, and ghouls,\nwhich had lent to his father's correspondence the flavour of a gruesome\nArabian Nights tale. In the end, the growing youth attained to as\nclose an intimacy with the San Tome mine as the old man who wrote these\nplaintive and enraged letters on the other side of the sea. He had been\nmade several times already to pay heavy fines for neglecting to work the\nmine, he reported, besides other sums extracted from him on account\nof future royalties, on the ground that a man with such a valuable\nconcession in his pocket could not refuse his financial assistance to\nthe Government of the Republic. The last of his fortune was passing away\nfrom him against worthless receipts, he wrote, in a rage, whilst he was\nbeing pointed out as an individual who had known how to secure enormous\nadvantages from the necessities of his country. And the young man in\nEurope grew more and more interested in that thing which could provoke\nsuch a tumult of words and passion.\n\nHe thought of it every day; but he thought of it without bitterness. It\nmight have been an unfortunate affair for his poor dad, and the\nwhole story threw a queer light upon the social and political life of\nCostaguana. The view he took of it was sympathetic to his father, yet\ncalm and reflective. His personal feelings had not been outraged, and it\nis difficult to resent with proper and durable indignation the physical\nor mental anguish of another organism, even if that other organism is\none's own father. By the time he was twenty Charles Gould had, in his\nturn, fallen under the spell of the San Tome mine. But it was another\nform of enchantment, more suitable to his youth, into whose magic\nformula there entered hope, vigour, and self-confidence, instead of\nweary indignation and despair. Left after he was twenty to his own\nguidance (except for the severe injunction not to return to Costaguana),\nhe had pursued his studies in Belgium and France with the idea of\nqualifying for a mining engineer. But this scientific aspect of his\nlabours remained vague and imperfect in his mind. Mines had acquired for\nhim a dramatic interest. He studied their peculiarities from a personal\npoint of view, too, as one would study the varied characters of men. He\nvisited them as one goes with curiosity to call upon remarkable persons.\nHe visited mines in Germany, in Spain, in Cornwall. Abandoned workings\nhad for him strong fascination. Their desolation appealed to him like\nthe sight of human misery, whose causes are varied and profound. They\nmight have been worthless, but also they might have been misunderstood.\nHis future wife was the first, and perhaps the only person to detect\nthis secret mood which governed the profoundly sensible, almost\nvoiceless attitude of this man towards the world of material things. And\nat once her delight in him, lingering with half-open wings like those\nbirds that cannot rise easily from a flat level, found a pinnacle from\nwhich to soar up into the skies.\n\nThey had become acquainted in Italy, where the future Mrs. Gould was\nstaying with an old and pale aunt who, years before, had married a\nmiddle-aged, impoverished Italian marquis. She now mourned that man, who\nhad known how to give up his life to the independence and unity of his\ncountry, who had known how to be as enthusiastic in his generosity as\nthe youngest of those who fell for that very cause of which old Giorgio\nViola was a drifting relic, as a broken spar is suffered to float away\ndisregarded after a naval victory. The Marchesa led a still, whispering\nexistence, nun-like in her black robes and a white band over the\nforehead, in a corner of the first floor of an ancient and ruinous\npalace, whose big, empty halls downstairs sheltered under their painted\nceilings the harvests, the fowls, and even the cattle, together with the\nwhole family of the tenant farmer.\n\nThe two young people had met in Lucca. After that meeting Charles Gould\nvisited no mines, though they went together in a carriage, once, to see\nsome marble quarries, where the work resembled mining in so far that\nit also was the tearing of the raw material of treasure from the earth.\nCharles Gould did not open his heart to her in any set speeches. He\nsimply went on acting and thinking in her sight. This is the true method\nof sincerity. One of his frequent remarks was, \"I think sometimes that\npoor father takes a wrong view of that San Tome business.\" And they\ndiscussed that opinion long and earnestly, as if they could influence a\nmind across half the globe; but in reality they discussed it because the\nsentiment of love can enter into any subject and live ardently in remote\nphrases. For this natural reason these discussions were precious to Mrs.\nGould in her engaged state. Charles feared that Mr. Gould, senior, was\nwasting his strength and making himself ill by his efforts to get rid\nof the Concession. \"I fancy that this is not the kind of handling it\nrequires,\" he mused aloud, as if to himself. And when she wondered\nfrankly that a man of character should devote his energies to plotting\nand intrigues, Charles would remark, with a gentle concern that\nunderstood her wonder, \"You must not forget that he was born there.\"\n\nShe would set her quick mind to work upon that, and then make the\ninconsequent retort, which he accepted as perfectly sagacious, because,\nin fact, it was so--\n\n\"Well, and you? You were born there, too.\"\n\nHe knew his answer.\n\n\"That's different. I've been away ten years. Dad never had such a long\nspell; and it was more than thirty years ago.\"\n\nShe was the first person to whom he opened his lips after receiving the\nnews of his father's death.\n\n\"It has killed him!\" he said.\n\nHe had walked straight out of town with the news, straight out before\nhim in the noonday sun on the white road, and his feet had brought\nhim face to face with her in the hall of the ruined palazzo, a room\nmagnificent and naked, with here and there a long strip of damask, black\nwith damp and age, hanging down on a bare panel of the wall. It was\nfurnished with exactly one gilt armchair, with a broken back, and an\noctagon columnar stand bearing a heavy marble vase ornamented with\nsculptured masks and garlands of flowers, and cracked from top to\nbottom. Charles Gould was dusty with the white dust of the road lying\non his boots, on his shoulders, on his cap with two peaks. Water dripped\nfrom under it all over his face, and he grasped a thick oaken cudgel in\nhis bare right hand.\n\nShe went very pale under the roses of her big straw hat, gloved,\nswinging a clear sunshade, caught just as she was going out to meet him\nat the bottom of the hill, where three poplars stand near the wall of a\nvineyard.\n\n\"It has killed him!\" he repeated. \"He ought to have had many years yet.\nWe are a long-lived family.\"\n\nShe was too startled to say anything; he was contemplating with a\npenetrating and motionless stare the cracked marble urn as though he\nhad resolved to fix its shape for ever in his memory. It was only when,\nturning suddenly to her, he blurted out twice, \"I've come to you--I've\ncome straight to you--,\" without being able to finish his phrase, that\nthe great pitifulness of that lonely and tormented death in Costaguana\ncame to her with the full force of its misery. He caught hold of her\nhand, raised it to his lips, and at that she dropped her parasol to pat\nhim on the cheek, murmured \"Poor boy,\" and began to dry her eyes under\nthe downward curve of her hat-brim, very small in her simple, white\nfrock, almost like a lost child crying in the degraded grandeur of the\nnoble hall, while he stood by her, again perfectly motionless in the\ncontemplation of the marble urn.\n\nAfterwards they went out for a long walk, which was silent till he\nexclaimed suddenly--\n\n\"Yes. But if he had only grappled with it in a proper way!\"\n\nAnd then they stopped. Everywhere there were long shadows lying on the\nhills, on the roads, on the enclosed fields of olive trees; the shadows\nof poplars, of wide chestnuts, of farm buildings, of stone walls; and\nin mid-air the sound of a bell, thin and alert, was like the throbbing\npulse of the sunset glow. Her lips were slightly parted as though in\nsurprise that he should not be looking at her with his usual expression.\nHis usual expression was unconditionally approving and attentive. He was\nin his talks with her the most anxious and deferential of dictators,\nan attitude that pleased her immensely. It affirmed her power without\ndetracting from his dignity. That slight girl, with her little feet,\nlittle hands, little face attractively overweighted by great coils of\nhair; with a rather large mouth, whose mere parting seemed to breathe\nupon you the fragrance of frankness and generosity, had the fastidious\nsoul of an experienced woman. She was, before all things and all\nflatteries, careful of her pride in the object of her choice. But now he\nwas actually not looking at her at all; and his expression was tense and\nirrational, as is natural in a man who elects to stare at nothing past a\nyoung girl's head.\n\n\"Well, yes. It was iniquitous. They corrupted him thoroughly, the poor\nold boy. Oh! why wouldn't he let me go back to him? But now I shall know\nhow to grapple with this.\"\n\nAfter pronouncing these words with immense assurance, he glanced down at\nher, and at once fell a prey to distress, incertitude, and fear.\n\nThe only thing he wanted to know now, he said, was whether she did love\nhim enough--whether she would have the courage to go with him so far\naway? He put these questions to her in a voice that trembled with\nanxiety--for he was a determined man.\n\nShe did. She would. And immediately the future hostess of all the\nEuropeans in Sulaco had the physical experience of the earth falling\naway from under her. It vanished completely, even to the very sound of\nthe bell. When her feet touched the ground again, the bell was still\nringing in the valley; she put her hands up to her hair, breathing\nquickly, and glanced up and down the stony lane. It was reassuringly\nempty. Meantime, Charles, stepping with one foot into a dry and dusty\nditch, picked up the open parasol, which had bounded away from them\nwith a martial sound of drum taps. He handed it to her soberly, a little\ncrestfallen.\n\nThey turned back, and after she had slipped her hand on his arm, the\nfirst words he pronounced were--\n\n\"It's lucky that we shall be able to settle in a coast town. You've\nheard its name. It is Sulaco. I am so glad poor father did get that\nhouse. He bought a big house there years ago, in order that there should\nalways be a Casa Gould in the principal town of what used to be called\nthe Occidental Province. I lived there once, as a small boy, with my\ndear mother, for a whole year, while poor father was away in the United\nStates on business. You shall be the new mistress of the Casa Gould.\"\n\nAnd later, in the inhabited corner of the Palazzo above the vineyards,\nthe marble hills, the pines and olives of Lucca, he also said--\n\n\"The name of Gould has been always highly respected in Sulaco. My uncle\nHarry was chief of the State for some time, and has left a great name\namongst the first families. By this I mean the pure Creole families, who\ntake no part in the miserable farce of governments. Uncle Harry was no\nadventurer. In Costaguana we Goulds are no adventurers. He was of the\ncountry, and he loved it, but he remained essentially an Englishman\nin his ideas. He made use of the political cry of his time. It was\nFederation. But he was no politician. He simply stood up for social\norder out of pure love for rational liberty and from his hate of\noppression. There was no nonsense about him. He went to work in his\nown way because it seemed right, just as I feel I must lay hold of that\nmine.\"\n\nIn such words he talked to her because his memory was very full of the\ncountry of his childhood, his heart of his life with that girl, and his\nmind of the San Tome Concession. He added that he would have to leave\nher for a few days to find an American, a man from San Francisco, who\nwas still somewhere in Europe. A few months before he had made his\nacquaintance in an old historic German town, situated in a mining\ndistrict. The American had his womankind with him, but seemed lonely\nwhile they were sketching all day long the old doorways and the\nturreted corners of the mediaeval houses. Charles Gould had with him the\ninseparable companionship of the mine. The other man was interested in\nmining enterprises, knew something of Costaguana, and was no stranger to\nthe name of Gould. They had talked together with some intimacy which\nwas made possible by the difference of their ages. Charles wanted now\nto find that capitalist of shrewd mind and accessible character. His\nfather's fortune in Costaguana, which he had supposed to be still\nconsiderable, seemed to have melted in the rascally crucible of\nrevolutions. Apart from some ten thousand pounds deposited in England,\nthere appeared to be nothing left except the house in Sulaco, a vague\nright of forest exploitation in a remote and savage district, and the\nSan Tome Concession, which had attended his poor father to the very\nbrink of the grave.\n\nHe explained those things. It was late when they parted. She had never\nbefore given him such a fascinating vision of herself. All the eagerness\nof youth for a strange life, for great distances, for a future in which\nthere was an air of adventure, of combat--a subtle thought of redress\nand conquest, had filled her with an intense excitement, which she\nreturned to the giver with a more open and exquisite display of\ntenderness.\n\nHe left her to walk down the hill, and directly he found himself alone\nhe became sober. That irreparable change a death makes in the course\nof our daily thoughts can be felt in a vague and poignant discomfort\nof mind. It hurt Charles Gould to feel that never more, by no effort of\nwill, would he be able to think of his father in the same way he used\nto think of him when the poor man was alive. His breathing image was\nno longer in his power. This consideration, closely affecting his own\nidentity, filled his breast with a mournful and angry desire for action.\nIn this his instinct was unerring. Action is consolatory. It is the\nenemy of thought and the friend of flattering illusions. Only in the\nconduct of our action can we find the sense of mastery over the Fates.\nFor his action, the mine was obviously the only field. It was imperative\nsometimes to know how to disobey the solemn wishes of the dead.\nHe resolved firmly to make his disobedience as thorough (by way of\natonement) as it well could be. The mine had been the cause of an absurd\nmoral disaster; its working must be made a serious and moral success.\nHe owed it to the dead man's memory. Such were the--properly\nspeaking--emotions of Charles Gould. His thoughts ran upon the means\nof raising a large amount of capital in San Francisco or elsewhere; and\nincidentally there occurred to him also the general reflection that the\ncounsel of the departed must be an unsound guide. Not one of them\ncould be aware beforehand what enormous changes the death of any given\nindividual may produce in the very aspect of the world.\n\nThe latest phase in the history of the mine Mrs. Gould knew from\npersonal experience. It was in essence the history of her married life.\nThe mantle of the Goulds' hereditary position in Sulaco had descended\namply upon her little person; but she would not allow the peculiarities\nof the strange garment to weigh down the vivacity of her character,\nwhich was the sign of no mere mechanical sprightliness, but of an\neager intelligence. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Gould's mind was\nmasculine. A woman with a masculine mind is not a being of\nsuperior efficiency; she is simply a phenomenon of imperfect\ndifferentiation--interestingly barren and without importance. Dona\nEmilia's intelligence being feminine led her to achieve the conquest of\nSulaco, simply by lighting the way for her unselfishness and sympathy.\nShe could converse charmingly, but she was not talkative. The wisdom of\nthe heart having no concern with the erection or demolition of theories\nany more than with the defence of prejudices, has no random words at its\ncommand. The words it pronounces have the value of acts of integrity,\ntolerance, and compassion. A woman's true tenderness, like the true\nvirility of man, is expressed in action of a conquering kind. The ladies\nof Sulaco adored Mrs. Gould. \"They still look upon me as something of a\nmonster,\" Mrs. Gould had said pleasantly to one of the three gentlemen\nfrom San Francisco she had to entertain in her new Sulaco house just\nabout a year after her marriage.\n\nThey were her first visitors from abroad, and they had come to look at\nthe San Tome mine. She jested most agreeably, they thought; and Charles\nGould, besides knowing thoroughly what he was about, had shown himself\na real hustler. These facts caused them to be well disposed towards his\nwife. An unmistakable enthusiasm, pointed by a slight flavour of irony,\nmade her talk of the mine absolutely fascinating to her visitors, and\nprovoked them to grave and indulgent smiles in which there was a good\ndeal of deference. Perhaps had they known how much she was inspired by\nan idealistic view of success they would have been amazed at the state\nof her mind as the Spanish-American ladies had been amazed at the\ntireless activity of her body. She would--in her own words--have\nbeen for them \"something of a monster.\" However, the Goulds were in\nessentials a reticent couple, and their guests departed without the\nsuspicion of any other purpose but simple profit in the working of a\nsilver mine. Mrs. Gould had out her own carriage, with two white mules,\nto drive them down to the harbour, whence the Ceres was to carry them\noff into the Olympus of plutocrats. Captain Mitchell had snatched at the\noccasion of leave-taking to remark to Mrs. Gould, in a low, confidential\nmutter, \"This marks an epoch.\"\n\nMrs. Gould loved the patio of her Spanish house. A broad flight of stone\nsteps was overlooked silently from a niche in the wall by a Madonna in\nblue robes with the crowned child sitting on her arm. Subdued voices\nascended in the early mornings from the paved well of the quadrangle,\nwith the stamping of horses and mules led out in pairs to drink at the\ncistern. A tangle of slender bamboo stems drooped its narrow, blade-like\nleaves over the square pool of water, and the fat coachman sat muffled\nup on the edge, holding lazily the ends of halters in his hand.\nBarefooted servants passed to and fro, issuing from dark, low doorways\nbelow; two laundry girls with baskets of washed linen; the baker with\nthe tray of bread made for the day; Leonarda--her own camerista--bearing\nhigh up, swung from her hand raised above her raven black head, a bunch\nof starched under-skirts dazzlingly white in the slant of sunshine. Then\nthe old porter would hobble in, sweeping the flagstones, and the\nhouse was ready for the day. All the lofty rooms on three sides of\nthe quadrangle opened into each other and into the corredor, with its\nwrought-iron railings and a border of flowers, whence, like the lady of\nthe mediaeval castle, she could witness from above all the departures\nand arrivals of the Casa, to which the sonorous arched gateway lent an\nair of stately importance.\n\nShe had watched her carriage roll away with the three guests from the\nnorth. She smiled. Their three arms went up simultaneously to their\nthree hats. Captain Mitchell, the fourth, in attendance, had already\nbegun a pompous discourse. Then she lingered. She lingered, approaching\nher face to the clusters of flowers here and there as if to give time\nto her thoughts to catch up with her slow footsteps along the straight\nvista of the corredor.\n\nA fringed Indian hammock from Aroa, gay with coloured featherwork, had\nbeen swung judiciously in a corner that caught the early sun; for the\nmornings are cool in Sulaco. The cluster of _flor de noche buena_ blazed\nin great masses before the open glass doors of the reception rooms. A\nbig green parrot, brilliant like an emerald in a cage that flashed like\ngold, screamed out ferociously, \"_Viva Costaguana!_\" then called twice\nmellifluously, \"Leonarda! Leonarda!\" in imitation of Mrs. Gould's voice,\nand suddenly took refuge in immobility and silence. Mrs. Gould reached\nthe end of the gallery and put her head through the door of her\nhusband's room.\n\nCharles Gould, with one foot on a low wooden stool, was already\nstrapping his spurs. He wanted to hurry back to the mine. Mrs. Gould,\nwithout coming in, glanced about the room. One tall, broad bookcase,\nwith glass doors, was full of books; but in the other, without shelves,\nand lined with red baize, were arranged firearms: Winchester carbines,\nrevolvers, a couple of shot-guns, and even two pairs of double-barrelled\nholster pistols. Between them, by itself, upon a strip of scarlet\nvelvet, hung an old cavalry sabre, once the property of Don Enrique\nGould, the hero of the Occidental Province, presented by Don Jose\nAvellanos, the hereditary friend of the family.\n\nOtherwise, the plastered white walls were completely bare, except for\na water-colour sketch of the San Tome mountain--the work of Dona Emilia\nherself. In the middle of the red-tiled floor stood two long tables\nlittered with plans and papers, a few chairs, and a glass show-case\ncontaining specimens of ore from the mine. Mrs. Gould, looking at all\nthese things in turn, wondered aloud why the talk of these wealthy and\nenterprising men discussing the prospects, the working, and the safety\nof the mine rendered her so impatient and uneasy, whereas she could talk\nof the mine by the hour with her husband with unwearied interest and\nsatisfaction. And dropping her eyelids expressively, she added--\n\n\"What do you feel about it, Charley?\"\n\nThen, surprised at her husband's silence, she raised her eyes, opened\nwide, as pretty as pale flowers. He had done with the spurs, and,\ntwisting his moustache with both hands, horizontally, he contemplated\nher from the height of his long legs with a visible appreciation of her\nappearance. The consciousness of being thus contemplated pleased Mrs.\nGould.\n\n\"They are considerable men,\" he said.\n\n\"I know. But have you listened to their conversation? They don't seem to\nhave understood anything they have seen here.\"\n\n\"They have seen the mine. They have understood that to some purpose,\"\nCharles Gould interjected, in defence of the visitors; and then his\nwife mentioned the name of the most considerable of the three. He was\nconsiderable in finance and in industry. His name was familiar to many\nmillions of people. He was so considerable that he would never have\ntravelled so far away from the centre of his activity if the doctors had\nnot insisted, with veiled menaces, on his taking a long holiday.\n\n\"Mr. Holroyd's sense of religion,\" Mrs. Gould pursued, \"was shocked\nand disgusted at the tawdriness of the dressed-up saints in the\ncathedral--the worship, he called it, of wood and tinsel. But it seemed\nto me that he looked upon his own God as a sort of influential partner,\nwho gets his share of profits in the endowment of churches. That's a\nsort of idolatry. He told me he endowed churches every year, Charley.\"\n\n\"No end of them,\" said Mr. Gould, marvelling inwardly at the mobility\nof her physiognomy. \"All over the country. He's famous for that sort of\nmunificence.\" \"Oh, he didn't boast,\" Mrs. Gould declared, scrupulously.\n\"I believe he's really a good man, but so stupid! A poor Chulo who\noffers a little silver arm or leg to thank his god for a cure is as\nrational and more touching.\"\n\n\"He's at the head of immense silver and iron interests,\" Charles Gould\nobserved.\n\n\"Ah, yes! The religion of silver and iron. He's a very civil man, though\nhe looked awfully solemn when he first saw the Madonna on the staircase,\nwho's only wood and paint; but he said nothing to me. My dear Charley,\nI heard those men talk among themselves. Can it be that they really wish\nto become, for an immense consideration, drawers of water and hewers of\nwood to all the countries and nations of the earth?\"\n\n\"A man must work to some end,\" Charles Gould said, vaguely.\n\nMrs. Gould, frowning, surveyed him from head to foot. With his riding\nbreeches, leather leggings (an article of apparel never before seen in\nCostaguana), a Norfolk coat of grey flannel, and those great flaming\nmoustaches, he suggested an officer of cavalry turned gentleman farmer.\nThis combination was gratifying to Mrs. Gould's tastes. \"How thin the\npoor boy is!\" she thought. \"He overworks himself.\" But there was no\ndenying that his fine-drawn, keen red face, and his whole, long-limbed,\nlank person had an air of breeding and distinction. And Mrs. Gould\nrelented.\n\n\"I only wondered what you felt,\" she murmured, gently.\n\nDuring the last few days, as it happened, Charles Gould had been kept\ntoo busy thinking twice before he spoke to have paid much attention to\nthe state of his feelings. But theirs was a successful match, and he had\nno difficulty in finding his answer.\n\n\"The best of my feelings are in your keeping, my dear,\" he said,\nlightly; and there was so much truth in that obscure phrase that he\nexperienced towards her at the moment a great increase of gratitude and\ntenderness.\n\nMrs. Gould, however, did not seem to find this answer in the least\nobscure. She brightened up delicately; already he had changed his tone.\n\n\"But there are facts. The worth of the mine--as a mine--is beyond doubt.\nIt shall make us very wealthy. The mere working of it is a matter of\ntechnical knowledge, which I have--which ten thousand other men in the\nworld have. But its safety, its continued existence as an enterprise,\ngiving a return to men--to strangers, comparative strangers--who invest\nmoney in it, is left altogether in my hands. I have inspired confidence\nin a man of wealth and position. You seem to think this perfectly\nnatural--do you? Well, I don't know. I don't know why I have; but it is\na fact. This fact makes everything possible, because without it I would\nnever have thought of disregarding my father's wishes. I would never\nhave disposed of the Concession as a speculator disposes of a valuable\nright to a company--for cash and shares, to grow rich eventually if\npossible, but at any rate to put some money at once in his pocket. No.\nEven if it had been feasible--which I doubt--I would not have done so.\nPoor father did not understand. He was afraid I would hang on to the\nruinous thing, waiting for just some such chance, and waste my life\nmiserably. That was the true sense of his prohibition, which we have\ndeliberately set aside.\"\n\nThey were walking up and down the corredor. Her head just reached to his\nshoulder. His arm, extended downwards, was about her waist. His spurs\njingled slightly.\n\n\"He had not seen me for ten years. He did not know me. He parted from me\nfor my sake, and he would never let me come back. He was always talking\nin his letters of leaving Costaguana, of abandoning everything and\nmaking his escape. But he was too valuable a prey. They would have\nthrown him into one of their prisons at the first suspicion.\"\n\nHis spurred feet clinked slowly. He was bending over his wife as they\nwalked. The big parrot, turning its head askew, followed their pacing\nfigures with a round, unblinking eye.\n\n\"He was a lonely man. Ever since I was ten years old he used to talk to\nme as if I had been grown up. When I was in Europe he wrote to me every\nmonth. Ten, twelve pages every month of my life for ten years. And,\nafter all, he did not know me! Just think of it--ten whole years away;\nthe years I was growing up into a man. He could not know me. Do you\nthink he could?\"\n\nMrs. Gould shook her head negatively; which was just what her husband\nhad expected from the strength of the argument. But she shook her\nhead negatively only because she thought that no one could know her\nCharles--really know him for what he was but herself. The thing was\nobvious. It could be felt. It required no argument. And poor Mr. Gould,\nsenior, who had died too soon to ever hear of their engagement, remained\ntoo shadowy a figure for her to be credited with knowledge of any sort\nwhatever.\n\n\"No, he did not understand. In my view this mine could never have been\na thing to sell. Never! After all his misery I simply could not have\ntouched it for money alone,\" Charles Gould pursued: and she pressed her\nhead to his shoulder approvingly.\n\nThese two young people remembered the life which had ended wretchedly\njust when their own lives had come together in that splendour of hopeful\nlove, which to the most sensible minds appears like a triumph of good\nover all the evils of the earth. A vague idea of rehabilitation had\nentered the plan of their life. That it was so vague as to elude the\nsupport of argument made it only the stronger. It had presented itself\nto them at the instant when the woman's instinct of devotion and the\nman's instinct of activity receive from the strongest of illusions their\nmost powerful impulse. The very prohibition imposed the necessity of\nsuccess. It was as if they had been morally bound to make good their\nvigorous view of life against the unnatural error of weariness and\ndespair. If the idea of wealth was present to them it was only in so\nfar as it was bound with that other success. Mrs. Gould, an orphan from\nearly childhood and without fortune, brought up in an atmosphere of\nintellectual interests, had never considered the aspects of great\nwealth. They were too remote, and she had not learned that they were\ndesirable. On the other hand, she had not known anything of absolute\nwant. Even the very poverty of her aunt, the Marchesa, had nothing\nintolerable to a refined mind; it seemed in accord with a great grief:\nit had the austerity of a sacrifice offered to a noble ideal. Thus even\nthe most legitimate touch of materialism was wanting in Mrs. Gould's\ncharacter. The dead man of whom she thought with tenderness (because\nhe was Charley's father) and with some impatience (because he had been\nweak), must be put completely in the wrong. Nothing else would do\nto keep their prosperity without a stain on its only real, on its\nimmaterial side!\n\nCharles Gould, on his part, had been obliged to keep the idea of wealth\nwell to the fore; but he brought it forward as a means, not as an end.\nUnless the mine was good business it could not be touched. He had to\ninsist on that aspect of the enterprise. It was his lever to move\nmen who had capital. And Charles Gould believed in the mine. He\nknew everything that could be known of it. His faith in the mine was\ncontagious, though it was not served by a great eloquence; but business\nmen are frequently as sanguine and imaginative as lovers. They are\naffected by a personality much oftener than people would suppose; and\nCharles Gould, in his unshaken assurance, was absolutely convincing.\nBesides, it was a matter of common knowledge to the men to whom he\naddressed himself that mining in Costaguana was a game that could be\nmade considerably more than worth the candle. The men of affairs knew that\nvery well. The real difficulty in touching it was elsewhere. Against\nthat there was an implication of calm and implacable resolution in\nCharles Gould's very voice. Men of affairs venture sometimes on acts\nthat the common judgment of the world would pronounce absurd; they make\ntheir decisions on apparently impulsive and human grounds. \"Very well,\"\nhad said the considerable personage to whom Charles Gould on his way\nout through San Francisco had lucidly exposed his point of view. \"Let us\nsuppose that the mining affairs of Sulaco are taken in hand. There would\nthen be in it: first, the house of Holroyd, which is all right; then,\nMr. Charles Gould, a citizen of Costaguana, who is also all right; and,\nlastly, the Government of the Republic. So far this resembles the first\nstart of the Atacama nitrate fields, where there was a financing house,\na gentleman of the name of Edwards, and--a Government; or, rather, two\nGovernments--two South American Governments. And you know what came of\nit. War came of it; devastating and prolonged war came of it, Mr. Gould.\nHowever, here we possess the advantage of having only one South\nAmerican Government hanging around for plunder out of the deal. It is an\nadvantage; but then there are degrees of badness, and that Government is\nthe Costaguana Government.\"\n\nThus spoke the considerable personage, the millionaire endower of\nchurches on a scale befitting the greatness of his native land--the same\nto whom the doctors used the language of horrid and veiled menaces. He\nwas a big-limbed, deliberate man, whose quiet burliness lent to an ample\nsilk-faced frock-coat a superfine dignity. His hair was iron grey, his\neyebrows were still black, and his massive profile was the profile of\na Caesar's head on an old Roman coin. But his parentage was German and\nScotch and English, with remote strains of Danish and French blood,\ngiving him the temperament of a Puritan and an insatiable imagination\nof conquest. He was completely unbending to his visitor, because of the\nwarm introduction the visitor had brought from Europe, and because of\nan irrational liking for earnestness and determination wherever met, to\nwhatever end directed.\n\n\"The Costaguana Government shall play its hand for all it's worth--and\ndon't you forget it, Mr. Gould. Now, what is Costaguana? It is the\nbottomless pit of 10 per cent. loans and other fool investments.\nEuropean capital has been flung into it with both hands for years. Not\nours, though. We in this country know just about enough to keep indoors\nwhen it rains. We can sit and watch. Of course, some day we shall step\nin. We are bound to. But there's no hurry. Time itself has got to wait\non the greatest country in the whole of God's Universe. We shall be\ngiving the word for everything: industry, trade, law, journalism, art,\npolitics, and religion, from Cape Horn clear over to Smith's Sound,\nand beyond, too, if anything worth taking hold of turns up at the North\nPole. And then we shall have the leisure to take in hand the outlying\nislands and continents of the earth. We shall run the world's business\nwhether the world likes it or not. The world can't help it--and neither\ncan we, I guess.\"\n\nBy this he meant to express his faith in destiny in words suitable to\nhis intelligence, which was unskilled in the presentation of general\nideas. His intelligence was nourished on facts; and Charles Gould, whose\nimagination had been permanently affected by the one great fact of a\nsilver mine, had no objection to this theory of the world's future.\nIf it had seemed distasteful for a moment it was because the sudden\nstatement of such vast eventualities dwarfed almost to nothingness the\nactual matter in hand. He and his plans and all the mineral wealth of\nthe Occidental Province appeared suddenly robbed of every vestige of\nmagnitude. The sensation was disagreeable; but Charles Gould was not\ndull. Already he felt that he was producing a favourable impression; the\nconsciousness of that flattering fact helped him to a vague smile, which\nhis big interlocutor took for a smile of discreet and admiring assent.\nHe smiled quietly, too; and immediately Charles Gould, with that mental\nagility mankind will display in defence of a cherished hope, reflected\nthat the very apparent insignificance of his aim would help him to\nsuccess. His personality and his mine would be taken up because it was\na matter of no great consequence, one way or another, to a man who\nreferred his action to such a prodigious destiny. And Charles Gould was\nnot humiliated by this consideration, because the thing remained as\nbig as ever for him. Nobody else's vast conceptions of destiny could\ndiminish the aspect of his desire for the redemption of the San Tome\nmine. In comparison to the correctness of his aim, definite in space and\nabsolutely attainable within a limited time, the other man appeared for\nan instant as a dreamy idealist of no importance.\n\nThe great man, massive and benignant, had been looking at him\nthoughtfully; when he broke the short silence it was to remark that\nconcessions flew about thick in the air of Costaguana. Any simple soul\nthat just yearned to be taken in could bring down a concession at the\nfirst shot.\n\n\"Our consuls get their mouths stopped with them,\" he continued, with a\ntwinkle of genial scorn in his eyes. But in a moment he became grave.\n\"A conscientious, upright man, that cares nothing for boodle, and keeps\nclear of their intrigues, conspiracies, and factions, soon gets his\npassports. See that, Mr. Gould? Persona non grata. That's the reason our\nGovernment is never properly informed. On the other hand, Europe must be\nkept out of this continent, and for proper interference on our part the\ntime is not yet ripe, I dare say. But we here--we are not this country's\nGovernment, neither are we simple souls. Your affair is all right. The\nmain question for us is whether the second partner, and that's you, is\nthe right sort to hold his own against the third and unwelcome partner,\nwhich is one or another of the high and mighty robber gangs that run the\nCostaguana Government. What do you think, Mr. Gould, eh?\"\n\nHe bent forward to look steadily into the unflinching eyes of Charles\nGould, who, remembering the large box full of his father's letters, put\nthe accumulated scorn and bitterness of many years into the tone of his\nanswer--\n\n\"As far as the knowledge of these men and their methods and their\npolitics is concerned, I can answer for myself. I have been fed on\nthat sort of knowledge since I was a boy. I am not likely to fall into\nmistakes from excess of optimism.\"\n\n\"Not likely, eh? That's all right. Tact and a stiff upper lip is what\nyou'll want; and you could bluff a little on the strength of your\nbacking. Not too much, though. We will go with you as long as the thing\nruns straight. But we won't be drawn into any large trouble. This is the\nexperiment which I am willing to make. There is some risk, and we will\ntake it; but if you can't keep up your end, we will stand our loss, of\ncourse, and then--we'll let the thing go. This mine can wait; it has\nbeen shut up before, as you know. You must understand that under no\ncircumstances will we consent to throw good money after bad.\"\n\nThus the great personage had spoken then, in his own private office, in\na great city where other men (very considerable in the eyes of a vain\npopulace) waited with alacrity upon a wave of his hand. And rather more\nthan a year later, during his unexpected appearance in Sulaco, he had\nemphasized his uncompromising attitude with a freedom of sincerity\npermitted to his wealth and influence. He did this with the less\nreserve, perhaps, because the inspection of what had been done, and more\nstill the way in which successive steps had been taken, had impressed\nhim with the conviction that Charles Gould was perfectly capable of\nkeeping up his end.\n\n\"This young fellow,\" he thought to himself, \"may yet become a power in\nthe land.\"\n\nThis thought flattered him, for hitherto the only account of this young\nman he could give to his intimates was--\n\n\"My brother-in-law met him in one of these one-horse old German towns,\nnear some mines, and sent him on to me with a letter. He's one of the\nCostaguana Goulds, pure-bred Englishmen, but all born in the country.\nHis uncle went into politics, was the last Provincial President of\nSulaco, and got shot after a battle. His father was a prominent business\nman in Sta. Marta, tried to keep clear of their politics, and died\nruined after a lot of revolutions. And that's your Costaguana in a\nnutshell.\"\n\nOf course, he was too great a man to be questioned as to his motives,\neven by his intimates. The outside world was at liberty to wonder\nrespectfully at the hidden meaning of his actions. He was so great a man\nthat his lavish patronage of the \"purer forms of Christianity\" (which in\nits naive form of church-building amused Mrs. Gould) was looked upon by\nhis fellow-citizens as the manifestation of a pious and humble spirit.\nBut in his own circles of the financial world the taking up of such a\nthing as the San Tome mine was regarded with respect, indeed, but rather\nas a subject for discreet jocularity. It was a great man's caprice. In\nthe great Holroyd building (an enormous pile of iron, glass, and blocks\nof stone at the corner of two streets, cobwebbed aloft by the radiation\nof telegraph wires) the heads of principal departments exchanged\nhumorous glances, which meant that they were not let into the secrets\nof the San Tome business. The Costaguana mail (it was never large--one\nfairly heavy envelope) was taken unopened straight into the great man's\nroom, and no instructions dealing with it had ever been issued thence.\nThe office whispered that he answered personally--and not by dictation\neither, but actually writing in his own hand, with pen and ink, and, it\nwas to be supposed, taking a copy in his own private press copy-book,\ninaccessible to profane eyes. Some scornful young men, insignificant\npieces of minor machinery in that eleven-storey-high workshop of great\naffairs, expressed frankly their private opinion that the great chief\nhad done at last something silly, and was ashamed of his folly; others,\nelderly and insignificant, but full of romantic reverence for the\nbusiness that had devoured their best years, used to mutter darkly and\nknowingly that this was a portentous sign; that the Holroyd connection\nmeant by-and-by to get hold of the whole Republic of Costaguana, lock,\nstock, and barrel. But, in fact, the hobby theory was the right one. It\ninterested the great man to attend personally to the San Tome mine; it\ninterested him so much that he allowed this hobby to give a direction to\nthe first complete holiday he had taken for quite a startling number\nof years. He was not running a great enterprise there; no mere railway\nboard or industrial corporation. He was running a man! A success would\nhave pleased him very much on refreshingly novel grounds; but, on the\nother side of the same feeling, it was incumbent upon him to cast it\noff utterly at the first sign of failure. A man may be thrown off. The\npapers had unfortunately trumpeted all over the land his journey to\nCostaguana. If he was pleased at the way Charles Gould was going on, he\ninfused an added grimness into his assurances of support. Even at the\nvery last interview, half an hour or so before he rolled out of the\npatio, hat in hand, behind Mrs. Gould's white mules, he had said in\nCharles's room--\n\n\"You go ahead in your own way, and I shall know how to help you as long\nas you hold your own. But you may rest assured that in a given case we\nshall know how to drop you in time.\"\n\nTo this Charles Gould's only answer had been: \"You may begin sending out\nthe machinery as soon as you like.\"\n\nAnd the great man had liked this imperturbable assurance. The secret\nof it was that to Charles Gould's mind these uncompromising terms were\nagreeable. Like this the mine preserved its identity, with which he had\nendowed it as a boy; and it remained dependent on himself alone. It was\na serious affair, and he, too, took it grimly.\n\n\"Of course,\" he said to his wife, alluding to this last conversation\nwith the departed guest, while they walked slowly up and down the\ncorredor, followed by the irritated eye of the parrot--\"of course, a\nman of that sort can take up a thing or drop it when he likes. He will\nsuffer from no sense of defeat. He may have to give in, or he may have\nto die to-morrow, but the great silver and iron interests will survive,\nand some day will get hold of Costaguana along with the rest of the\nworld.\"\n\nThey had stopped near the cage. The parrot, catching the sound of a word\nbelonging to his vocabulary, was moved to interfere. Parrots are very\nhuman.\n\n\"Viva Costaguana!\" he shrieked, with intense self-assertion, and,\ninstantly ruffling up his feathers, assumed an air of puffed-up\nsomnolence behind the glittering wires.\n\n\"And do you believe that, Charley?\" Mrs. Gould asked. \"This seems to me\nmost awful materialism, and--\"\n\n\"My dear, it's nothing to me,\" interrupted her husband, in a reasonable\ntone. \"I make use of what I see. What's it to me whether his talk is the\nvoice of destiny or simply a bit of clap-trap eloquence? There's a good\ndeal of eloquence of one sort or another produced in both Americas. The\nair of the New World seems favourable to the art of declamation. Have\nyou forgotten how dear Avellanos can hold forth for hours here--?\"\n\n\"Oh, but that's different,\" protested Mrs. Gould, almost shocked. The\nallusion was not to the point. Don Jose was a dear good man, who talked\nvery well, and was enthusiastic about the greatness of the San Tome\nmine. \"How can you compare them, Charles?\" she exclaimed, reproachfully.\n\"He has suffered--and yet he hopes.\"\n\nThe working competence of men--which she never questioned--was very\nsurprising to Mrs. Gould, because upon so many obvious issues they\nshowed themselves strangely muddle-headed.\n\nCharles Gould, with a careworn calmness which secured for him at once\nhis wife's anxious sympathy, assured her that he was not comparing. He\nwas an American himself, after all, and perhaps he could understand both\nkinds of eloquence--\"if it were worth while to try,\" he added, grimly.\nBut he had breathed the air of England longer than any of his people had\ndone for three generations, and really he begged to be excused. His\npoor father could be eloquent, too. And he asked his wife whether she\nremembered a passage in one of his father's last letters where Mr.\nGould had expressed the conviction that \"God looked wrathfully at these\ncountries, or else He would let some ray of hope fall through a rift in\nthe appalling darkness of intrigue, bloodshed, and crime that hung over\nthe Queen of Continents.\"\n\nMrs. Gould had not forgotten. \"You read it to me, Charley,\" she\nmurmured. \"It was a striking pronouncement. How deeply your father must\nhave felt its terrible sadness!\"\n\n\"He did not like to be robbed. It exasperated him,\" said Charles Gould.\n\"But the image will serve well enough. What is wanted here is law, good\nfaith, order, security. Any one can declaim about these things, but I\npin my faith to material interests. Only let the material interests once\nget a firm footing, and they are bound to impose the conditions on\nwhich alone they can continue to exist. That's how your money-making is\njustified here in the face of lawlessness and disorder. It is justified\nbecause the security which it demands must be shared with an oppressed\npeople. A better justice will come afterwards. That's your ray of hope.\"\nHis arm pressed her slight form closer to his side for a moment. \"And\nwho knows whether in that sense even the San Tome mine may not become\nthat little rift in the darkness which poor father despaired of ever\nseeing?\"\n\nShe glanced up at him with admiration. He was competent; he had given a\nvast shape to the vagueness of her unselfish ambitions.\n\n\"Charley,\" she said, \"you are splendidly disobedient.\"\n\nHe left her suddenly in the corredor to go and get his hat, a soft, grey\nsombrero, an article of national costume which combined unexpectedly\nwell with his English get-up. He came back, a riding-whip under his arm,\nbuttoning up a dogskin glove; his face reflected the resolute nature of\nhis thoughts. His wife had waited for him at the head of the stairs, and\nbefore he gave her the parting kiss he finished the conversation--\n\n\"What should be perfectly clear to us,\" he said, \"is the fact that there\nis no going back. Where could we begin life afresh? We are in now for\nall that there is in us.\"\n\nHe bent over her upturned face very tenderly and a little remorsefully.\nCharles Gould was competent because he had no illusions. The Gould\nConcession had to fight for life with such weapons as could be found at\nonce in the mire of a corruption that was so universal as almost to lose\nits significance. He was prepared to stoop for his weapons. For a moment\nhe felt as if the silver mine, which had killed his father, had decoyed\nhim further than he meant to go; and with the roundabout logic of\nemotions, he felt that the worthiness of his life was bound up with\nsuccess. There was no going back.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nMrs. Gould was too intelligently sympathetic not to share that feeling.\nIt made life exciting, and she was too much of a woman not to like\nexcitement. But it frightened her, too, a little; and when Don Jose\nAvellanos, rocking in the American chair, would go so far as to say,\n\"Even, my dear Carlos, if you had failed; even if some untoward event\nwere yet to destroy your work--which God forbid!--you would have\ndeserved well of your country,\" Mrs. Gould would look up from the\ntea-table profoundly at her unmoved husband stirring the spoon in the\ncup as though he had not heard a word.\n\nNot that Don Jose anticipated anything of the sort. He could not praise\nenough dear Carlos's tact and courage. His English, rock-like quality\nof character was his best safeguard, Don Jose affirmed; and, turning to\nMrs. Gould, \"As to you, Emilia, my soul\"--he would address her with the\nfamiliarity of his age and old friendship--\"you are as true a patriot as\nthough you had been born in our midst.\"\n\nThis might have been less or more than the truth. Mrs. Gould,\naccompanying her husband all over the province in the search for labour,\nhad seen the land with a deeper glance than a trueborn Costaguanera\ncould have done. In her travel-worn riding habit, her face powdered\nwhite like a plaster cast, with a further protection of a small silk\nmask during the heat of the day, she rode on a well-shaped, light-footed\npony in the centre of a little cavalcade. Two mozos de campo,\npicturesque in great hats, with spurred bare heels, in white embroidered\ncalzoneras, leather jackets and striped ponchos, rode ahead with\ncarbines across their shoulders, swaying in unison to the pace of the\nhorses. A tropilla of pack mules brought up the rear in charge of a thin\nbrown muleteer, sitting his long-eared beast very near the tail, legs\nthrust far forward, the wide brim of his hat set far back, making a sort\nof halo for his head. An old Costaguana officer, a retired senior major\nof humble origin, but patronized by the first families on account of\nhis Blanco opinions, had been recommended by Don Jose for commissary and\norganizer of that expedition. The points of his grey moustache hung far\nbelow his chin, and, riding on Mrs. Gould's left hand, he looked about\nwith kindly eyes, pointing out the features of the country, telling the\nnames of the little pueblos and of the estates, of the smooth-walled\nhaciendas like long fortresses crowning the knolls above the level of\nthe Sulaco Valley. It unrolled itself, with green young crops, plains,\nwoodland, and gleams of water, park-like, from the blue vapour of the\ndistant sierra to an immense quivering horizon of grass and sky, where\nbig white clouds seemed to fall slowly into the darkness of their own\nshadows.\n\nMen ploughed with wooden ploughs and yoked oxen, small on a boundless\nexpanse, as if attacking immensity itself. The mounted figures of\nvaqueros galloped in the distance, and the great herds fed with all\ntheir horned heads one way, in one single wavering line as far as eye\ncould reach across the broad potreros. A spreading cotton-wool tree\nshaded a thatched ranche by the road; the trudging files of burdened\nIndians taking off their hats, would lift sad, mute eyes to the\ncavalcade raising the dust of the crumbling camino real made by the\nhands of their enslaved forefathers. And Mrs. Gould, with each day's\njourney, seemed to come nearer to the soul of the land in the tremendous\ndisclosure of this interior unaffected by the slight European veneer\nof the coast towns, a great land of plain and mountain and people,\nsuffering and mute, waiting for the future in a pathetic immobility of\npatience.\n\nShe knew its sights and its hospitality, dispensed with a sort of\nslumbrous dignity in those great houses presenting long, blind walls and\nheavy portals to the wind-swept pastures. She was given the head of the\ntables, where masters and dependants sat in a simple and patriarchal\nstate. The ladies of the house would talk softly in the moonlight under\nthe orange trees of the courtyards, impressing upon her the sweetness\nof their voices and the something mysterious in the quietude of their\nlives. In the morning the gentlemen, well mounted in braided sombreros\nand embroidered riding suits, with much silver on the trappings of\ntheir horses, would ride forth to escort the departing guests before\ncommitting them, with grave good-byes, to the care of God at the\nboundary pillars of their estates. In all these households she\ncould hear stories of political outrage; friends, relatives, ruined,\nimprisoned, killed in the battles of senseless civil wars, barbarously\nexecuted in ferocious proscriptions, as though the government of the\ncountry had been a struggle of lust between bands of absurd devils let\nloose upon the land with sabres and uniforms and grandiloquent phrases.\nAnd on all the lips she found a weary desire for peace, the dread of\nofficialdom with its nightmarish parody of administration without law,\nwithout security, and without justice.\n\nShe bore a whole two months of wandering very well; she had that power\nof resistance to fatigue which one discovers here and there in some\nquite frail-looking women with surprise--like a state of possession by\na remarkably stubborn spirit. Don Pepe--the old Costaguana major--after\nmuch display of solicitude for the delicate lady, had ended by\nconferring upon her the name of the \"Never-tired Senora.\" Mrs. Gould\nwas indeed becoming a Costaguanera. Having acquired in Southern Europe a\nknowledge of true peasantry, she was able to appreciate the great worth\nof the people. She saw the man under the silent, sad-eyed beast of\nburden. She saw them on the road carrying loads, lonely figures upon\nthe plain, toiling under great straw hats, with their white clothing\nflapping about their limbs in the wind; she remembered the villages by\nsome group of Indian women at the fountain impressed upon her memory,\nby the face of some young Indian girl with a melancholy and sensual\nprofile, raising an earthenware vessel of cool water at the door of a\ndark hut with a wooden porch cumbered with great brown jars. The solid\nwooden wheels of an ox-cart, halted with its shafts in the dust, showed\nthe strokes of the axe; and a party of charcoal carriers, with each\nman's load resting above his head on the top of the low mud wall, slept\nstretched in a row within the strip of shade.\n\nThe heavy stonework of bridges and churches left by the conquerors\nproclaimed the disregard of human labour, the tribute-labour of vanished\nnations. The power of king and church was gone, but at the sight of\nsome heavy ruinous pile overtopping from a knoll the low mud walls of a\nvillage, Don Pepe would interrupt the tale of his campaigns to exclaim--\n\n\"Poor Costaguana! Before, it was everything for the Padres, nothing for\nthe people; and now it is everything for those great politicos in Sta.\nMarta, for negroes and thieves.\"\n\nCharles talked with the alcaldes, with the fiscales, with the\nprincipal people in towns, and with the caballeros on the estates. The\ncommandantes of the districts offered him escorts--for he could show an\nauthorization from the Sulaco political chief of the day. How much the\ndocument had cost him in gold twenty-dollar pieces was a secret between\nhimself, a great man in the United States (who condescended to answer\nthe Sulaco mail with his own hand), and a great man of another sort,\nwith a dark olive complexion and shifty eyes, inhabiting then the Palace\nof the Intendencia in Sulaco, and who piqued himself on his culture and\nEuropeanism generally in a rather French style because he had lived in\nEurope for some years--in exile, he said. However, it was pretty well\nknown that just before this exile he had incautiously gambled away all\nthe cash in the Custom House of a small port where a friend in power had\nprocured for him the post of subcollector. That youthful indiscretion\nhad, amongst other inconveniences, obliged him to earn his living for a\ntime as a cafe waiter in Madrid; but his talents must have been great,\nafter all, since they had enabled him to retrieve his political\nfortunes so splendidly. Charles Gould, exposing his business with an\nimperturbable steadiness, called him Excellency.\n\nThe provincial Excellency assumed a weary superiority, tilting his chair\nfar back near an open window in the true Costaguana manner. The military\nband happened to be braying operatic selections on the plaza just then,\nand twice he raised his hand imperatively for silence in order to listen\nto a favourite passage.\n\n\"Exquisite, delicious!\" he murmured; while Charles Gould waited,\nstanding by with inscrutable patience. \"Lucia, Lucia di Lammermoor! I am\npassionate for music. It transports me. Ha! the divine--ha!--Mozart. Si!\ndivine . . . What is it you were saying?\"\n\nOf course, rumours had reached him already of the newcomer's intentions.\nBesides, he had received an official warning from Sta. Marta. His manner\nwas intended simply to conceal his curiosity and impress his visitor.\nBut after he had locked up something valuable in the drawer of a large\nwriting-desk in a distant part of the room, he became very affable, and\nwalked back to his chair smartly.\n\n\"If you intend to build villages and assemble a population near the\nmine, you shall require a decree of the Minister of the Interior for\nthat,\" he suggested in a business-like manner.\n\n\"I have already sent a memorial,\" said Charles Gould, steadily, \"and I\nreckon now confidently upon your Excellency's favourable conclusions.\"\n\nThe Excellency was a man of many moods. With the receipt of the money\na great mellowness had descended upon his simple soul. Unexpectedly he\nfetched a deep sigh.\n\n\"Ah, Don Carlos! What we want is advanced men like you in the province.\nThe lethargy--the lethargy of these aristocrats! The want of public\nspirit! The absence of all enterprise! I, with my profound studies in\nEurope, you understand--\"\n\nWith one hand thrust into his swelling bosom, he rose and fell on\nhis toes, and for ten minutes, almost without drawing breath, went on\nhurling himself intellectually to the assault of Charles Gould's polite\nsilence; and when, stopping abruptly, he fell back into his chair,\nit was as though he had been beaten off from a fortress. To save his\ndignity he hastened to dismiss this silent man with a solemn\ninclination of the head and the words, pronounced with moody, fatigued\ncondescension--\n\n\"You may depend upon my enlightened goodwill as long as your conduct as\na good citizen deserves it.\"\n\nHe took up a paper fan and began to cool himself with a consequential\nair, while Charles Gould bowed and withdrew. Then he dropped the fan\nat once, and stared with an appearance of wonder and perplexity at the\nclosed door for quite a long time. At last he shrugged his shoulders as\nif to assure himself of his disdain. Cold, dull. No intellectuality. Red\nhair. A true Englishman. He despised him.\n\nHis face darkened. What meant this unimpressed and frigid behaviour? He\nwas the first of the successive politicians sent out from the capital\nto rule the Occidental Province whom the manner of Charles Gould in\nofficial intercourse was to strike as offensively independent.\n\nCharles Gould assumed that if the appearance of listening to deplorable\nbalderdash must form part of the price he had to pay for being left\nunmolested, the obligation of uttering balderdash personally was by\nno means included in the bargain. He drew the line there. To these\nprovincial autocrats, before whom the peaceable population of\nall classes had been accustomed to tremble, the reserve of that\nEnglish-looking engineer caused an uneasiness which swung to and fro\nbetween cringing and truculence. Gradually all of them discovered that,\nno matter what party was in power, that man remained in most effective\ntouch with the higher authorities in Sta. Marta.\n\nThis was a fact, and it accounted perfectly for the Goulds being by\nno means so wealthy as the engineer-in-chief on the new railway could\nlegitimately suppose. Following the advice of Don Jose Avellanos,\nwho was a man of good counsel (though rendered timid by his horrible\nexperiences of Guzman Bento's time), Charles Gould had kept clear of the\ncapital; but in the current gossip of the foreign residents there he\nwas known (with a good deal of seriousness underlying the irony) by the\nnickname of \"King of Sulaco.\" An advocate of the Costaguana Bar, a\nman of reputed ability and good character, member of the distinguished\nMoraga family possessing extensive estates in the Sulaco Valley, was\npointed out to strangers, with a shade of mystery and respect, as\nthe agent of the San Tome mine--\"political, you know.\" He was tall,\nblack-whiskered, and discreet. It was known that he had easy access to\nministers, and that the numerous Costaguana generals were always anxious\nto dine at his house. Presidents granted him audience with facility. He\ncorresponded actively with his maternal uncle, Don Jose Avellanos;\nbut his letters--unless those expressing formally his dutiful\naffection--were seldom entrusted to the Costaguana Post Office. There\nthe envelopes are opened, indiscriminately, with the frankness of a\nbrazen and childish impudence characteristic of some Spanish-American\nGovernments. But it must be noted that at about the time of the\nre-opening of the San Tome mine the muleteer who had been employed by\nCharles Gould in his preliminary travels on the Campo added his small\ntrain of animals to the thin stream of traffic carried over the mountain\npasses between the Sta. Marta upland and the Valley of Sulaco. There\nare no travellers by that arduous and unsafe route unless under very\nexceptional circumstances, and the state of inland trade did not visibly\nrequire additional transport facilities; but the man seemed to find his\naccount in it. A few packages were always found for him whenever he\ntook the road. Very brown and wooden, in goatskin breeches with the\nhair outside, he sat near the tail of his own smart mule, his great hat\nturned against the sun, an expression of blissful vacancy on his long\nface, humming day after day a love-song in a plaintive key, or, without\na change of expression, letting out a yell at his small tropilla in\nfront. A round little guitar hung high up on his back; and there was a\nplace scooped out artistically in the wood of one of his pack-saddles\nwhere a tightly rolled piece of paper could be slipped in, the wooden\nplug replaced, and the coarse canvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco\nit was his practice to smoke and doze all day long (as though he had\nno care in the world) on a stone bench outside the doorway of the Casa\nGould and facing the windows of the Avellanos house. Years and years\nago his mother had been chief laundry-woman in that family--very\naccomplished in the matter of clear-starching. He himself had been\nborn on one of their haciendas. His name was Bonifacio, and Don Jose,\ncrossing the street about five o'clock to call on Dona Emilia, always\nacknowledged his humble salute by some movement of hand or head. The\nporters of both houses conversed lazily with him in tones of grave\nintimacy. His evenings he devoted to gambling and to calls in a spirit\nof generous festivity upon the peyne d'oro girls in the more remote\nside-streets of the town. But he, too, was a discreet man.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nThose of us whom business or curiosity took to Sulaco in these years\nbefore the first advent of the railway can remember the steadying effect\nof the San Tome mine upon the life of that remote province. The outward\nappearances had not changed then as they have changed since, as I am\ntold, with cable cars running along the streets of the Constitution, and\ncarriage roads far into the country, to Rincon and other villages, where\nthe foreign merchants and the Ricos generally have their modern villas,\nand a vast railway goods yard by the harbour, which has a quay-side, a\nlong range of warehouses, and quite serious, organized labour troubles\nof its own.\n\nNobody had ever heard of labour troubles then. The Cargadores of the\nport formed, indeed, an unruly brotherhood of all sorts of scum, with\na patron saint of their own. They went on strike regularly (every\nbull-fight day), a form of trouble that even Nostromo at the height of\nhis prestige could never cope with efficiently; but the morning after\neach fiesta, before the Indian market-women had opened their mat\nparasols on the plaza, when the snows of Higuerota gleamed pale over\nthe town on a yet black sky, the appearance of a phantom-like horseman\nmounted on a silver-grey mare solved the problem of labour without fail.\nHis steed paced the lanes of the slums and the weed-grown enclosures\nwithin the old ramparts, between the black, lightless cluster of huts,\nlike cow-byres, like dog-kennels. The horseman hammered with the butt of\na heavy revolver at the doors of low pulperias, of obscene lean-to sheds\nsloping against the tumble-down piece of a noble wall, at the wooden\nsides of dwellings so flimsy that the sound of snores and sleepy mutters\nwithin could be heard in the pauses of the thundering clatter of his\nblows. He called out men's names menacingly from the saddle, once,\ntwice. The drowsy answers--grumpy, conciliating, savage, jocular, or\ndeprecating--came out into the silent darkness in which the horseman sat\nstill, and presently a dark figure would flit out coughing in the still\nair. Sometimes a low-toned woman cried through the window-hole softly,\n\"He's coming directly, senor,\" and the horseman waited silent on a\nmotionless horse. But if perchance he had to dismount, then, after a\nwhile, from the door of that hovel or of that pulperia, with a ferocious\nscuffle and stifled imprecations, a cargador would fly out head first\nand hands abroad, to sprawl under the forelegs of the silver-grey mare,\nwho only pricked forward her sharp little ears. She was used to that\nwork; and the man, picking himself up, would walk away hastily from\nNostromo's revolver, reeling a little along the street and snarling low\ncurses. At sunrise Captain Mitchell, coming out anxiously in his night\nattire on to the wooden balcony running the whole length of the O.S.N.\nCompany's lonely building by the shore, would see the lighters already\nunder way, figures moving busily about the cargo cranes, perhaps hear\nthe invaluable Nostromo, now dismounted and in the checked shirt and red\nsash of a Mediterranean sailor, bawling orders from the end of the jetty\nin a stentorian voice. A fellow in a thousand!\n\nThe material apparatus of perfected civilization which obliterates the\nindividuality of old towns under the stereotyped conveniences of modern\nlife had not intruded as yet; but over the worn-out antiquity of Sulaco,\nso characteristic with its stuccoed houses and barred windows, with\nthe great yellowy-white walls of abandoned convents behind the rows of\nsombre green cypresses, that fact--very modern in its spirit--the San\nTome mine had already thrown its subtle influence. It had altered, too,\nthe outward character of the crowds on feast days on the plaza before\nthe open portal of the cathedral, by the number of white ponchos with a\ngreen stripe affected as holiday wear by the San Tome miners. They had\nalso adopted white hats with green cord and braid--articles of good\nquality, which could be obtained in the storehouse of the administration\nfor very little money. A peaceable Cholo wearing these colours (unusual\nin Costaguana) was somehow very seldom beaten to within an inch of his\nlife on a charge of disrespect to the town police; neither ran he much\nrisk of being suddenly lassoed on the road by a recruiting party of\nlanceros--a method of voluntary enlistment looked upon as almost legal\nin the Republic. Whole villages were known to have volunteered for the\narmy in that way; but, as Don Pepe would say with a hopeless shrug to\nMrs. Gould, \"What would you! Poor people! Pobrecitos! Pobrecitos! But\nthe State must have its soldiers.\"\n\nThus professionally spoke Don Pepe, the fighter, with pendent\nmoustaches, a nut-brown, lean face, and a clean run of a cast-iron jaw,\nsuggesting the type of a cattle-herd horseman from the great Llanos of\nthe South. \"If you will listen to an old officer of Paez, senores,\" was\nthe exordium of all his speeches in the Aristocratic Club of Sulaco,\nwhere he was admitted on account of his past services to the extinct\ncause of Federation. The club, dating from the days of the proclamation\nof Costaguana's independence, boasted many names of liberators amongst\nits first founders. Suppressed arbitrarily innumerable times by\nvarious Governments, with memories of proscriptions and of at least one\nwholesale massacre of its members, sadly assembled for a banquet by the\norder of a zealous military commandante (their bodies were afterwards\nstripped naked and flung into the plaza out of the windows by the\nlowest scum of the populace), it was again flourishing, at that period,\npeacefully. It extended to strangers the large hospitality of the cool,\nbig rooms of its historic quarters in the front part of a house, once\nthe residence of a high official of the Holy Office. The two wings, shut\nup, crumbled behind the nailed doors, and what may be described as a\ngrove of young orange trees grown in the unpaved patio concealed the\nutter ruin of the back part facing the gate. You turned in from the\nstreet, as if entering a secluded orchard, where you came upon the foot\nof a disjointed staircase, guarded by a moss-stained effigy of some\nsaintly bishop, mitred and staffed, and bearing the indignity of a\nbroken nose meekly, with his fine stone hands crossed on his breast. The\nchocolate-coloured faces of servants with mops of black hair peeped\nat you from above; the click of billiard balls came to your ears, and\nascending the steps, you would perhaps see in the first sala, very stiff\nupon a straight-backed chair, in a good light, Don Pepe moving his long\nmoustaches as he spelt his way, at arm's length, through an old Sta.\nMarta newspaper. His horse--a stony-hearted but persevering black brute\nwith a hammer head--you would have seen in the street dozing motionless\nunder an immense saddle, with its nose almost touching the curbstone of\nthe sidewalk.\n\nDon Pepe, when \"down from the mountain,\" as the phrase, often heard in\nSulaco, went, could also be seen in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould.\nHe sat with modest assurance at some distance from the tea-table.\nWith his knees close together, and a kindly twinkle of drollery in his\ndeep-set eyes, he would throw his small and ironic pleasantries into the\ncurrent of conversation. There was in that man a sort of sane, humorous\nshrewdness, and a vein of genuine humanity so often found in simple\nold soldiers of proved courage who have seen much desperate service. Of\ncourse he knew nothing whatever of mining, but his employment was of a\nspecial kind. He was in charge of the whole population in the territory\nof the mine, which extended from the head of the gorge to where the cart\ntrack from the foot of the mountain enters the plain, crossing a stream\nover a little wooden bridge painted green--green, the colour of hope,\nbeing also the colour of the mine.\n\nIt was reported in Sulaco that up there \"at the mountain\" Don Pepe\nwalked about precipitous paths, girt with a great sword and in a shabby\nuniform with tarnished bullion epaulettes of a senior major. Most miners\nbeing Indians, with big wild eyes, addressed him as Taita (father), as\nthese barefooted people of Costaguana will address anybody who wears\nshoes; but it was Basilio, Mr. Gould's own mozo and the head servant\nof the Casa, who, in all good faith and from a sense of propriety,\nannounced him once in the solemn words, \"El Senor Gobernador has\narrived.\"\n\nDon Jose Avellanos, then in the drawing-room, was delighted beyond\nmeasure at the aptness of the title, with which he greeted the old major\nbanteringly as soon as the latter's soldierly figure appeared in the\ndoorway. Don Pepe only smiled in his long moustaches, as much as to say,\n\"You might have found a worse name for an old soldier.\"\n\nAnd El Senor Gobernador he had remained, with his small jokes upon\nhis function and upon his domain, where he affirmed with humorous\nexaggeration to Mrs. Gould--\n\n\"No two stones could come together anywhere without the Gobernador\nhearing the click, senora.\"\n\nAnd he would tap his ear with the tip of his forefinger knowingly. Even\nwhen the number of the miners alone rose to over six hundred he seemed\nto know each of them individually, all the innumerable Joses, Manuels,\nIgnacios, from the villages _primero--segundo--or tercero_ (there were\nthree mining villages) under his government. He could distinguish them\nnot only by their flat, joyless faces, which to Mrs. Gould looked\nall alike, as if run into the same ancestral mould of suffering and\npatience, but apparently also by the infinitely graduated shades of\nreddish-brown, of blackish-brown, of coppery-brown backs, as the two\nshifts, stripped to linen drawers and leather skull-caps, mingled\ntogether with a confusion of naked limbs, of shouldered picks, swinging\nlamps, in a great shuffle of sandalled feet on the open plateau before\nthe entrance of the main tunnel. It was a time of pause. The Indian\nboys leaned idly against the long line of little cradle wagons standing\nempty; the screeners and ore-breakers squatted on their heels smoking\nlong cigars; the great wooden shoots slanting over the edge of the\ntunnel plateau were silent; and only the ceaseless, violent rush of\nwater in the open flumes could be heard, murmuring fiercely, with the\nsplash and rumble of revolving turbine-wheels, and the thudding march\nof the stamps pounding to powder the treasure rock on the plateau below.\nThe heads of gangs, distinguished by brass medals hanging on their bare\nbreasts, marshalled their squads; and at last the mountain would swallow\none-half of the silent crowd, while the other half would move off in\nlong files down the zigzag paths leading to the bottom of the gorge.\nIt was deep; and, far below, a thread of vegetation winding between the\nblazing rock faces resembled a slender green cord, in which three lumpy\nknots of banana patches, palm-leaf roots, and shady trees marked the\nVillage One, Village Two, Village Three, housing the miners of the Gould\nConcession.\n\nWhole families had been moving from the first towards the spot in the\nHiguerota range, whence the rumour of work and safety had spread over\nthe pastoral Campo, forcing its way also, even as the waters of a high\nflood, into the nooks and crannies of the distant blue walls of the\nSierras. Father first, in a pointed straw hat, then the mother with the\nbigger children, generally also a diminutive donkey, all under burdens,\nexcept the leader himself, or perhaps some grown girl, the pride of the\nfamily, stepping barefooted and straight as an arrow, with braids of\nraven hair, a thick, haughty profile, and no load to carry but the small\nguitar of the country and a pair of soft leather sandals tied together\non her back. At the sight of such parties strung out on the cross\ntrails between the pastures, or camped by the side of the royal road,\ntravellers on horseback would remark to each other--\n\n\"More people going to the San Tome mine. We shall see others to-morrow.\"\n\nAnd spurring on in the dusk they would discuss the great news of the\nprovince, the news of the San Tome mine. A rich Englishman was going\nto work it--and perhaps not an Englishman, Quien sabe! A foreigner with\nmuch money. Oh, yes, it had begun. A party of men who had been to Sulaco\nwith a herd of black bulls for the next corrida had reported that from\nthe porch of the posada in Rincon, only a short league from the town,\nthe lights on the mountain were visible, twinkling above the trees. And\nthere was a woman seen riding a horse sideways, not in the chair seat,\nbut upon a sort of saddle, and a man's hat on her head. She walked\nabout, too, on foot up the mountain paths. A woman engineer, it seemed\nshe was.\n\n\"What an absurdity! Impossible, senor!\"\n\n\"_Si! Si! Una Americana del Norte_.\"\n\n\"Ah, well! if your worship is informed. _Una Americana_; it need be\nsomething of that sort.\"\n\nAnd they would laugh a little with astonishment and scorn, keeping a\nwary eye on the shadows of the road, for one is liable to meet bad men\nwhen travelling late on the Campo.\n\nAnd it was not only the men that Don Pepe knew so well, but he seemed\nable, with one attentive, thoughtful glance, to classify each woman,\ngirl, or growing youth of his domain. It was only the small fry that\npuzzled him sometimes. He and the padre could be seen frequently side by\nside, meditative and gazing across the street of a village at a lot\nof sedate brown children, trying to sort them out, as it were, in low,\nconsulting tones, or else they would together put searching questions\nas to the parentage of some small, staid urchin met wandering, naked and\ngrave, along the road with a cigar in his baby mouth, and perhaps his\nmother's rosary, purloined for purposes of ornamentation, hanging in a\nloop of beads low down on his rotund little stomach. The spiritual and\ntemporal pastors of the mine flock were very good friends. With Dr.\nMonygham, the medical pastor, who had accepted the charge from Mrs.\nGould, and lived in the hospital building, they were on not so intimate\nterms. But no one could be on intimate terms with El Senor Doctor, who,\nwith his twisted shoulders, drooping head, sardonic mouth, and side-long\nbitter glance, was mysterious and uncanny. The other two authorities\nworked in harmony. Father Roman, dried-up, small, alert, wrinkled,\nwith big round eyes, a sharp chin, and a great snuff-taker, was an old\ncampaigner, too; he had shriven many simple souls on the battlefields of\nthe Republic, kneeling by the dying on hillsides, in the long grass, in\nthe gloom of the forests, to hear the last confession with the smell\nof gunpowder smoke in his nostrils, the rattle of muskets, the hum\nand spatter of bullets in his ears. And where was the harm if, at the\npresbytery, they had a game with a pack of greasy cards in the early\nevening, before Don Pepe went his last rounds to see that all the\nwatchmen of the mine--a body organized by himself--were at their posts?\nFor that last duty before he slept Don Pepe did actually gird his old\nsword on the verandah of an unmistakable American white frame house,\nwhich Father Roman called the presbytery. Near by, a long, low, dark\nbuilding, steeple-roofed, like a vast barn with a wooden cross over the\ngable, was the miners' chapel. There Father Roman said Mass every day\nbefore a sombre altar-piece representing the Resurrection, the grey\nslab of the tombstone balanced on one corner, a figure soaring upwards,\nlong-limbed and livid, in an oval of pallid light, and a helmeted brown\nlegionary smitten down, right across the bituminous foreground. \"This\npicture, my children, _muy linda e maravillosa_,\" Father Roman would say\nto some of his flock, \"which you behold here through the munificence\nof the wife of our Senor Administrador, has been painted in Europe, a\ncountry of saints and miracles, and much greater than our Costaguana.\"\nAnd he would take a pinch of snuff with unction. But when once an\ninquisitive spirit desired to know in what direction this Europe was\nsituated, whether up or down the coast, Father Roman, to conceal his\nperplexity, became very reserved and severe. \"No doubt it is extremely\nfar away. But ignorant sinners like you of the San Tome mine should\nthink earnestly of everlasting punishment instead of inquiring into the\nmagnitude of the earth, with its countries and populations altogether\nbeyond your understanding.\"\n\nWith a \"Good-night, Padre,\" \"Good-night, Don Pepe,\" the Gobernador would\ngo off, holding up his sabre against his side, his body bent forward,\nwith a long, plodding stride in the dark. The jocularity proper to an\ninnocent card game for a few cigars or a bundle of yerba was replaced\nat once by the stern duty mood of an officer setting out to visit the\noutposts of an encamped army. One loud blast of the whistle that\nhung from his neck provoked instantly a great shrilling of responding\nwhistles, mingled with the barking of dogs, that would calm down slowly\nat last, away up at the head of the gorge; and in the stillness two\nserenos, on guard by the bridge, would appear walking noiselessly\ntowards him. On one side of the road a long frame building--the\nstore--would be closed and barricaded from end to end; facing it\nanother white frame house, still longer, and with a verandah--the\nhospital--would have lights in the two windows of Dr. Monygham's\nquarters. Even the delicate foliage of a clump of pepper trees did not\nstir, so breathless would be the darkness warmed by the radiation of the\nover-heated rocks. Don Pepe would stand still for a moment with the two\nmotionless serenos before him, and, abruptly, high up on the sheer face\nof the mountain, dotted with single torches, like drops of fire fallen\nfrom the two great blazing clusters of lights above, the ore shoots\nwould begin to rattle. The great clattering, shuffling noise, gathering\nspeed and weight, would be caught up by the walls of the gorge, and sent\nupon the plain in a growl of thunder. The pasadero in Rincon swore that\non calm nights, by listening intently, he could catch the sound in his\ndoorway as of a storm in the mountains.\n\nTo Charles Gould's fancy it seemed that the sound must reach the\nuttermost limits of the province. Riding at night towards the mine, it\nwould meet him at the edge of a little wood just beyond Rincon. There\nwas no mistaking the growling mutter of the mountain pouring its stream\nof treasure under the stamps; and it came to his heart with the\npeculiar force of a proclamation thundered forth over the land and the\nmarvellousness of an accomplished fact fulfilling an audacious desire.\nHe had heard this very sound in his imagination on that far-off evening\nwhen his wife and himself, after a tortuous ride through a strip of\nforest, had reined in their horses near the stream, and had gazed for\nthe first time upon the jungle-grown solitude of the gorge. The head of\na palm rose here and there. In a high ravine round the corner of the\nSan Tome mountain (which is square like a blockhouse) the thread of a\nslender waterfall flashed bright and glassy through the dark green of\nthe heavy fronds of tree-ferns. Don Pepe, in attendance, rode up, and,\nstretching his arm up the gorge, had declared with mock solemnity,\n\"Behold the very paradise of snakes, senora.\"\n\nAnd then they had wheeled their horses and ridden back to sleep that\nnight at Rincon. The alcalde--an old, skinny Moreno, a sergeant of\nGuzman Bento's time--had cleared respectfully out of his house with his\nthree pretty daughters, to make room for the foreign senora and their\nworships the Caballeros. All he asked Charles Gould (whom he took for a\nmysterious and official person) to do for him was to remind the supreme\nGovernment--El Gobierno supreme--of a pension (amounting to about a\ndollar a month) to which he believed himself entitled. It had been\npromised to him, he affirmed, straightening his bent back martially,\n\"many years ago, for my valour in the wars with the wild Indios when a\nyoung man, senor.\"\n\nThe waterfall existed no longer. The tree-ferns that had luxuriated in\nits spray had died around the dried-up pool, and the high ravine was\nonly a big trench half filled up with the refuse of excavations and\ntailings. The torrent, dammed up above, sent its water rushing along\nthe open flumes of scooped tree trunks striding on trestle-legs to the\nturbines working the stamps on the lower plateau--the mesa grande of the\nSan Tome mountain. Only the memory of the waterfall, with its amazing\nfernery, like a hanging garden above the rocks of the gorge, was\npreserved in Mrs. Gould's water-colour sketch; she had made it hastily\none day from a cleared patch in the bushes, sitting in the shade of\na roof of straw erected for her on three rough poles under Don Pepe's\ndirection.\n\nMrs. Gould had seen it all from the beginning: the clearing of the\nwilderness, the making of the road, the cutting of new paths up the\ncliff face of San Tome. For weeks together she had lived on the spot\nwith her husband; and she was so little in Sulaco during that year that\nthe appearance of the Gould carriage on the Alameda would cause a social\nexcitement. From the heavy family coaches full of stately senoras and\nblack-eyed senoritas rolling solemnly in the shaded alley white hands\nwere waved towards her with animation in a flutter of greetings. Dona\nEmilia was \"down from the mountain.\"\n\nBut not for long. Dona Emilia would be gone \"up to the mountain\" in a\nday or two, and her sleek carriage mules would have an easy time of\nit for another long spell. She had watched the erection of the first\nframe-house put up on the lower mesa for an office and Don Pepe's\nquarters; she heard with a thrill of thankful emotion the first wagon\nload of ore rattle down the then only shoot; she had stood by her\nhusband's side perfectly silent, and gone cold all over with excitement\nat the instant when the first battery of only fifteen stamps was put\nin motion for the first time. On the occasion when the fires under the\nfirst set of retorts in their shed had glowed far into the night she did\nnot retire to rest on the rough cadre set up for her in the as yet bare\nframe-house till she had seen the first spongy lump of silver yielded to\nthe hazards of the world by the dark depths of the Gould Concession;\nshe had laid her unmercenary hands, with an eagerness that made them\ntremble, upon the first silver ingot turned out still warm from the\nmould; and by her imaginative estimate of its power she endowed that\nlump of metal with a justificative conception, as though it were not\na mere fact, but something far-reaching and impalpable, like the true\nexpression of an emotion or the emergence of a principle.\n\nDon Pepe, extremely interested, too, looked over her shoulder with a\nsmile that, making longitudinal folds on his face, caused it to resemble\na leathern mask with a benignantly diabolic expression.\n\n\"Would not the muchachos of Hernandez like to get hold of this\ninsignificant object, that looks, por Dios, very much like a piece of\ntin?\" he remarked, jocularly.\n\nHernandez, the robber, had been an inoffensive, small ranchero,\nkidnapped with circumstances of peculiar atrocity from his home during\none of the civil wars, and forced to serve in the army. There his\nconduct as soldier was exemplary, till, watching his chance, he killed\nhis colonel, and managed to get clear away. With a band of deserters,\nwho chose him for their chief, he had taken refuge beyond the wild and\nwaterless Bolson de Tonoro. The haciendas paid him blackmail in cattle\nand horses; extraordinary stories were told of his powers and of his\nwonderful escapes from capture. He used to ride, single-handed, into the\nvillages and the little towns on the Campo, driving a pack mule before\nhim, with two revolvers in his belt, go straight to the shop or store,\nselect what he wanted, and ride away unopposed because of the terror his\nexploits and his audacity inspired. Poor country people he usually left\nalone; the upper class were often stopped on the roads and robbed; but\nany unlucky official that fell into his hands was sure to get a severe\nflogging. The army officers did not like his name to be mentioned in\ntheir presence. His followers, mounted on stolen horses, laughed at the\npursuit of the regular cavalry sent to hunt them down, and whom they\ntook pleasure to ambush most scientifically in the broken ground of\ntheir own fastness. Expeditions had been fitted out; a price had been\nput upon his head; even attempts had been made, treacherously of course,\nto open negotiations with him, without in the slightest way affecting\nthe even tenor of his career. At last, in true Costaguana fashion, the\nFiscal of Tonoro, who was ambitious of the glory of having reduced the\nfamous Hernandez, offered him a sum of money and a safe conduct out of\nthe country for the betrayal of his band. But Hernandez evidently was\nnot of the stuff of which the distinguished military politicians and\nconspirators of Costaguana are made. This clever but common device\n(which frequently works like a charm in putting down revolutions) failed\nwith the chief of vulgar Salteadores. It promised well for the Fiscal at\nfirst, but ended very badly for the squadron of lanceros posted (by the\nFiscal's directions) in a fold of the ground into which Hernandez had\npromised to lead his unsuspecting followers They came, indeed, at the\nappointed time, but creeping on their hands and knees through the bush,\nand only let their presence be known by a general discharge of firearms,\nwhich emptied many saddles. The troopers who escaped came riding very\nhard into Tonoro. It is said that their commanding officer (who, being\nbetter mounted, rode far ahead of the rest) afterwards got into a state\nof despairing intoxication and beat the ambitious Fiscal severely with\nthe flat of his sabre in the presence of his wife and daughters,\nfor bringing this disgrace upon the National Army. The highest civil\nofficial of Tonoro, falling to the ground in a swoon, was further kicked\nall over the body and rowelled with sharp spurs about the neck and\nface because of the great sensitiveness of his military colleague.\nThis gossip of the inland Campo, so characteristic of the rulers of the\ncountry with its story of oppression, inefficiency, fatuous methods,\ntreachery, and savage brutality, was perfectly known to Mrs. Gould.\nThat it should be accepted with no indignant comment by people of\nintelligence, refinement, and character as something inherent in the\nnature of things was one of the symptoms of degradation that had the\npower to exasperate her almost to the verge of despair. Still looking at\nthe ingot of silver, she shook her head at Don Pepe's remark--\n\n\"If it had not been for the lawless tyranny of your Government, Don\nPepe, many an outlaw now with Hernandez would be living peaceably and\nhappy by the honest work of his hands.\"\n\n\"Senora,\" cried Don Pepe, with enthusiasm, \"it is true! It is as if God\nhad given you the power to look into the very breasts of people. You\nhave seen them working round you, Dona Emilia--meek as lambs, patient\nlike their own burros, brave like lions. I have led them to the very\nmuzzles of guns--I, who stand here before you, senora--in the time of\nPaez, who was full of generosity, and in courage only approached by the\nuncle of Don Carlos here, as far as I know. No wonder there are bandits\nin the Campo when there are none but thieves, swindlers, and sanguinary\nmacaques to rule us in Sta. Marta. However, all the same, a bandit is a\nbandit, and we shall have a dozen good straight Winchesters to ride with\nthe silver down to Sulaco.\"\n\nMrs. Gould's ride with the first silver escort to Sulaco was the closing\nepisode of what she called \"my camp life\" before she had settled in her\ntown-house permanently, as was proper and even necessary for the wife of\nthe administrator of such an important institution as the San Tome mine.\nFor the San Tome mine was to become an institution, a rallying point\nfor everything in the province that needed order and stability to live.\nSecurity seemed to flow upon this land from the mountain-gorge. The\nauthorities of Sulaco had learned that the San Tome mine could make it\nworth their while to leave things and people alone. This was the nearest\napproach to the rule of common-sense and justice Charles Gould felt it\npossible to secure at first. In fact, the mine, with its organization,\nits population growing fiercely attached to their position of privileged\nsafety, with its armoury, with its Don Pepe, with its armed body of\nserenos (where, it was said, many an outlaw and deserter--and even some\nmembers of Hernandez's band--had found a place), the mine was a power in\nthe land. As a certain prominent man in Sta. Marta had exclaimed with\na hollow laugh, once, when discussing the line of action taken by the\nSulaco authorities at a time of political crisis--\n\n\"You call these men Government officials? They? Never! They are\nofficials of the mine--officials of the Concession--I tell you.\"\n\nThe prominent man (who was then a person in power, with a lemon-coloured\nface and a very short and curly, not to say woolly, head of hair) went\nso far in his temporary discontent as to shake his yellow fist under the\nnose of his interlocutor, and shriek--\n\n\"Yes! All! Silence! All! I tell you! The political Gefe, the chief of\nthe police, the chief of the customs, the general, all, all, are the\nofficials of that Gould.\"\n\nThereupon an intrepid but low and argumentative murmur would flow on\nfor a space in the ministerial cabinet, and the prominent man's passion\nwould end in a cynical shrug of the shoulders. After all, he seemed\nto say, what did it matter as long as the minister himself was not\nforgotten during his brief day of authority? But all the same, the\nunofficial agent of the San Tome mine, working for a good cause, had\nhis moments of anxiety, which were reflected in his letters to Don Jose\nAvellanos, his maternal uncle.\n\n\"No sanguinary macaque from Sta. Marta shall set foot on that part of\nCostaguana which lies beyond the San Tome bridge,\" Don Pepe used to\nassure Mrs. Gould. \"Except, of course, as an honoured guest--for our\nSenor Administrador is a deep politico.\" But to Charles Gould, in\nhis own room, the old Major would remark with a grim and soldierly\ncheeriness, \"We are all playing our heads at this game.\"\n\nDon Jose Avellanos would mutter \"Imperium in imperio, Emilia, my soul,\"\nwith an air of profound self-satisfaction which, somehow, in a curious\nway, seemed to contain a queer admixture of bodily discomfort. But that,\nperhaps, could only be visible to the initiated. And for the initiated\nit was a wonderful place, this drawing-room of the Casa Gould, with its\nmomentary glimpses of the master--El Senor Administrador--older, harder,\nmysteriously silent, with the lines deepened on his English, ruddy,\nout-of-doors complexion; flitting on his thin cavalryman's legs across\nthe doorways, either just \"back from the mountain\" or with jingling\nspurs and riding-whip under his arm, on the point of starting \"for the\nmountain.\" Then Don Pepe, modestly martial in his chair, the llanero who\nseemed somehow to have found his martial jocularity, his knowledge\nof the world, and his manner perfect for his station, in the midst of\nsavage armed contests with his kind; Avellanos, polished and familiar,\nthe diplomatist with his loquacity covering much caution and wisdom in\ndelicate advice, with his manuscript of a historical work on Costaguana,\nentitled \"Fifty Years of Misrule,\" which, at present, he thought it was\nnot prudent (even if it were possible) \"to give to the world\";\nthese three, and also Dona Emilia amongst them, gracious, small,\nand fairy-like, before the glittering tea-set, with one common\nmaster-thought in their heads, with one common feeling of a tense\nsituation, with one ever-present aim to preserve the inviolable\ncharacter of the mine at every cost. And there was also to be seen\nCaptain Mitchell, a little apart, near one of the long windows, with an\nair of old-fashioned neat old bachelorhood about him, slightly pompous,\nin a white waistcoat, a little disregarded and unconscious of it;\nutterly in the dark, and imagining himself to be in the thick of things.\nThe good man, having spent a clear thirty years of his life on the high\nseas before getting what he called a \"shore billet,\" was astonished at\nthe importance of transactions (other than relating to shipping) which\ntake place on dry land. Almost every event out of the usual daily\ncourse \"marked an epoch\" for him or else was \"history\"; unless with his\npomposity struggling with a discomfited droop of his rubicund, rather\nhandsome face, set off by snow-white close hair and short whiskers, he\nwould mutter--\n\n\"Ah, that! That, sir, was a mistake.\"\n\nThe reception of the first consignment of San Tome silver for shipment\nto San Francisco in one of the O.S.N. Co.'s mail-boats had, of course,\n\"marked an epoch\" for Captain Mitchell. The ingots packed in boxes of\nstiff ox-hide with plaited handles, small enough to be carried easily by\ntwo men, were brought down by the serenos of the mine walking in careful\ncouples along the half-mile or so of steep, zigzag paths to the foot of\nthe mountain. There they would be loaded into a string of two-wheeled\ncarts, resembling roomy coffers with a door at the back, and harnessed\ntandem with two mules each, waiting under the guard of armed and mounted\nserenos. Don Pepe padlocked each door in succession, and at the signal\nof his whistle the string of carts would move off, closely surrounded by\nthe clank of spur and carbine, with jolts and cracking of whips, with a\nsudden deep rumble over the boundary bridge (\"into the land of thieves\nand sanguinary macaques,\" Don Pepe defined that crossing); hats bobbing\nin the first light of the dawn, on the heads of cloaked figures;\nWinchesters on hip; bridle hands protruding lean and brown from under\nthe falling folds of the ponchos. The convoy skirting a little wood,\nalong the mine trail, between the mud huts and low walls of Rincon,\nincreased its pace on the camino real, mules urged to speed, escort\ngalloping, Don Carlos riding alone ahead of a dust storm affording a\nvague vision of long ears of mules, of fluttering little green and white\nflags stuck upon each cart; of raised arms in a mob of sombreros with\nthe white gleam of ranging eyes; and Don Pepe, hardly visible in the\nrear of that rattling dust trail, with a stiff seat and impassive face,\nrising and falling rhythmically on an ewe-necked silver-bitted black\nbrute with a hammer head.\n\nThe sleepy people in the little clusters of huts, in the small ranches\nnear the road, recognized by the headlong sound the charge of the San\nTome silver escort towards the crumbling wall of the city on the Campo\nside. They came to the doors to see it dash by over ruts and stones,\nwith a clatter and clank and cracking of whips, with the reckless rush\nand precise driving of a field battery hurrying into action, and the\nsolitary English figure of the Senor Administrador riding far ahead in\nthe lead.\n\nIn the fenced roadside paddocks loose horses galloped wildly for a\nwhile; the heavy cattle stood up breast deep in the grass, lowing\nmutteringly at the flying noise; a meek Indian villager would glance\nback once and hasten to shove his loaded little donkey bodily against a\nwall, out of the way of the San Tome silver escort going to the sea; a\nsmall knot of chilly leperos under the Stone Horse of the Alameda would\nmutter: \"Caramba!\" on seeing it take a wide curve at a gallop and dart\ninto the empty Street of the Constitution; for it was considered the\ncorrect thing, the only proper style by the mule-drivers of the San Tome\nmine to go through the waking town from end to end without a check in\nthe speed as if chased by a devil.\n\nThe early sunshine glowed on the delicate primrose, pale pink, pale\nblue fronts of the big houses with all their gates shut yet, and no face\nbehind the iron bars of the windows. In the whole sunlit range of empty\nbalconies along the street only one white figure would be visible\nhigh up above the clear pavement--the wife of the Senor\nAdministrador--leaning over to see the escort go by to the harbour, a\nmass of heavy, fair hair twisted up negligently on her little head, and\na lot of lace about the neck of her muslin wrapper. With a smile to her\nhusband's single, quick, upward glance, she would watch the whole thing\nstream past below her feet with an orderly uproar, till she answered\nby a friendly sign the salute of the galloping Don Pepe, the stiff,\ndeferential inclination with a sweep of the hat below the knee.\n\nThe string of padlocked carts lengthened, the size of the escort grew\nbigger as the years went on. Every three months an increasing stream of\ntreasure swept through the streets of Sulaco on its way to the strong\nroom in the O.S.N. Co.'s building by the harbour, there to await\nshipment for the North. Increasing in volume, and of immense value also;\nfor, as Charles Gould told his wife once with some exultation, there had\nnever been seen anything in the world to approach the vein of the\nGould Concession. For them both, each passing of the escort under the\nbalconies of the Casa Gould was like another victory gained in the\nconquest of peace for Sulaco.\n\nNo doubt the initial action of Charles Gould had been helped at the\nbeginning by a period of comparative peace which occurred just about\nthat time; and also by the general softening of manners as compared with\nthe epoch of civil wars whence had emerged the iron tyranny of Guzman\nBento of fearful memory. In the contests that broke out at the end of\nhis rule (which had kept peace in the country for a whole fifteen years)\nthere was more fatuous imbecility, plenty of cruelty and suffering\nstill, but much less of the old-time fierce and blindly ferocious\npolitical fanaticism. It was all more vile, more base, more\ncontemptible, and infinitely more manageable in the very outspoken\ncynicism of motives. It was more clearly a brazen-faced scramble for a\nconstantly diminishing quantity of booty; since all enterprise had been\nstupidly killed in the land. Thus it came to pass that the province of\nSulaco, once the field of cruel party vengeances, had become in a way\none of the considerable prizes of political career. The great of the\nearth (in Sta. Marta) reserved the posts in the old Occidental State\nto those nearest and dearest to them: nephews, brothers, husbands\nof favourite sisters, bosom friends, trusty supporters--or prominent\nsupporters of whom perhaps they were afraid. It was the blessed province\nof great opportunities and of largest salaries; for the San Tome mine\nhad its own unofficial pay list, whose items and amounts, fixed in\nconsultation by Charles Gould and Senor Avellanos, were known to a\nprominent business man in the United States, who for twenty minutes or\nso in every month gave his undivided attention to Sulaco affairs. At\nthe same time the material interests of all sorts, backed up by the\ninfluence of the San Tome mine, were quietly gathering substance in that\npart of the Republic. If, for instance, the Sulaco Collectorship was\ngenerally understood, in the political world of the capital, to open the\nway to the Ministry of Finance, and so on for every official post, then,\non the other hand, the despondent business circles of the Republic had\ncome to consider the Occidental Province as the promised land of safety,\nespecially if a man managed to get on good terms with the administration\nof the mine. \"Charles Gould; excellent fellow! Absolutely necessary to\nmake sure of him before taking a single step. Get an introduction to\nhim from Moraga if you can--the agent of the King of Sulaco, don't you\nknow.\"\n\nNo wonder, then, that Sir John, coming from Europe to smooth the path\nfor his railway, had been meeting the name (and even the nickname) of\nCharles Gould at every turn in Costaguana. The agent of the San Tome\nAdministration in Sta. Marta (a polished, well-informed gentleman, Sir\nJohn thought him) had certainly helped so greatly in bringing about the\npresidential tour that he began to think that there was something in\nthe faint whispers hinting at the immense occult influence of the Gould\nConcession. What was currently whispered was this--that the San Tome\nAdministration had, in part, at least, financed the last revolution,\nwhich had brought into a five-year dictatorship Don Vincente Ribiera, a\nman of culture and of unblemished character, invested with a mandate\nof reform by the best elements of the State. Serious, well-informed\nmen seemed to believe the fact, to hope for better things, for the\nestablishment of legality, of good faith and order in public life. So\nmuch the better, then, thought Sir John. He worked always on a great\nscale; there was a loan to the State, and a project for systematic\ncolonization of the Occidental Province, involved in one vast scheme\nwith the construction of the National Central Railway. Good faith,\norder, honesty, peace, were badly wanted for this great development of\nmaterial interests. Anybody on the side of these things, and especially\nif able to help, had an importance in Sir John's eyes. He had not been\ndisappointed in the \"King of Sulaco.\" The local difficulties had fallen\naway, as the engineer-in-chief had foretold they would, before Charles\nGould's mediation. Sir John had been extremely feted in Sulaco, next\nto the President-Dictator, a fact which might have accounted for the\nevident ill-humour General Montero displayed at lunch given on board\nthe Juno just before she was to sail, taking away from Sulaco the\nPresident-Dictator and the distinguished foreign guests in his train.\n\nThe Excellentissimo (\"the hope of honest men,\" as Don Jose had addressed\nhim in a public speech delivered in the name of the Provincial Assembly\nof Sulaco) sat at the head of the long table; Captain Mitchell,\npositively stony-eyed and purple in the face with the solemnity of\nthis \"historical event,\" occupied the foot as the representative of the\nO.S.N. Company in Sulaco, the hosts of that informal function, with the\ncaptain of the ship and some minor officials from the shore around him.\nThose cheery, swarthy little gentlemen cast jovial side-glances at the\nbottles of champagne beginning to pop behind the guests' backs in the\nhands of the ship's stewards. The amber wine creamed up to the rims of\nthe glasses.\n\nCharles Gould had his place next to a foreign envoy, who, in a listless\nundertone, had been talking to him fitfully of hunting and shooting.\nThe well-nourished, pale face, with an eyeglass and drooping yellow\nmoustache, made the Senor Administrador appear by contrast twice as\nsunbaked, more flaming red, a hundred times more intensely and silently\nalive. Don Jose Avellanos touched elbows with the other foreign\ndiplomat, a dark man with a quiet, watchful, self-confident demeanour,\nand a touch of reserve. All etiquette being laid aside on the occasion,\nGeneral Montero was the only one there in full uniform, so stiff with\nembroideries in front that his broad chest seemed protected by a cuirass\nof gold. Sir John at the beginning had got away from high places for the\nsake of sitting near Mrs. Gould.\n\nThe great financier was trying to express to her his grateful sense\nof her hospitality and of his obligation to her husband's \"enormous\ninfluence in this part of the country,\" when she interrupted him by a\nlow \"Hush!\" The President was going to make an informal pronouncement.\n\nThe Excellentissimo was on his legs. He said only a few words, evidently\ndeeply felt, and meant perhaps mostly for Avellanos--his old friend--as\nto the necessity of unremitting effort to secure the lasting welfare of\nthe country emerging after this last struggle, he hoped, into a period\nof peace and material prosperity.\n\nMrs. Gould, listening to the mellow, slightly mournful voice, looking\nat this rotund, dark, spectacled face, at the short body, obese to the\npoint of infirmity, thought that this man of delicate and melancholy\nmind, physically almost a cripple, coming out of his retirement into a\ndangerous strife at the call of his fellows, had the right to speak with\nthe authority of his self-sacrifice. And yet she was made uneasy. He\nwas more pathetic than promising, this first civilian Chief of the\nState Costaguana had ever known, pronouncing, glass in hand, his simple\nwatchwords of honesty, peace, respect for law, political good faith\nabroad and at home--the safeguards of national honour.\n\nHe sat down. During the respectful, appreciative buzz of voices that\nfollowed the speech, General Montero raised a pair of heavy, drooping\neyelids and rolled his eyes with a sort of uneasy dullness from face\nto face. The military backwoods hero of the party, though secretly\nimpressed by the sudden novelties and splendours of his position (he\nhad never been on board a ship before, and had hardly ever seen the sea\nexcept from a distance), understood by a sort of instinct the advantage\nhis surly, unpolished attitude of a savage fighter gave him amongst all\nthese refined Blanco aristocrats. But why was it that nobody was looking\nat him? he wondered to himself angrily. He was able to spell out the\nprint of newspapers, and knew that he had performed the \"greatest\nmilitary exploit of modern times.\"\n\n\"My husband wanted the railway,\" Mrs. Gould said to Sir John in the\ngeneral murmur of resumed conversations. \"All this brings nearer the\nsort of future we desire for the country, which has waited for it in\nsorrow long enough, God knows. But I will confess that the other day,\nduring my afternoon drive when I suddenly saw an Indian boy ride out\nof a wood with the red flag of a surveying party in his hand, I felt\nsomething of a shock. The future means change--an utter change. And yet\neven here there are simple and picturesque things that one would like to\npreserve.\"\n\nSir John listened, smiling. But it was his turn now to hush Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"General Montero is going to speak,\" he whispered, and almost\nimmediately added, in comic alarm, \"Heavens! he's going to propose my\nown health, I believe.\"\n\nGeneral Montero had risen with a jingle of steel scabbard and a ripple\nof glitter on his gold-embroidered breast; a heavy sword-hilt appeared\nat his side above the edge of the table. In this gorgeous uniform, with\nhis bull neck, his hooked nose flattened on the tip upon a blue-black,\ndyed moustache, he looked like a disguised and sinister vaquero.\nThe drone of his voice had a strangely rasping, soulless ring. He\nfloundered, lowering, through a few vague sentences; then suddenly\nraising his big head and his voice together, burst out harshly--\n\n\"The honour of the country is in the hands of the army. I assure you\nI shall be faithful to it.\" He hesitated till his roaming eyes met Sir\nJohn's face upon which he fixed a lurid, sleepy glance; and the figure\nof the lately negotiated loan came into his mind. He lifted his glass.\n\"I drink to the health of the man who brings us a million and a half of\npounds.\"\n\nHe tossed off his champagne, and sat down heavily with a half-surprised,\nhalf-bullying look all round the faces in the profound, as if appalled,\nsilence which succeeded the felicitous toast. Sir John did not move.\n\n\"I don't think I am called upon to rise,\" he murmured to Mrs. Gould.\n\"That sort of thing speaks for itself.\" But Don Jose Avellanos came\nto the rescue with a short oration, in which he alluded pointedly to\nEngland's goodwill towards Costaguana--\"a goodwill,\" he continued,\nsignificantly, \"of which I, having been in my time accredited to the\nCourt of St. James, am able to speak with some knowledge.\"\n\nOnly then Sir John thought fit to respond, which he did gracefully in\nbad French, punctuated by bursts of applause and the \"Hear! Hears!\"\nof Captain Mitchell, who was able to understand a word now and then.\nDirectly he had done, the financier of railways turned to Mrs. Gould--\n\n\"You were good enough to say that you intended to ask me for something,\"\nhe reminded her, gallantly. \"What is it? Be assured that any request\nfrom you would be considered in the light of a favour to myself.\"\n\nShe thanked him by a gracious smile. Everybody was rising from the\ntable.\n\n\"Let us go on deck,\" she proposed, \"where I'll be able to point out to\nyou the very object of my request.\"\n\nAn enormous national flag of Costaguana, diagonal red and yellow, with\ntwo green palm trees in the middle, floated lazily at the mainmast head\nof the Juno. A multitude of fireworks being let off in their thousands\nat the water's edge in honour of the President kept up a mysterious\ncrepitating noise half round the harbour. Now and then a lot of rockets,\nswishing upwards invisibly, detonated overhead with only a puff of smoke\nin the bright sky. Crowds of people could be seen between the town gate\nand the harbour, under the bunches of multicoloured flags fluttering on\ntall poles. Faint bursts of military music would be heard suddenly, and\nthe remote sound of shouting. A knot of ragged negroes at the end of the\nwharf kept on loading and firing a small iron cannon time after time. A\ngreyish haze of dust hung thin and motionless against the sun.\n\nDon Vincente Ribiera made a few steps under the deck-awning, leaning on\nthe arm of Senor Avellanos; a wide circle was formed round him, where\nthe mirthless smile of his dark lips and the sightless glitter of his\nspectacles could be seen turning amiably from side to side. The\ninformal function arranged on purpose on board the Juno to give the\nPresident-Dictator an opportunity to meet intimately some of his most\nnotable adherents in Sulaco was drawing to an end. On one side, General\nMontero, his bald head covered now by a plumed cocked hat, remained\nmotionless on a skylight seat, a pair of big gauntleted hands folded\non the hilt of the sabre standing upright between his legs. The white\nplume, the coppery tint of his broad face, the blue-black of the\nmoustaches under the curved beak, the mass of gold on sleeves and\nbreast, the high shining boots with enormous spurs, the working\nnostrils, the imbecile and domineering stare of the glorious victor of\nRio Seco had in them something ominous and incredible; the exaggeration\nof a cruel caricature, the fatuity of solemn masquerading, the atrocious\ngrotesqueness of some military idol of Aztec conception and European\nbedecking, awaiting the homage of worshippers. Don Jose approached\ndiplomatically this weird and inscrutable portent, and Mrs. Gould turned\nher fascinated eyes away at last.\n\nCharles, coming up to take leave of Sir John, heard him say, as he bent\nover his wife's hand, \"Certainly. Of course, my dear Mrs. Gould, for a\nprotege of yours! Not the slightest difficulty. Consider it done.\"\n\nGoing ashore in the same boat with the Goulds, Don Jose Avellanos was\nvery silent. Even in the Gould carriage he did not open his lips for\na long time. The mules trotted slowly away from the wharf between the\nextended hands of the beggars, who for that day seemed to have abandoned\nin a body the portals of churches. Charles Gould sat on the back seat\nand looked away upon the plain. A multitude of booths made of green\nboughs, of rushes, of odd pieces of plank eked out with bits of canvas\nhad been erected all over it for the sale of cana, of dulces, of fruit,\nof cigars. Over little heaps of glowing charcoal Indian women, squatting\non mats, cooked food in black earthen pots, and boiled the water for the\nmate gourds, which they offered in soft, caressing voices to the country\npeople. A racecourse had been staked out for the vaqueros; and away to\nthe left, from where the crowd was massed thickly about a huge temporary\nerection, like a circus tent of wood with a conical grass roof, came the\nresonant twanging of harp strings, the sharp ping of guitars, with the\ngrave drumming throb of an Indian gombo pulsating steadily through the\nshrill choruses of the dancers.\n\nCharles Gould said presently--\n\n\"All this piece of land belongs now to the Railway Company. There will\nbe no more popular feasts held here.\"\n\nMrs. Gould was rather sorry to think so. She took this opportunity to\nmention how she had just obtained from Sir John the promise that the\nhouse occupied by Giorgio Viola should not be interfered with. She\ndeclared she could never understand why the survey engineers ever talked\nof demolishing that old building. It was not in the way of the projected\nharbour branch of the line in the least.\n\nShe stopped the carriage before the door to reassure at once the old\nGenoese, who came out bare-headed and stood by the carriage step.\nShe talked to him in Italian, of course, and he thanked her with calm\ndignity. An old Garibaldino was grateful to her from the bottom of his\nheart for keeping the roof over the heads of his wife and children. He\nwas too old to wander any more.\n\n\"And is it for ever, signora?\" he asked.\n\n\"For as long as you like.\"\n\n\"Bene. Then the place must be named, It was not worth while before.\"\n\nHe smiled ruggedly, with a running together of wrinkles at the corners\nof his eyes. \"I shall set about the painting of the name to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And what is it going to be, Giorgio?\"\n\n\"Albergo d'Italia Una,\" said the old Garibaldino, looking away for a\nmoment. \"More in memory of those who have died,\" he added, \"than for the\ncountry stolen from us soldiers of liberty by the craft of that accursed\nPiedmontese race of kings and ministers.\"\n\nMrs. Gould smiled slightly, and, bending over a little, began to inquire\nabout his wife and children. He had sent them into town on that day. The\npadrona was better in health; many thanks to the signora for inquiring.\n\nPeople were passing in twos and threes, in whole parties of men and\nwomen attended by trotting children. A horseman mounted on a silver-grey\nmare drew rein quietly in the shade of the house after taking off his\nhat to the party in the carriage, who returned smiles and familiar\nnods. Old Viola, evidently very pleased with the news he had just heard,\ninterrupted himself for a moment to tell him rapidly that the house was\nsecured, by the kindness of the English signora, for as long as he liked\nto keep it. The other listened attentively, but made no response.\n\nWhen the carriage moved on he took off his hat again, a grey sombrero\nwith a silver cord and tassels. The bright colours of a Mexican serape\ntwisted on the cantle, the enormous silver buttons on the embroidered\nleather jacket, the row of tiny silver buttons down the seam of the\ntrousers, the snowy linen, a silk sash with embroidered ends, the silver\nplates on headstall and saddle, proclaimed the unapproachable style of\nthe famous Capataz de Cargadores--a Mediterranean sailor--got up with\nmore finished splendour than any well-to-do young ranchero of the Campo\nhad ever displayed on a high holiday.\n\n\"It is a great thing for me,\" murmured old Giorgio, still thinking of\nthe house, for now he had grown weary of change. \"The signora just said\na word to the Englishman.\"\n\n\"The old Englishman who has enough money to pay for a railway? He is\ngoing off in an hour,\" remarked Nostromo, carelessly. \"_Buon viaggio_,\nthen. I've guarded his bones all the way from the Entrada pass down to\nthe plain and into Sulaco, as though he had been my own father.\"\n\nOld Giorgio only moved his head sideways absently. Nostromo pointed\nafter the Goulds' carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in the old town\nwall that was like a wall of matted jungle.\n\n\"And I have sat alone at night with my revolver in the Company's\nwarehouse time and again by the side of that other Englishman's heap of\nsilver, guarding it as though it had been my own.\"\n\nViola seemed lost in thought. \"It is a great thing for me,\" he repeated\nagain, as if to himself.\n\n\"It is,\" agreed the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, calmly. \"Listen,\nVecchio--go in and bring me, out a cigar, but don't look for it in my\nroom. There's nothing there.\"\n\nViola stepped into the cafe and came out directly, still absorbed in his\nidea, and tendered him a cigar, mumbling thoughtfully in his moustache,\n\"Children growing up--and girls, too! Girls!\" He sighed and fell silent.\n\n\"What, only one?\" remarked Nostromo, looking down with a sort of comic\ninquisitiveness at the unconscious old man. \"No matter,\" he added, with\nlofty negligence; \"one is enough till another is wanted.\"\n\nHe lit it and let the match drop from his passive fingers. Giorgio Viola\nlooked up, and said abruptly--\n\n\"My son would have been just such a fine young man as you, Gian'\nBattista, if he had lived.\"\n\n\"What? Your son? But you are right, padrone. If he had been like me he\nwould have been a man.\"\n\nHe turned his horse slowly, and paced on between the booths, checking\nthe mare almost to a standstill now and then for children, for the\ngroups of people from the distant Campo, who stared after him with\nadmiration. The Company's lightermen saluted him from afar; and the\ngreatly envied Capataz de Cargadores advanced, amongst murmurs of\nrecognition and obsequious greetings, towards the huge circus-like\nerection. The throng thickened; the guitars tinkled louder; other\nhorsemen sat motionless, smoking calmly above the heads of the crowd; it\neddied and pushed before the doors of the high-roofed building, whence\nissued a shuffle and thumping of feet in time to the dance music\nvibrating and shrieking with a racking rhythm, overhung by the\ntremendous, sustained, hollow roar of the gombo. The barbarous and\nimposing noise of the big drum, that can madden a crowd, and that even\nEuropeans cannot hear without a strange emotion, seemed to draw Nostromo\non to its source, while a man, wrapped up in a faded, torn poncho,\nwalked by his stirrup, and, buffeted right and left, begged \"his\nworship\" insistently for employment on the wharf. He whined, offering\nthe Senor Capataz half his daily pay for the privilege of being admitted\nto the swaggering fraternity of Cargadores; the other half would\nbe enough for him, he protested. But Captain Mitchell's right-hand\nman--\"invaluable for our work--a perfectly incorruptible fellow\"--after\nlooking down critically at the ragged mozo, shook his head without a\nword in the uproar going on around.\n\nThe man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up. From\nthe doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming\nwith sweat, trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes\nand parted lips, against the wall of the structure, where the harps\nand guitars played on with mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder.\nHundreds of hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, and then all at\nonce would sink low, chanting in unison the refrain of a love song, with\na dying fall. A red flower, flung with a good aim from somewhere in the\ncrowd, struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.\n\nHe caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his\nhead. When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him\nhad parted to make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a\nsmall golden comb, who was walking towards him in the open space.\n\nHer arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the\nblue woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on\nthe hips and tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of\nher walk. She came straight on and laid her hand on the mare's neck with\na timid, coquettish look upwards out of the corner of her eyes.\n\n\"_Querido_,\" she murmured, caressingly, \"why do you pretend not to see me\nwhen I pass?\"\n\n\"Because I don't love thee any more,\" said Nostromo, deliberately, after\na moment of reflective silence.\n\nThe hand on the mare's neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head\nbefore all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the\nterrible, the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita.\n\nNostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face.\n\n\"Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?\" she whispered. \"Is it\ntrue?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. \"It was a lie. I love thee\nas much as ever.\"\n\n\"Is that true?\" she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears.\n\n\"It is true.\"\n\n\"True on the life?\"\n\n\"As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna\nthat stands in thy room.\" And the Capataz laughed a little in response\nto the grins of the crowd.\n\nShe pouted--very pretty--a little uneasy.\n\n\"No, I will not ask for that. I can see love in your eyes.\" She laid\nher hand on his knee. \"Why are you trembling like this? From love?\" she\ncontinued, while the cavernous thundering of the gombo went on without a\npause. \"But if you love her as much as that, you must give your Paquita\na gold-mounted rosary of beads for the neck of her Madonna.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Nostromo, looking into her uplifted, begging eyes, which\nsuddenly turned stony with surprise.\n\n\"No? Then what else will your worship give me on the day of the fiesta?\"\nshe asked, angrily; \"so as not to shame me before all these people.\"\n\n\"There is no shame for thee in getting nothing from thy lover for once.\"\n\n\"True! The shame is your worship's--my poor lover's,\" she flared up,\nsarcastically.\n\nLaughs were heard at her anger, at her retort. What an audacious\nspitfire she was! The people aware of this scene were calling out\nurgently to others in the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare\nnarrowed slowly.\n\nThe girl went off a pace or two, confronting the mocking curiosity of\nthe eyes, then flung back to the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged face\nturned up to Nostromo with a pair of blazing eyes. He bent low to her in\nthe saddle.\n\n\"Juan,\" she hissed, \"I could stab thee to the heart!\"\n\nThe dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public\nin his amours, flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering\nlips. A murmur went round.\n\n\"A knife!\" he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder.\n\nTwenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday\nattire, bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo's hand and bounded back into\nthe ranks, very proud of himself. Nostromo had not even looked at him.\n\n\"Stand on my foot,\" he commanded the girl, who, suddenly subdued, rose\nlightly, and when he had her up, encircling her waist, her face near to\nhis, he pressed the knife into her little hand.\n\n\"No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,\" he said. \"You shall have\nyour present; and so that everyone should know who is your lover to-day,\nyou may cut all the silver buttons off my coat.\"\n\nThere were shouts of laughter and applause at this witty freak, while\nthe girl passed the keen blade, and the impassive rider jingled in his\npalm the increasing hoard of silver buttons. He eased her to the ground\nwith both her hands full. After whispering for a while with a very\nstrenuous face, she walked away, staring haughtily, and vanished into\nthe crowd.\n\nThe circle had broken up, and the lordly Capataz de Cargadores, the\nindispensable man, the tried and trusty Nostromo, the Mediterranean\nsailor come ashore casually to try his luck in Costaguana, rode slowly\ntowards the harbour. The Juno was just then swinging round; and even\nas Nostromo reined up again to look on, a flag ran up on the improvised\nflagstaff erected in an ancient and dismantled little fort at the\nharbour entrance. Half a battery of field guns had been hurried over\nthere from the Sulaco barracks for the purpose of firing the regulation\nsalutes for the President-Dictator and the War Minister. As the\nmail-boat headed through the pass, the badly timed reports announced the\nend of Don Vincente Ribiera's first official visit to Sulaco, and for\nCaptain Mitchell the end of another \"historic occasion.\" Next time when\nthe \"Hope of honest men\" was to come that way, a year and a half later,\nit was unofficially, over the mountain tracks, fleeing after a defeat on\na lame mule, to be only just saved by Nostromo from an ignominious death\nat the hands of a mob. It was a very different event, of which Captain\nMitchell used to say--\n\n\"It was history--history, sir! And that fellow of mine, Nostromo, you\nknow, was right in it. Absolutely making history, sir.\"\n\nBut this event, creditable to Nostromo, was to lead immediately to\nanother, which could not be classed either as \"history\" or as \"a\nmistake\" in Captain Mitchell's phraseology. He had another word for it.\n\n\"Sir\" he used to say afterwards, \"that was no mistake. It was a\nfatality. A misfortune, pure and simple, sir. And that poor fellow of\nmine was right in it--right in the middle of it! A fatality, if ever\nthere was one--and to my mind he has never been the same man since.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nPART SECOND THE ISABELS\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nThrough good and evil report in the varying fortune of that struggle\nwhich Don Jose had characterized in the phrase, \"the fate of national\nhonesty trembles in the balance,\" the Gould Concession, \"Imperium in\nImperio,\" had gone on working; the square mountain had gone on pouring\nits treasure down the wooden shoots to the unresting batteries of\nstamps; the lights of San Tome had twinkled night after night upon the\ngreat, limitless shadow of the Campo; every three months the silver\nescort had gone down to the sea as if neither the war nor its\nconsequences could ever affect the ancient Occidental State secluded\nbeyond its high barrier of the Cordillera. All the fighting took place\non the other side of that mighty wall of serrated peaks lorded over by\nthe white dome of Higuerota and as yet unbreached by the railway, of\nwhich only the first part, the easy Campo part from Sulaco to the Ivie\nValley at the foot of the pass, had been laid. Neither did the telegraph\nline cross the mountains yet; its poles, like slender beacons on the\nplain, penetrated into the forest fringe of the foot-hills cut by\nthe deep avenue of the track; and its wire ended abruptly in the\nconstruction camp at a white deal table supporting a Morse apparatus,\nin a long hut of planks with a corrugated iron roof overshadowed by\ngigantic cedar trees--the quarters of the engineer in charge of the\nadvance section.\n\nThe harbour was busy, too, with the traffic in railway material, and\nwith the movements of troops along the coast. The O.S.N. Company found\nmuch occupation for its fleet. Costaguana had no navy, and, apart from a\nfew coastguard cutters, there were no national ships except a couple of\nold merchant steamers used as transports.\n\nCaptain Mitchell, feeling more and more in the thick of history, found\ntime for an hour or so during an afternoon in the drawing-room of the\nCasa Gould, where, with a strange ignorance of the real forces at work\naround him, he professed himself delighted to get away from the\nstrain of affairs. He did not know what he would have done without his\ninvaluable Nostromo, he declared. Those confounded Costaguana politics\ngave him more work--he confided to Mrs. Gould--than he had bargained\nfor.\n\nDon Jose Avellanos had displayed in the service of the endangered\nRibiera Government an organizing activity and an eloquence of which\nthe echoes reached even Europe. For, after the new loan to the Ribiera\nGovernment, Europe had become interested in Costaguana. The Sala of the\nProvincial Assembly (in the Municipal Buildings of Sulaco), with its\nportraits of the Liberators on the walls and an old flag of Cortez\npreserved in a glass case above the President's chair, had heard all\nthese speeches--the early one containing the impassioned declaration\n\"Militarism is the enemy,\" the famous one of the \"trembling balance\"\ndelivered on the occasion of the vote for the raising of a second\nSulaco regiment in the defence of the reforming Government; and when the\nprovinces again displayed their old flags (proscribed in Guzman Bento's\ntime) there was another of those great orations, when Don Jose greeted\nthese old emblems of the war of Independence, brought out again in the\nname of new Ideals. The old idea of Federalism had disappeared. For\nhis part he did not wish to revive old political doctrines. They were\nperishable. They died. But the doctrine of political rectitude was\nimmortal. The second Sulaco regiment, to whom he was presenting this\nflag, was going to show its valour in a contest for order, peace,\nprogress; for the establishment of national self-respect without\nwhich--he declared with energy--\"we are a reproach and a byword amongst\nthe powers of the world.\"\n\nDon Jose Avellanos loved his country. He had served it lavishly with\nhis fortune during his diplomatic career, and the later story of his\ncaptivity and barbarous ill-usage under Guzman Bento was well known\nto his listeners. It was a wonder that he had not been a victim of\nthe ferocious and summary executions which marked the course of that\ntyranny; for Guzman had ruled the country with the sombre imbecility of\npolitical fanaticism. The power of Supreme Government had become in his\ndull mind an object of strange worship, as if it were some sort of\ncruel deity. It was incarnated in himself, and his adversaries, the\nFederalists, were the supreme sinners, objects of hate, abhorrence, and\nfear, as heretics would be to a convinced Inquisitor. For years he had\ncarried about at the tail of the Army of Pacification, all over the\ncountry, a captive band of such atrocious criminals, who considered\nthemselves most unfortunate at not having been summarily executed. It\nwas a diminishing company of nearly naked skeletons, loaded with irons,\ncovered with dirt, with vermin, with raw wounds, all men of position,\nof education, of wealth, who had learned to fight amongst themselves for\nscraps of rotten beef thrown to them by soldiers, or to beg a negro\ncook for a drink of muddy water in pitiful accents. Don Jose Avellanos,\nclanking his chains amongst the others, seemed only to exist in order to\nprove how much hunger, pain, degradation, and cruel torture a human\nbody can stand without parting with the last spark of life. Sometimes\ninterrogatories, backed by some primitive method of torture, were\nadministered to them by a commission of officers hastily assembled in a\nhut of sticks and branches, and made pitiless by the fear for their own\nlives. A lucky one or two of that spectral company of prisoners would\nperhaps be led tottering behind a bush to be shot by a file of soldiers.\nAlways an army chaplain--some unshaven, dirty man, girt with a sword and\nwith a tiny cross embroidered in white cotton on the left breast of\na lieutenant's uniform--would follow, cigarette in the corner of the\nmouth, wooden stool in hand, to hear the confession and give absolution;\nfor the Citizen Saviour of the Country (Guzman Bento was called thus\nofficially in petitions) was not averse from the exercise of rational\nclemency. The irregular report of the firing squad would be heard,\nfollowed sometimes by a single finishing shot; a little bluish cloud\nof smoke would float up above the green bushes, and the Army of\nPacification would move on over the savannas, through the forests,\ncrossing rivers, invading rural pueblos, devastating the haciendas of\nthe horrid aristocrats, occupying the inland towns in the fulfilment of\nits patriotic mission, and leaving behind a united land wherein the evil\ntaint of Federalism could no longer be detected in the smoke of burning\nhouses and the smell of spilt blood. Don Jose Avellanos had survived\nthat time. Perhaps, when contemptuously signifying to him his release,\nthe Citizen Saviour of the Country might have thought this benighted\naristocrat too broken in health and spirit and fortune to be any longer\ndangerous. Or, perhaps, it may have been a simple caprice. Guzman Bento,\nusually full of fanciful fears and brooding suspicions, had sudden\naccesses of unreasonable self-confidence when he perceived himself\nelevated on a pinnacle of power and safety beyond the reach of mere\nmortal plotters. At such times he would impulsively command the\ncelebration of a solemn Mass of thanksgiving, which would be sung in\ngreat pomp in the cathedral of Sta. Marta by the trembling, subservient\nArchbishop of his creation. He heard it sitting in a gilt armchair\nplaced before the high altar, surrounded by the civil and military heads\nof his Government. The unofficial world of Sta. Marta would crowd into\nthe cathedral, for it was not quite safe for anybody of mark to stay\naway from these manifestations of presidential piety. Having thus\nacknowledged the only power he was at all disposed to recognize as\nabove himself, he would scatter acts of political grace in a sardonic\nwantonness of clemency. There was no other way left now to enjoy his\npower but by seeing his crushed adversaries crawl impotently into the\nlight of day out of the dark, noisome cells of the Collegio. Their\nharmlessness fed his insatiable vanity, and they could always be got\nhold of again. It was the rule for all the women of their families to\npresent thanks afterwards in a special audience. The incarnation of that\nstrange god, El Gobierno Supremo, received them standing, cocked hat on\nhead, and exhorted them in a menacing mutter to show their gratitude\nby bringing up their children in fidelity to the democratic form of\ngovernment, \"which I have established for the happiness of our country.\"\nHis front teeth having been knocked out in some accident of his former\nherdsman's life, his utterance was spluttering and indistinct. He\nhad been working for Costaguana alone in the midst of treachery and\nopposition. Let it cease now lest he should become weary of forgiving!\n\nDon Jose Avellanos had known this forgiveness.\n\nHe was broken in health and fortune deplorably enough to present a truly\ngratifying spectacle to the supreme chief of democratic institutions.\nHe retired to Sulaco. His wife had an estate in that province, and she\nnursed him back to life out of the house of death and captivity. When\nshe died, their daughter, an only child, was old enough to devote\nherself to \"poor papa.\"\n\nMiss Avellanos, born in Europe and educated partly in England, was a\ntall, grave girl, with a self-possessed manner, a wide, white forehead,\na wealth of rich brown hair, and blue eyes.\n\nThe other young ladies of Sulaco stood in awe of her character and\naccomplishments. She was reputed to be terribly learned and serious. As\nto pride, it was well known that all the Corbelans were proud, and her\nmother was a Corbelan. Don Jose Avellanos depended very much upon the\ndevotion of his beloved Antonia. He accepted it in the benighted way of\nmen, who, though made in God's image, are like stone idols without sense\nbefore the smoke of certain burnt offerings. He was ruined in every\nway, but a man possessed of passion is not a bankrupt in life. Don Jose\nAvellanos desired passionately for his country: peace, prosperity,\nand (as the end of the preface to \"Fifty Years of Misrule\" has it)\n\"an honourable place in the comity of civilized nations.\" In this last\nphrase the Minister Plenipotentiary, cruelly humiliated by the bad faith\nof his Government towards the foreign bondholders, stands disclosed in\nthe patriot.\n\nThe fatuous turmoil of greedy factions succeeding the tyranny of Guzman\nBento seemed to bring his desire to the very door of opportunity. He\nwas too old to descend personally into the centre of the arena at Sta.\nMarta. But the men who acted there sought his advice at every step. He\nhimself thought that he could be most useful at a distance, in Sulaco.\nHis name, his connections, his former position, his experience commanded\nthe respect of his class. The discovery that this man, living in\ndignified poverty in the Corbelan town residence (opposite the Casa\nGould), could dispose of material means towards the support of the cause\nincreased his influence. It was his open letter of appeal that decided\nthe candidature of Don Vincente Ribiera for the Presidency. Another of\nthese informal State papers drawn up by Don Jose (this time in the\nshape of an address from the Province) induced that scrupulous\nconstitutionalist to accept the extraordinary powers conferred upon him\nfor five years by an overwhelming vote of congress in Sta. Marta. It\nwas a specific mandate to establish the prosperity of the people on the\nbasis of firm peace at home, and to redeem the national credit by the\nsatisfaction of all just claims abroad.\n\nOn the afternoon the news of that vote had reached Sulaco by the usual\nroundabout postal way through Cayta, and up the coast by steamer. Don\nJose, who had been waiting for the mail in the Goulds' drawing-room, got\nout of the rocking-chair, letting his hat fall off his knees. He rubbed\nhis silvery, short hair with both hands, speechless with the excess of\njoy.\n\n\"Emilia, my soul,\" he had burst out, \"let me embrace you! Let me--\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell, had he been there, would no doubt have made an apt\nremark about the dawn of a new era; but if Don Jose thought something\nof the kind, his eloquence failed him on this occasion. The inspirer\nof that revival of the Blanco party tottered where he stood. Mrs. Gould\nmoved forward quickly and, as she offered her cheek with a smile to her\nold friend, managed very cleverly to give him the support of her arm he\nreally needed.\n\nDon Jose had recovered himself at once, but for a time he could do no\nmore than murmur, \"Oh, you two patriots! Oh, you two patriots!\"--looking\nfrom one to the other. Vague plans of another historical work, wherein\nall the devotions to the regeneration of the country he loved would be\nenshrined for the reverent worship of posterity, flitted through his\nmind. The historian who had enough elevation of soul to write of Guzman\nBento: \"Yet this monster, imbrued in the blood of his countrymen, must\nnot be held unreservedly to the execration of future years. It appears\nto be true that he, too, loved his country. He had given it twelve years\nof peace; and, absolute master of lives and fortunes as he was, he\ndied poor. His worst fault, perhaps, was not his ferocity, but his\nignorance;\" the man who could write thus of a cruel persecutor (the\npassage occurs in his \"History of Misrule\") felt at the foreshadowing of\nsuccess an almost boundless affection for his two helpers, for these two\nyoung people from over the sea.\n\nJust as years ago, calmly, from the conviction of practical necessity,\nstronger than any abstract political doctrine, Henry Gould had drawn\nthe sword, so now, the times being changed, Charles Gould had flung\nthe silver of the San Tome into the fray. The Inglez of Sulaco, the\n\"Costaguana Englishman\" of the third generation, was as far from being\na political intriguer as his uncle from a revolutionary swashbuckler.\nSpringing from the instinctive uprightness of their natures their action\nwas reasoned. They saw an opportunity and used the weapon to hand.\n\nCharles Gould's position--a commanding position in the background of\nthat attempt to retrieve the peace and the credit of the Republic--was\nvery clear. At the beginning he had had to accommodate himself to\nexisting circumstances of corruption so naively brazen as to disarm the\nhate of a man courageous enough not to be afraid of its irresponsible\npotency to ruin everything it touched. It seemed to him too contemptible\nfor hot anger even. He made use of it with a cold, fearless scorn,\nmanifested rather than concealed by the forms of stony courtesy which\ndid away with much of the ignominy of the situation. At bottom, perhaps,\nhe suffered from it, for he was not a man of cowardly illusions, but\nhe refused to discuss the ethical view with his wife. He trusted\nthat, though a little disenchanted, she would be intelligent enough to\nunderstand that his character safeguarded the enterprise of their lives\nas much or more than his policy. The extraordinary development of the\nmine had put a great power into his hands. To feel that prosperity\nalways at the mercy of unintelligent greed had grown irksome to him.\nTo Mrs. Gould it was humiliating. At any rate, it was dangerous. In the\nconfidential communications passing between Charles Gould, the King\nof Sulaco, and the head of the silver and steel interests far away in\nCalifornia, the conviction was growing that any attempt made by men of\neducation and integrity ought to be discreetly supported. \"You may tell\nyour friend Avellanos that I think so,\" Mr. Holroyd had written at the\nproper moment from his inviolable sanctuary within the eleven-storey\nhigh factory of great affairs. And shortly afterwards, with a credit\nopened by the Third Southern Bank (located next door but one to the\nHolroyd Building), the Ribierist party in Costaguana took a practical\nshape under the eye of the administrator of the San Tome mine. And Don\nJose, the hereditary friend of the Gould family, could say: \"Perhaps, my\ndear Carlos, I shall not have believed in vain.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nAfter another armed struggle, decided by Montero's victory of Rio Seco,\nhad been added to the tale of civil wars, the \"honest men,\" as Don Jose\ncalled them, could breathe freely for the first time in half a century.\nThe Five-Year-Mandate law became the basis of that regeneration,\nthe passionate desire and hope for which had been like the elixir of\neverlasting youth for Don Jose Avellanos.\n\nAnd when it was suddenly--and not quite unexpectedly--endangered by that\n\"brute Montero,\" it was a passionate indignation that gave him a\nnew lease of life, as it were. Already, at the time of the\nPresident-Dictator's visit to Sulaco, Moraga had sounded a note of\nwarning from Sta. Marta about the War Minister. Montero and his brother\nmade the subject of an earnest talk between the Dictator-President\nand the Nestor-inspirer of the party. But Don Vincente, a doctor of\nphilosophy from the Cordova University, seemed to have an exaggerated\nrespect for military ability, whose mysteriousness--since it appeared\nto be altogether independent of intellect--imposed upon his imagination.\nThe victor of Rio Seco was a popular hero. His services were so recent\nthat the President-Dictator quailed before the obvious charge of\npolitical ingratitude. Great regenerating transactions were being\ninitiated--the fresh loan, a new railway line, a vast colonization\nscheme. Anything that could unsettle the public opinion in the capital\nwas to be avoided. Don Jose bowed to these arguments and tried to\ndismiss from his mind the gold-laced portent in boots, and with a sabre,\nmade meaningless now at last, he hoped, in the new order of things.\n\nLess than six months after the President-Dictator's visit, Sulaco\nlearned with stupefaction of the military revolt in the name of national\nhonour. The Minister of War, in a barrack-square allocution to the\nofficers of the artillery regiment he had been inspecting, had declared\nthe national honour sold to foreigners. The Dictator, by his weak\ncompliance with the demands of the European powers--for the settlement\nof long outstanding money claims--had showed himself unfit to rule. A\nletter from Moraga explained afterwards that the initiative, and even\nthe very text, of the incendiary allocution came, in reality, from\nthe other Montero, the ex-guerillero, the _Commandante de Plaza_.\nThe energetic treatment of Dr. Monygham, sent for in haste \"to the\nmountain,\" who came galloping three leagues in the dark, saved Don Jose\nfrom a dangerous attack of jaundice.\n\nAfter getting over the shock, Don Jose refused to let himself be\nprostrated. Indeed, better news succeeded at first. The revolt in the\ncapital had been suppressed after a night of fighting in the streets.\nUnfortunately, both the Monteros had been able to make their escape\nsouth, to their native province of Entre-Montes. The hero of the\nforest march, the victor of Rio Seco, had been received with frenzied\nacclamations in Nicoya, the provincial capital. The troops in garrison\nthere had gone to him in a body. The brothers were organizing an army,\ngathering malcontents, sending emissaries primed with patriotic lies to\nthe people, and with promises of plunder to the wild llaneros. Even\na Monterist press had come into existence, speaking oracularly of the\nsecret promises of support given by \"our great sister Republic of the\nNorth\" against the sinister land-grabbing designs of European powers,\ncursing in every issue the \"miserable Ribiera,\" who had plotted\nto deliver his country, bound hand and foot, for a prey to foreign\nspeculators.\n\nSulaco, pastoral and sleepy, with its opulent Campo and the rich silver\nmine, heard the din of arms fitfully in its fortunate isolation. It was\nnevertheless in the very forefront of the defence with men and money;\nbut the very rumours reached it circuitously--from abroad even, so\nmuch was it cut off from the rest of the Republic, not only by natural\nobstacles, but also by the vicissitudes of the war. The Monteristos were\nbesieging Cayta, an important postal link. The overland couriers ceased\nto come across the mountains, and no muleteer would consent to risk the\njourney at last; even Bonifacio on one occasion failed to return from\nSta. Marta, either not daring to start, or perhaps captured by the\nparties of the enemy raiding the country between the Cordillera and\nthe capital. Monterist publications, however, found their way into the\nprovince, mysteriously enough; and also Monterist emissaries preaching\ndeath to aristocrats in the villages and towns of the Campo. Very early,\nat the beginning of the trouble, Hernandez, the bandit, had proposed\n(through the agency of an old priest of a village in the wilds) to\ndeliver two of them to the Ribierist authorities in Tonoro. They had\ncome to offer him a free pardon and the rank of colonel from General\nMontero in consideration of joining the rebel army with his mounted\nband. No notice was taken at the time of the proposal. It was joined, as\nan evidence of good faith, to a petition praying the Sulaco Assembly for\npermission to enlist, with all his followers, in the forces being\nthen raised in Sulaco for the defence of the Five-Year Mandate of\nregeneration. The petition, like everything else, had found its way\ninto Don Jose's hands. He had showed to Mrs. Gould these pages of\ndirty-greyish rough paper (perhaps looted in some village store),\ncovered with the crabbed, illiterate handwriting of the old padre,\ncarried off from his hut by the side of a mud-walled church to be the\nsecretary of the dreaded Salteador. They had both bent in the lamplight\nof the Gould drawing-room over the document containing the fierce and\nyet humble appeal of the man against the blind and stupid barbarity\nturning an honest ranchero into a bandit. A postscript of the priest\nstated that, but for being deprived of his liberty for ten days, he had\nbeen treated with humanity and the respect due to his sacred calling. He\nhad been, it appears, confessing and absolving the chief and most of the\nband, and he guaranteed the sincerity of their good disposition. He had\ndistributed heavy penances, no doubt in the way of litanies and fasts;\nbut he argued shrewdly that it would be difficult for them to make their\npeace with God durably till they had made peace with men.\n\nNever before, perhaps, had Hernandez's head been in less jeopardy than\nwhen he petitioned humbly for permission to buy a pardon for himself\nand his gang of deserters by armed service. He could range afar from the\nwaste lands protecting his fastness, unchecked, because there were no\ntroops left in the whole province. The usual garrison of Sulaco had gone\nsouth to the war, with its brass band playing the Bolivar march on the\nbridge of one of the O.S.N. Company's steamers. The great family coaches\ndrawn up along the shore of the harbour were made to rock on the high\nleathern springs by the enthusiasm of the senoras and the senoritas\nstanding up to wave their lace handkerchiefs, as lighter after lighter\npacked full of troops left the end of the jetty.\n\nNostromo directed the embarkation, under the superintendendence\nof Captain Mitchell, red-faced in the sun, conspicuous in a white\nwaistcoat, representing the allied and anxious goodwill of all the\nmaterial interests of civilization. General Barrios, who commanded the\ntroops, assured Don Jose on parting that in three weeks he would have\nMontero in a wooden cage drawn by three pair of oxen ready for a tour\nthrough all the towns of the Republic.\n\n\"And then, senora,\" he continued, baring his curly iron-grey head to\nMrs. Gould in her landau--\"and then, senora, we shall convert our swords\ninto plough-shares and grow rich. Even I, myself, as soon as this little\nbusiness is settled, shall open a fundacion on some land I have on the\nllanos and try to make a little money in peace and quietness. Senora,\nyou know, all Costaguana knows--what do I say?--this whole South\nAmerican continent knows, that Pablo Barrios has had his fill of\nmilitary glory.\"\n\nCharles Gould was not present at the anxious and patriotic send-off. It\nwas not his part to see the soldiers embark. It was neither his part,\nnor his inclination, nor his policy. His part, his inclination, and\nhis policy were united in one endeavour to keep unchecked the flow of\ntreasure he had started single-handed from the re-opened scar in the\nflank of the mountain. As the mine developed he had trained for himself\nsome native help. There were foremen, artificers and clerks, with Don\nPepe for the gobernador of the mining population. For the rest his\nshoulders alone sustained the whole weight of the \"Imperium in Imperio,\"\nthe great Gould Concession whose mere shadow had been enough to crush\nthe life out of his father.\n\nMrs. Gould had no silver mine to look after. In the general life of the\nGould Concession she was represented by her two lieutenants, the doctor\nand the priest, but she fed her woman's love of excitement on events\nwhose significance was purified to her by the fire of her imaginative\npurpose. On that day she had brought the Avellanos, father and daughter,\ndown to the harbour with her.\n\nAmongst his other activities of that stirring time, Don Jose had become\nthe chairman of a Patriotic Committee which had armed a great proportion\nof troops in the Sulaco command with an improved model of a military\nrifle. It had been just discarded for something still more deadly by\none of the great European powers. How much of the market-price for\nsecond-hand weapons was covered by the voluntary contributions of the\nprincipal families, and how much came from those funds Don Jose was\nunderstood to command abroad, remained a secret which he alone could\nhave disclosed; but the Ricos, as the populace called them, had\ncontributed under the pressure of their Nestor's eloquence. Some of the\nmore enthusiastic ladies had been moved to bring offerings of jewels\ninto the hands of the man who was the life and soul of the party.\n\nThere were moments when both his life and his soul seemed overtaxed\nby so many years of undiscouraged belief in regeneration. He appeared\nalmost inanimate, sitting rigidly by the side of Mrs. Gould in the\nlandau, with his fine, old, clean-shaven face of a uniform tint as if\nmodelled in yellow wax, shaded by a soft felt hat, the dark eyes looking\nout fixedly. Antonia, the beautiful Antonia, as Miss Avellanos was\ncalled in Sulaco, leaned back, facing them; and her full figure, the\ngrave oval of her face with full red lips, made her look more mature\nthan Mrs. Gould, with her mobile expression and small, erect person\nunder a slightly swaying sunshade.\n\nWhenever possible Antonia attended her father; her recognized devotion\nweakened the shocking effect of her scorn for the rigid conventions\nregulating the life of Spanish-American girlhood. And, in truth, she was\nno longer girlish. It was said that she often wrote State papers from\nher father's dictation, and was allowed to read all the books in\nhis library. At the receptions--where the situation was saved by the\npresence of a very decrepit old lady (a relation of the Corbelans),\nquite deaf and motionless in an armchair--Antonia could hold her own in\na discussion with two or three men at a time. Obviously she was not the\ngirl to be content with peeping through a barred window at a cloaked\nfigure of a lover ensconced in a doorway opposite--which is the correct\nform of Costaguana courtship. It was generally believed that with her\nforeign upbringing and foreign ideas the learned and proud Antonia would\nnever marry--unless, indeed, she married a foreigner from Europe or\nNorth America, now that Sulaco seemed on the point of being invaded by\nall the world.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nWhen General Barrios stopped to address Mrs. Gould, Antonia raised\nnegligently her hand holding an open fan, as if to shade from the sun\nher head, wrapped in a light lace shawl. The clear gleam of her blue\neyes gliding behind the black fringe of eyelashes paused for a moment\nupon her father, then travelled further to the figure of a young man\nof thirty at most, of medium height, rather thick-set, wearing a light\novercoat. Bearing down with the open palm of his hand upon the knob of\na flexible cane, he had been looking on from a distance; but directly\nhe saw himself noticed, he approached quietly and put his elbow over the\ndoor of the landau.\n\nThe shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the big bow of his cravat,\nthe style of his clothing, from the round hat to the varnished shoes,\nsuggested an idea of French elegance; but otherwise he was the very type\nof a fair Spanish creole. The fluffy moustache and the short, curly,\ngolden beard did not conceal his lips, rosy, fresh, almost pouting in\nexpression. His full, round face was of that warm, healthy creole white\nwhich is never tanned by its native sunshine. Martin Decoud was seldom\nexposed to the Costaguana sun under which he was born. His people had\nbeen long settled in Paris, where he had studied law, had dabbled in\nliterature, had hoped now and then in moments of exaltation to become a\npoet like that other foreigner of Spanish blood, Jose Maria Heredia. In\nother moments he had, to pass the time, condescended to write articles\non European affairs for the Semenario, the principal newspaper in\nSta. Marta, which printed them under the heading \"From our special\ncorrespondent,\" though the authorship was an open secret. Everybody in\nCostaguana, where the tale of compatriots in Europe is jealously kept,\nknew that it was \"the son Decoud,\" a talented young man, supposed to be\nmoving in the higher spheres of Society. As a matter of fact, he was an\nidle boulevardier, in touch with some smart journalists, made free of a\nfew newspaper offices, and welcomed in the pleasure haunts of pressmen.\nThis life, whose dreary superficiality is covered by the glitter\nof universal blague, like the stupid clowning of a harlequin by the\nspangles of a motley costume, induced in him a Frenchified--but most\nun-French--cosmopolitanism, in reality a mere barren indifferentism\nposing as intellectual superiority. Of his own country he used to say to\nhis French associates: \"Imagine an atmosphere of opera-bouffe in which\nall the comic business of stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc., all\ntheir farcical stealing, intriguing, and stabbing is done in dead\nearnest. It is screamingly funny, the blood flows all the time, and the\nactors believe themselves to be influencing the fate of the universe.\nOf course, government in general, any government anywhere, is a thing\nof exquisite comicality to a discerning mind; but really we\nSpanish-Americans do overstep the bounds. No man of ordinary\nintelligence can take part in the intrigues of une farce macabre.\nHowever, these Ribierists, of whom we hear so much just now, are really\ntrying in their own comical way to make the country habitable, and even\nto pay some of its debts. My friends, you had better write up Senor\nRibiera all you can in kindness to your own bondholders. Really, if what\nI am told in my letters is true, there is some chance for them at last.\"\n\nAnd he would explain with railing verve what Don Vincente Ribiera stood\nfor--a mournful little man oppressed by his own good intentions, the\nsignificance of battles won, who Montero was (_un grotesque vaniteux\net feroce_), and the manner of the new loan connected with railway\ndevelopment, and the colonization of vast tracts of land in one great\nfinancial scheme.\n\nAnd his French friends would remark that evidently this little fellow\n_Decoud connaissait la question a fond_. An important Parisian review\nasked him for an article on the situation. It was composed in a\nserious tone and in a spirit of levity. Afterwards he asked one of his\nintimates--\n\n\"Have you read my thing about the regeneration of Costaguana--_une bonne\nblague, hein_?\"\n\nHe imagined himself Parisian to the tips of his fingers. But far\nfrom being that he was in danger of remaining a sort of nondescript\ndilettante all his life. He had pushed the habit of universal raillery\nto a point where it blinded him to the genuine impulses of his own\nnature. To be suddenly selected for the executive member of the\npatriotic small-arms committee of Sulaco seemed to him the height of\nthe unexpected, one of those fantastic moves of which only his \"dear\ncountrymen\" were capable.\n\n\"It's like a tile falling on my head. I--I--executive member! It's\nthe first I hear of it! What do I know of military rifles? _C'est\nfunambulesque!_\" he had exclaimed to his favourite sister; for the Decoud\nfamily--except the old father and mother--used the French language\namongst themselves. \"And you should see the explanatory and confidential\nletter! Eight pages of it--no less!\"\n\nThis letter, in Antonia's handwriting, was signed by Don Jose, who\nappealed to the \"young and gifted Costaguanero\" on public grounds, and\nprivately opened his heart to his talented god-son, a man of wealth\nand leisure, with wide relations, and by his parentage and bringing-up\nworthy of all confidence.\n\n\"Which means,\" Martin commented, cynically, to his sister, \"that I am\nnot likely to misappropriate the funds, or go blabbing to our _Charge\nd'Affaires_ here.\"\n\nThe whole thing was being carried out behind the back of the War\nMinister, Montero, a mistrusted member of the Ribiera Government, but\ndifficult to get rid of at once. He was not to know anything of it till\nthe troops under Barrios's command had the new rifle in their hands. The\nPresident-Dictator, whose position was very difficult, was alone in the\nsecret.\n\n\"How funny!\" commented Martin's sister and confidante; to which the\nbrother, with an air of best Parisian blague, had retorted:\n\n\"It's immense! The idea of that Chief of the State engaged, with the\nhelp of private citizens, in digging a mine under his own indispensable\nWar Minister. No! We are unapproachable!\" And he laughed immoderately.\n\nAfterwards his sister was surprised at the earnestness and ability\nhe displayed in carrying out his mission, which circumstances made\ndelicate, and his want of special knowledge rendered difficult. She had\nnever seen Martin take so much trouble about anything in his whole life.\n\n\"It amuses me,\" he had explained, briefly. \"I am beset by a lot\nof swindlers trying to sell all sorts of gaspipe weapons. They are\ncharming; they invite me to expensive luncheons; I keep up their hopes;\nit's extremely entertaining. Meanwhile, the real affair is being carried\nthrough in quite another quarter.\"\n\nWhen the business was concluded he declared suddenly his intention of\nseeing the precious consignment delivered safely in Sulaco. The whole\nburlesque business, he thought, was worth following up to the end. He\nmumbled his excuses, tugging at his golden beard, before the acute young\nlady who (after the first wide stare of astonishment) looked at him with\nnarrowed eyes, and pronounced slowly--\n\n\"I believe you want to see Antonia.\"\n\n\"What Antonia?\" asked the Costaguana boulevardier, in a vexed and\ndisdainful tone. He shrugged his shoulders, and spun round on his heel.\nHis sister called out after him joyously--\n\n\"The Antonia you used to know when she wore her hair in two plaits down\nher back.\"\n\nHe had known her some eight years since, shortly before the Avellanos\nhad left Europe for good, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully\naustere, and of a character already so formed that she ventured to treat\nslightingly his pose of disabused wisdom. On one occasion, as though she\nhad lost all patience, she flew out at him about the aimlessness of his\nlife and the levity of his opinions. He was twenty then, an only son,\nspoiled by his adoring family. This attack disconcerted him so greatly\nthat he had faltered in his affectation of amused superiority before\nthat insignificant chit of a school-girl. But the impression left was so\nstrong that ever since all the girl friends of his sisters recalled to\nhim Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance, or by the great force\nof contrast. It was, he told himself, like a ridiculous fatality. And,\nof course, in the news the Decouds received regularly from Costaguana,\nthe name of their friends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequently--the\narrest and the abominable treatment of the ex-Minister, the dangers and\nhardships endured by the family, its withdrawal in poverty to Sulaco,\nthe death of the mother.\n\nThe Monterist pronunciamento had taken place before Martin Decoud\nreached Costaguana. He came out in a roundabout way, through Magellan's\nStraits by the main line and the West Coast Service of the O.S.N.\nCompany. His precious consignment arrived just in time to convert the\nfirst feelings of consternation into a mood of hope and resolution.\nPublicly he was made much of by the _familias principales_. Privately Don\nJose, still shaken and weak, embraced him with tears in his eyes.\n\n\"You have come out yourself! No less could be expected from a Decoud.\nAlas! our worst fears have been realized,\" he moaned, affectionately.\nAnd again he hugged his god-son. This was indeed the time for men of\nintellect and conscience to rally round the endangered cause.\n\nIt was then that Martin Decoud, the adopted child of Western Europe,\nfelt the absolute change of atmosphere. He submitted to being embraced\nand talked to without a word. He was moved in spite of himself by that\nnote of passion and sorrow unknown on the more refined stage of European\npolitics. But when the tall Antonia, advancing with her light step in\nthe dimness of the big bare Sala of the Avellanos house, offered him her\nhand (in her emancipated way), and murmured, \"I am glad to see you here,\nDon Martin,\" he felt how impossible it would be to tell these two people\nthat he had intended to go away by the next month's packet. Don Jose,\nmeantime, continued his praises. Every accession added to public\nconfidence, and, besides, what an example to the young men at home\nfrom the brilliant defender of the country's regeneration, the worthy\nexpounder of the party's political faith before the world! Everybody had\nread the magnificent article in the famous Parisian Review. The world\nwas now informed: and the author's appearance at this moment was like\na public act of faith. Young Decoud felt overcome by a feeling of\nimpatient confusion. His plan had been to return by way of the United\nStates through California, visit Yellowstone Park, see Chicago, Niagara,\nhave a look at Canada, perhaps make a short stay in New York, a longer\none in Newport, use his letters of introduction. The pressure of\nAntonia's hand was so frank, the tone of her voice was so unexpectedly\nunchanged in its approving warmth, that all he found to say after his\nlow bow was--\n\n\"I am inexpressibly grateful for your welcome; but why need a man be\nthanked for returning to his native country? I am sure Dona Antonia does\nnot think so.\"\n\n\"Certainly not, senor,\" she said, with that perfectly calm openness of\nmanner which characterized all her utterances. \"But when he returns, as\nyou return, one may be glad--for the sake of both.\"\n\nMartin Decoud said nothing of his plans. He not only never breathed a\nword of them to any one, but only a fortnight later asked the mistress\nof the Casa Gould (where he had of course obtained admission at once),\nleaning forward in his chair with an air of well-bred familiarity,\nwhether she could not detect in him that day a marked change--an air, he\nexplained, of more excellent gravity. At this Mrs. Gould turned her face\nfull towards him with the silent inquiry of slightly widened eyes and\nthe merest ghost of a smile, an habitual movement with her, which\nwas very fascinating to men by something subtly devoted, finely\nself-forgetful in its lively readiness of attention. Because, Decoud\ncontinued imperturbably, he felt no longer an idle cumberer of the\nearth. She was, he assured her, actually beholding at that moment the\nJournalist of Sulaco. At once Mrs. Gould glanced towards Antonia, posed\nupright in the corner of a high, straight-backed Spanish sofa, a large\nblack fan waving slowly against the curves of her fine figure, the tips\nof crossed feet peeping from under the hem of the black skirt. Decoud's\neyes also remained fixed there, while in an undertone he added that Miss\nAvellanos was quite aware of his new and unexpected vocation, which in\nCostaguana was generally the speciality of half-educated negroes and\nwholly penniless lawyers. Then, confronting with a sort of urbane\neffrontery Mrs. Gould's gaze, now turned sympathetically upon himself,\nhe breathed out the words, \"_Pro Patria!_\"\n\nWhat had happened was that he had all at once yielded to Don Jose's\npressing entreaties to take the direction of a newspaper that would\n\"voice the aspirations of the province.\" It had been Don Jose's old\nand cherished idea. The necessary plant (on a modest scale) and a large\nconsignment of paper had been received from America some time before;\nthe right man alone was wanted. Even Senor Moraga in Sta. Marta had not\nbeen able to find one, and the matter was now becoming pressing;\nsome organ was absolutely needed to counteract the effect of the lies\ndisseminated by the Monterist press: the atrocious calumnies, the\nappeals to the people calling upon them to rise with their knives in\ntheir hands and put an end once for all to the Blancos, to these Gothic\nremnants, to these sinister mummies, these impotent paraliticos, who\nplotted with foreigners for the surrender of the lands and the slavery\nof the people.\n\nThe clamour of this Negro Liberalism frightened Senor Avellanos. A\nnewspaper was the only remedy. And now that the right man had been found\nin Decoud, great black letters appeared painted between the windows\nabove the arcaded ground floor of a house on the Plaza. It was next to\nAnzani's great emporium of boots, silks, ironware, muslins, wooden toys,\ntiny silver arms, legs, heads, hearts (for ex-voto offerings), rosaries,\nchampagne, women's hats, patent medicines, even a few dusty books in\npaper covers and mostly in the French language. The big black letters\nformed the words, \"Offices of the Porvenir.\" From these offices a single\nfolded sheet of Martin's journalism issued three times a week; and\nthe sleek yellow Anzani prowling in a suit of ample black and carpet\nslippers, before the many doors of his establishment, greeted by a deep,\nside-long inclination of his body the Journalist of Sulaco going to and\nfro on the business of his august calling.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nPerhaps it was in the exercise of his calling that he had come to see\nthe troops depart. The Porvenir of the day after next would no doubt\nrelate the event, but its editor, leaning his side against the landau,\nseemed to look at nothing. The front rank of the company of infantry\ndrawn up three deep across the shore end of the jetty when pressed too\nclose would bring their bayonets to the charge ferociously, with an\nawful rattle; and then the crowd of spectators swayed back bodily,\neven under the noses of the big white mules. Notwithstanding the great\nmultitude there was only a low, muttering noise; the dust hung in a\nbrown haze, in which the horsemen, wedged in the throng here and there,\ntowered from the hips upwards, gazing all one way over the heads. Almost\nevery one of them had mounted a friend, who steadied himself with both\nhands grasping his shoulders from behind; and the rims of their hats\ntouching, made like one disc sustaining the cones of two pointed crowns\nwith a double face underneath. A hoarse mozo would bawl out something to\nan acquaintance in the ranks, or a woman would shriek suddenly the word\nAdios! followed by the Christian name of a man.\n\nGeneral Barrios, in a shabby blue tunic and white peg-top trousers\nfalling upon strange red boots, kept his head uncovered and stooped\nslightly, propping himself up with a thick stick. No! He had earned\nenough military glory to satiate any man, he insisted to Mrs. Gould,\ntrying at the same time to put an air of gallantry into his attitude. A\nfew jetty hairs hung sparsely from his upper lip, he had a salient nose,\na thin, long jaw, and a black silk patch over one eye. His other eye,\nsmall and deep-set, twinkled erratically in all directions, aimlessly\naffable. The few European spectators, all men, who had naturally drifted\ninto the neighbourhood of the Gould carriage, betrayed by the solemnity\nof their faces their impression that the general must have had too much\npunch (Swedish punch, imported in bottles by Anzani) at the Amarilla\nClub before he had started with his Staff on a furious ride to the\nharbour. But Mrs. Gould bent forward, self-possessed, and declared her\nconviction that still more glory awaited the general in the near future.\n\n\"Senora!\" he remonstrated, with great feeling, \"in the name of God,\nreflect! How can there be any glory for a man like me in overcoming that\nbald-headed embustero with the dyed moustaches?\"\n\nPablo Ignacio Barrios, son of a village alcalde, general of division,\ncommanding in chief the Occidental Military district, did not frequent\nthe higher society of the town. He preferred the unceremonious\ngatherings of men where he could tell jaguar-hunt stories, boast of his\npowers with the lasso, with which he could perform extremely difficult\nfeats of the sort \"no married man should attempt,\" as the saying\ngoes amongst the llaneros; relate tales of extraordinary night rides,\nencounters with wild bulls, struggles with crocodiles, adventures in\nthe great forests, crossings of swollen rivers. And it was not mere\nboastfulness that prompted the general's reminiscences, but a genuine\nlove of that wild life which he had led in his young days before he\nturned his back for ever on the thatched roof of the parental tolderia\nin the woods. Wandering away as far as Mexico he had fought against the\nFrench by the side (as he said) of Juarez, and was the only military\nman of Costaguana who had ever encountered European troops in the field.\nThat fact shed a great lustre upon his name till it became eclipsed\nby the rising star of Montero. All his life he had been an inveterate\ngambler. He alluded himself quite openly to the current story how once,\nduring some campaign (when in command of a brigade), he had gambled away\nhis horses, pistols, and accoutrements, to the very epaulettes, playing\nmonte with his colonels the night before the battle. Finally, he had\nsent under escort his sword (a presentation sword, with a gold hilt) to\nthe town in the rear of his position to be immediately pledged for five\nhundred pesetas with a sleepy and frightened shop-keeper. By daybreak he\nhad lost the last of that money, too, when his only remark, as he rose\ncalmly, was, \"Now let us go and fight to the death.\" From that time he\nhad become aware that a general could lead his troops into battle\nvery well with a simple stick in his hand. \"It has been my custom ever\nsince,\" he would say.\n\nHe was always overwhelmed with debts; even during the periods of\nsplendour in his varied fortunes of a Costaguana general, when he held\nhigh military commands, his gold-laced uniforms were almost always\nin pawn with some tradesman. And at last, to avoid the incessant\ndifficulties of costume caused by the anxious lenders, he had assumed\na disdain of military trappings, an eccentric fashion of shabby old\ntunics, which had become like a second nature. But the faction Barrios\njoined needed to fear no political betrayal. He was too much of a real\nsoldier for the ignoble traffic of buying and selling victories. A\nmember of the foreign diplomatic body in Sta. Marta had once passed a\njudgment upon him: \"Barrios is a man of perfect honesty and even of\nsome talent for war, _mais il manque de tenue_.\" After the triumph of the\nRibierists he had obtained the reputedly lucrative Occidental\ncommand, mainly through the exertions of his creditors (the Sta. Marta\nshopkeepers, all great politicians), who moved heaven and earth in his\ninterest publicly, and privately besieged Senor Moraga, the influential\nagent of the San Tome mine, with the exaggerated lamentations that if\nthe general were passed over, \"We shall all be ruined.\" An incidental\nbut favourable mention of his name in Mr. Gould senior's long\ncorrespondence with his son had something to do with his appointment,\ntoo; but most of all undoubtedly his established political honesty. No\none questioned the personal bravery of the Tiger-killer, as the populace\ncalled him. He was, however, said to be unlucky in the field--but this\nwas to be the beginning of an era of peace. The soldiers liked him\nfor his humane temper, which was like a strange and precious flower\nunexpectedly blooming on the hotbed of corrupt revolutions; and when\nhe rode slowly through the streets during some military display, the\ncontemptuous good humour of his solitary eye roaming over the crowds\nextorted the acclamations of the populace. The women of that class\nespecially seemed positively fascinated by the long drooping nose,\nthe peaked chin, the heavy lower lip, the black silk eyepatch and band\nslanting rakishly over the forehead. His high rank always procured an\naudience of Caballeros for his sporting stories, which he detailed very\nwell with a simple, grave enjoyment. As to the society of ladies, it was\nirksome by the restraints it imposed without any equivalent, as far as\nhe could see. He had not, perhaps, spoken three times on the whole to\nMrs. Gould since he had taken up his high command; but he had observed\nher frequently riding with the Senor Administrador, and had pronounced\nthat there was more sense in her little bridle-hand than in all the\nfemale heads in Sulaco. His impulse had been to be very civil on parting\nto a woman who did not wobble in the saddle, and happened to be the wife\nof a personality very important to a man always short of money. He even\npushed his attentions so far as to desire the aide-de-camp at his side\n(a thick-set, short captain with a Tartar physiognomy) to bring along a\ncorporal with a file of men in front of the carriage, lest the crowd in\nits backward surges should \"incommode the mules of the senora.\" Then,\nturning to the small knot of silent Europeans looking on within earshot,\nhe raised his voice protectingly--\n\n\"Senores, have no apprehension. Go on quietly making your Ferro\nCarril--your railways, your telegraphs. Your--There's enough wealth in\nCostaguana to pay for everything--or else you would not be here. Ha! ha!\nDon't mind this little picardia of my friend Montero. In a little while\nyou shall behold his dyed moustaches through the bars of a strong wooden\ncage. Si, senores! Fear nothing, develop the country, work, work!\"\n\nThe little group of engineers received this exhortation without a word,\nand after waving his hand at them loftily, he addressed himself again to\nMrs. Gould--\n\n\"That is what Don Jose says we must do. Be enterprising! Work! Grow\nrich! To put Montero in a cage is my work; and when that insignificant\npiece of business is done, then, as Don Jose wishes us, we shall grow\nrich, one and all, like so many Englishmen, because it is money that\nsaves a country, and--\"\n\nBut a young officer in a very new uniform, hurrying up from the\ndirection of the jetty, interrupted his interpretation of Senor\nAvellanos's ideals. The general made a movement of impatience; the other\nwent on talking to him insistently, with an air of respect. The horses\nof the Staff had been embarked, the steamer's gig was awaiting the\ngeneral at the boat steps; and Barrios, after a fierce stare of his one\neye, began to take leave. Don Jose roused himself for an appropriate\nphrase pronounced mechanically. The terrible strain of hope and fear was\ntelling on him, and he seemed to husband the last sparks of his fire for\nthose oratorical efforts of which even the distant Europe was to hear.\nAntonia, her red lips firmly closed, averted her head behind the raised\nfan; and young Decoud, though he felt the girl's eyes upon him, gazed\naway persistently, hooked on his elbow, with a scornful and complete\ndetachment. Mrs. Gould heroically concealed her dismay at the appearance\nof men and events so remote from her racial conventions, dismay too deep\nto be uttered in words even to her husband. She understood his voiceless\nreserve better now. Their confidential intercourse fell, not in moments\nof privacy, but precisely in public, when the quick meeting of their\nglances would comment upon some fresh turn of events. She had gone to\nhis school of uncompromising silence, the only one possible, since so\nmuch that seemed shocking, weird, and grotesque in the working out of\ntheir purposes had to be accepted as normal in this country. Decidedly,\nthe stately Antonia looked more mature and infinitely calm; but she\nwould never have known how to reconcile the sudden sinkings of her heart\nwith an amiable mobility of expression.\n\nMrs. Gould smiled a good-bye at Barrios, nodded round to the Europeans\n(who raised their hats simultaneously) with an engaging invitation, \"I\nhope to see you all presently, at home\"; then said nervously to Decoud,\n\"Get in, Don Martin,\" and heard him mutter to himself in French, as he\nopened the carriage door, \"_Le sort en est jete_.\" She heard him with a\nsort of exasperation. Nobody ought to have known better than himself\nthat the first cast of dice had been already thrown long ago in a most\ndesperate game. Distant acclamations, words of command yelled out, and a\nroll of drums on the jetty greeted the departing general. Something like\na slight faintness came over her, and she looked blankly at Antonia's\nstill face, wondering what would happen to Charley if that absurd man\nfailed. \"A la casa, Ignacio,\" she cried at the motionless broad back of\nthe coachman, who gathered the reins without haste, mumbling to himself\nunder his breath, \"Si, la casa. Si, si nina.\"\n\nThe carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft track, the shadows fell\nlong on the dusty little plain interspersed with dark bushes, mounds\nof turned-up earth, low wooden buildings with iron roofs of the Railway\nCompany; the sparse row of telegraph poles strode obliquely clear of\nthe town, bearing a single, almost invisible wire far into the great\ncampo--like a slender, vibrating feeler of that progress waiting outside\nfor a moment of peace to enter and twine itself about the weary heart of\nthe land.\n\nThe cafe window of the Albergo d'ltalia Una was full of sunburnt,\nwhiskered faces of railway men. But at the other end of the house, the\nend of the Signori Inglesi, old Giorgio, at the door with one of his\ngirls on each side, bared his bushy head, as white as the snows of\nHiguerota. Mrs. Gould stopped the carriage. She seldom failed to speak\nto her protege; moreover, the excitement, the heat, and the dust had\nmade her thirsty. She asked for a glass of water. Giorgio sent the\nchildren indoors for it, and approached with pleasure expressed in his\nwhole rugged countenance. It was not often that he had occasion to see\nhis benefactress, who was also an Englishwoman--another title to his\nregard. He offered some excuses for his wife. It was a bad day with her;\nher oppressions--he tapped his own broad chest. She could not move from\nher chair that day.\n\nDecoud, ensconced in the corner of his seat, observed gloomily Mrs.\nGould's old revolutionist, then, offhand--\n\n\"Well, and what do you think of it all, Garibaldino?\"\n\nOld Giorgio, looking at him with some curiosity, said civilly that the\ntroops had marched very well. One-eyed Barrios and his officers had done\nwonders with the recruits in a short time. Those Indios, only caught\nthe other day, had gone swinging past in double quick time, like\nbersaglieri; they looked well fed, too, and had whole uniforms.\n\"Uniforms!\" he repeated with a half-smile of pity. A look of grim\nretrospect stole over his piercing, steady eyes. It had been otherwise\nin his time when men fought against tyranny, in the forests of Brazil,\nor on the plains of Uruguay, starving on half-raw beef without salt,\nhalf naked, with often only a knife tied to a stick for a weapon. \"And\nyet we used to prevail against the oppressor,\" he concluded, proudly.\n\nHis animation fell; the slight gesture of his hand expressed\ndiscouragement; but he added that he had asked one of the sergeants to\nshow him the new rifle. There was no such weapon in his fighting days;\nand if Barrios could not--\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" broke in Don Jose, almost trembling with eagerness. \"We are\nsafe. The good Senor Viola is a man of experience. Extremely deadly--is\nit not so? You have accomplished your mission admirably, my dear\nMartin.\"\n\nDecoud, lolling back moodily, contemplated old Viola.\n\n\"Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who are you for, really, in your\nheart?\"\n\nMrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Linda had brought out a glass of\nwater on a tray, with extreme care; Giselle presented her with a bunch\nof flowers gathered hastily.\n\n\"For the people,\" declared old Viola, sternly.\n\n\"We are all for the people--in the end.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" muttered old Viola, savagely. \"And meantime they fight for you.\nBlind. Esclavos!\"\n\nAt that moment young Scarfe of the railway staff emerged from the\ndoor of the part reserved for the Signori Inglesi. He had come down to\nheadquarters from somewhere up the line on a light engine, and had had\njust time to get a bath and change his clothes. He was a nice boy, and\nMrs. Gould welcomed him.\n\n\"It's a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Gould. I've just come down.\nUsual luck. Missed everything, of course. This show is just over, and I\nhear there has been a great dance at Don Juste Lopez's last night. Is it\ntrue?\"\n\n\"The young patricians,\" Decoud began suddenly in his precise English,\n\"have indeed been dancing before they started off to the war with the\nGreat Pompey.\"\n\nYoung Scarfe stared, astounded. \"You haven't met before,\" Mrs. Gould\nintervened. \"Mr. Decoud--Mr. Scarfe.\"\n\n\"Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia,\" protested Don Jose, with\nnervous haste, also in English. \"You should not jest like this, Martin.\"\n\nAntonia's breast rose and fell with a deeper breath. The young engineer\nwas utterly in the dark. \"Great what?\" he muttered, vaguely.\n\n\"Luckily, Montero is not a Caesar,\" Decoud continued. \"Not the two\nMonteros put together would make a decent parody of a Caesar.\" He\ncrossed his arms on his breast, looking at Senor Avellanos, who had\nreturned to his immobility. \"It is only you, Don Jose, who are a genuine\nold Roman--vir Romanus--eloquent and inflexible.\"\n\nSince he had heard the name of Montero pronounced, young Scarfe had been\neager to express his simple feelings. In a loud and youthful tone he\nhoped that this Montero was going to be licked once for all and done\nwith. There was no saying what would happen to the railway if the\nrevolution got the upper hand. Perhaps it would have to be abandoned.\nIt would not be the first railway gone to pot in Costaguana. \"You know,\nit's one of their so-called national things,\" he ran on, wrinkling\nup his nose as if the word had a suspicious flavour to his profound\nexperience of South American affairs. And, of course, he chatted with\nanimation, it had been such an immense piece of luck for him at his\nage to get appointed on the staff \"of a big thing like that--don't you\nknow.\" It would give him the pull over a lot of chaps all through life,\nhe asserted. \"Therefore--down with Montero! Mrs. Gould.\" His artless\ngrin disappeared slowly before the unanimous gravity of the faces turned\nupon him from the carriage; only that \"old chap,\" Don Jose, presenting a\nmotionless, waxy profile, stared straight on as if deaf. Scarfe did not\nknow the Avellanos very well. They did not give balls, and Antonia never\nappeared at a ground-floor window, as some other young ladies used to do\nattended by elder women, to chat with the caballeros on horseback in\nthe Calle. The stares of these creoles did not matter much; but what on\nearth had come to Mrs. Gould? She said, \"Go on, Ignacio,\" and gave him\na slow inclination of the head. He heard a short laugh from that\nround-faced, Frenchified fellow. He coloured up to the eyes, and stared\nat Giorgio Viola, who had fallen back with the children, hat in hand.\n\n\"I shall want a horse presently,\" he said with some asperity to the old\nman.\n\n\"Si, senor. There are plenty of horses,\" murmured the Garibaldino,\nsmoothing absently, with his brown hands, the two heads, one dark with\nbronze glints, the other fair with a coppery ripple, of the two girls by\nhis side. The returning stream of sightseers raised a great dust on the\nroad. Horsemen noticed the group. \"Go to your mother,\" he said. \"They\nare growing up as I am growing older, and there is nobody--\"\n\nHe looked at the young engineer and stopped, as if awakened from a\ndream; then, folding his arms on his breast, took up his usual position,\nleaning back in the doorway with an upward glance fastened on the white\nshoulder of Higuerota far away.\n\nIn the carriage Martin Decoud, shifting his position as though he could\nnot make himself comfortable, muttered as he swayed towards Antonia, \"I\nsuppose you hate me.\" Then in a loud voice he began to congratulate Don\nJose upon all the engineers being convinced Ribierists. The interest of\nall those foreigners was gratifying. \"You have heard this one. He is an\nenlightened well-wisher. It is pleasant to think that the prosperity of\nCostaguana is of some use to the world.\"\n\n\"He is very young,\" Mrs. Gould remarked, quietly.\n\n\"And so very wise for his age,\" retorted Decoud. \"But here we have the\nnaked truth from the mouth of that child. You are right, Don Jose. The\nnatural treasures of Costaguana are of importance to the progressive\nEurope represented by this youth, just as three hundred years ago\nthe wealth of our Spanish fathers was a serious object to the rest\nof Europe--as represented by the bold buccaneers. There is a curse of\nfutility upon our character: Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, chivalry and\nmaterialism, high-sounding sentiments and a supine morality, violent\nefforts for an idea and a sullen acquiescence in every form of\ncorruption. We convulsed a continent for our independence only to\nbecome the passive prey of a democratic parody, the helpless victims\nof scoundrels and cut-throats, our institutions a mockery, our laws a\nfarce--a Guzman Bento our master! And we have sunk so low that when\na man like you has awakened our conscience, a stupid barbarian of a\nMontero--Great Heavens! a Montero!--becomes a deadly danger, and an\nignorant, boastful Indio, like Barrios, is our defender.\"\n\nBut Don Jose, disregarding the general indictment as though he had\nnot heard a word of it, took up the defence of Barrios. The man was\ncompetent enough for his special task in the plan of campaign. It\nconsisted in an offensive movement, with Cayta as base, upon the flank\nof the Revolutionist forces advancing from the south against Sta. Marta,\nwhich was covered by another army with the President-Dictator in its\nmidst. Don Jose became quite animated with a great flow of speech,\nbending forward anxiously under the steady eyes of his daughter. Decoud,\nas if silenced by so much ardour, did not make a sound. The bells of the\ncity were striking the hour of Oracion when the carriage rolled under\nthe old gateway facing the harbour like a shapeless monument of leaves\nand stones. The rumble of wheels under the sonorous arch was traversed\nby a strange, piercing shriek, and Decoud, from his back seat, had a\nview of the people behind the carriage trudging along the road outside,\nall turning their heads, in sombreros and rebozos, to look at a\nlocomotive which rolled quickly out of sight behind Giorgio Viola's\nhouse, under a white trail of steam that seemed to vanish in the\nbreathless, hysterically prolonged scream of warlike triumph. And it\nwas all like a fleeting vision, the shrieking ghost of a railway engine\nfleeing across the frame of the archway, behind the startled movement\nof the people streaming back from a military spectacle with silent\nfootsteps on the dust of the road. It was a material train returning\nfrom the Campo to the palisaded yards. The empty cars rolled lightly\non the single track; there was no rumble of wheels, no tremor of the\nground. The engine-driver, running past the Casa Viola with the salute\nof an uplifted arm, checked his speed smartly before entering the yard;\nand when the ear-splitting screech of the steam-whistle for the brakes\nhad stopped, a series of hard, battering shocks, mingled with the\nclanking of chain-couplings, made a tumult of blows and shaken fetters\nunder the vault of the gate.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nThe Gould carriage was the first to return from the harbour to the empty\ntown. On the ancient pavement, laid out in patterns, sunk into ruts and\nholes, the portly Ignacio, mindful of the springs of the Parisian-built\nlandau, had pulled up to a walk, and Decoud in his corner contemplated\nmoodily the inner aspect of the gate. The squat turreted sides held up\nbetween them a mass of masonry with bunches of grass growing at the top,\nand a grey, heavily scrolled, armorial shield of stone above the apex of\nthe arch with the arms of Spain nearly smoothed out as if in readiness\nfor some new device typical of the impending progress.\n\nThe explosive noise of the railway trucks seemed to augment Decoud's\nirritation. He muttered something to himself, then began to talk aloud\nin curt, angry phrases thrown at the silence of the two women. They did\nnot look at him at all; while Don Jose, with his semi-translucent, waxy\ncomplexion, overshadowed by the soft grey hat, swayed a little to the\njolts of the carriage by the side of Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"This sound puts a new edge on a very old truth.\"\n\nDecoud spoke in French, perhaps because of Ignacio on the box above him;\nthe old coachman, with his broad back filling a short, silver-braided\njacket, had a big pair of ears, whose thick rims stood well away from\nhis cropped head.\n\n\"Yes, the noise outside the city wall is new, but the principle is old.\"\n\nHe ruminated his discontent for a while, then began afresh with a\nsidelong glance at Antonia--\n\n\"No, but just imagine our forefathers in morions and corselets drawn\nup outside this gate, and a band of adventurers just landed from their\nships in the harbour there. Thieves, of course. Speculators, too. Their\nexpeditions, each one, were the speculations of grave and reverend\npersons in England. That is history, as that absurd sailor Mitchell is\nalways saying.\"\n\n\"Mitchell's arrangements for the embarkation of the troops were\nexcellent!\" exclaimed Don Jose.\n\n\"That!--that! oh, that's really the work of that Genoese seaman! But\nto return to my noises; there used to be in the old days the sound of\ntrumpets outside that gate. War trumpets! I'm sure they were trumpets. I\nhave read somewhere that Drake, who was the greatest of these men, used\nto dine alone in his cabin on board ship to the sound of trumpets. In\nthose days this town was full of wealth. Those men came to take it.\nNow the whole land is like a treasure-house, and all these people are\nbreaking into it, whilst we are cutting each other's throats. The only\nthing that keeps them out is mutual jealousy. But they'll come to an\nagreement some day--and by the time we've settled our quarrels and\nbecome decent and honourable, there'll be nothing left for us. It has\nalways been the same. We are a wonderful people, but it has always\nbeen our fate to be\"--he did not say \"robbed,\" but added, after a\npause--\"exploited!\"\n\nMrs. Gould said, \"Oh, this is unjust!\" And Antonia interjected, \"Don't\nanswer him, Emilia. He is attacking me.\"\n\n\"You surely do not think I was attacking Don Carlos!\" Decoud answered.\n\nAnd then the carriage stopped before the door of the Casa Gould. The\nyoung man offered his hand to the ladies. They went in first together;\nDon Jose walked by the side of Decoud, and the gouty old porter tottered\nafter them with some light wraps on his arm.\n\nDon Jose slipped his hand under the arm of the journalist of Sulaco.\n\n\"The Porvenir must have a long and confident article upon Barrios and\nthe irresistibleness of his army of Cayta! The moral effect should be\nkept up in the country. We must cable encouraging extracts to Europe and\nthe United States to maintain a favourable impression abroad.\"\n\nDecoud muttered, \"Oh, yes, we must comfort our friends, the\nspeculators.\"\n\nThe long open gallery was in shadow, with its screen of plants in vases\nalong the balustrade, holding out motionless blossoms, and all the glass\ndoors of the reception-rooms thrown open. A jingle of spurs died out at\nthe further end.\n\nBasilio, standing aside against the wall, said in a soft tone to\nthe passing ladies, \"The Senor Administrador is just back from the\nmountain.\"\n\nIn the great sala, with its groups of ancient Spanish and modern\nEuropean furniture making as if different centres under the high white\nspread of the ceiling, the silver and porcelain of the tea-service\ngleamed among a cluster of dwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady's boudoir,\nputting in a note of feminine and intimate delicacy.\n\nDon Jose in his rocking-chair placed his hat on his lap, and Decoud\nwalked up and down the whole length of the room, passing between tables\nloaded with knick-knacks and almost disappearing behind the high backs\nof leathern sofas. He was thinking of the angry face of Antonia; he was\nconfident that he would make his peace with her. He had not stayed in\nSulaco to quarrel with Antonia.\n\nMartin Decoud was angry with himself. All he saw and heard going\non around him exasperated the preconceived views of his European\ncivilization. To contemplate revolutions from the distance of the\nParisian Boulevards was quite another matter. Here on the spot it was\nnot possible to dismiss their tragic comedy with the expression, \"_Quelle\nfarce!_\"\n\nThe reality of the political action, such as it was, seemed closer, and\nacquired poignancy by Antonia's belief in the cause. Its crudeness hurt\nhis feelings. He was surprised at his own sensitiveness.\n\n\"I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than I would have believed\npossible,\" he thought to himself.\n\nHis disdain grew like a reaction of his scepticism against the action\ninto which he was forced by his infatuation for Antonia. He soothed\nhimself by saying he was not a patriot, but a lover.\n\nThe ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gould sank low before the little\ntea-table. Antonia took up her usual place at the reception hour--the\ncorner of a leathern couch, with a rigid grace in her pose and a fan in\nher hand. Decoud, swerving from the straight line of his march, came to\nlean over the high back of her seat.\n\nFor a long time he talked into her ear from behind, softly, with a half\nsmile and an air of apologetic familiarity. Her fan lay half grasped on\nher knees. She never looked at him. His rapid utterance grew more and\nmore insistent and caressing. At last he ventured a slight laugh.\n\n\"No, really. You must forgive me. One must be serious sometimes.\"\nHe paused. She turned her head a little; her blue eyes glided slowly\ntowards him, slightly upwards, mollified and questioning.\n\n\"You can't think I am serious when I call Montero a gran' bestia\nevery second day in the Porvenir? That is not a serious occupation. No\noccupation is serious, not even when a bullet through the heart is the\npenalty of failure!\"\n\nHer hand closed firmly on her fan.\n\n\"Some reason, you understand, I mean some sense, may creep into\nthinking; some glimpse of truth. I mean some effective truth, for which\nthere is no room in politics or journalism. I happen to have said what I\nthought. And you are angry! If you do me the kindness to think a little\nyou will see that I spoke like a patriot.\"\n\nShe opened her red lips for the first time, not unkindly.\n\n\"Yes, but you never see the aim. Men must be used as they are. I suppose\nnobody is really disinterested, unless, perhaps, you, Don Martin.\"\n\n\"God forbid! It's the last thing I should like you to believe of me.\" He\nspoke lightly, and paused.\n\nShe began to fan herself with a slow movement without raising her hand.\nAfter a time he whispered passionately--\n\n\"Antonia!\"\n\nShe smiled, and extended her hand after the English manner towards\nCharles Gould, who was bowing before her; while Decoud, with his\nelbows spread on the back of the sofa, dropped his eyes and murmured,\n\"Bonjour.\"\n\nThe Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine bent over his wife for\na moment. They exchanged a few words, of which only the phrase, \"The\ngreatest enthusiasm,\" pronounced by Mrs. Gould, could be heard.\n\n\"Yes,\" Decoud began in a murmur. \"Even he!\"\n\n\"This is sheer calumny,\" said Antonia, not very severely.\n\n\"You just ask him to throw his mine into the melting-pot for the great\ncause,\" Decoud whispered.\n\nDon Jose had raised his voice. He rubbed his hands cheerily. The\nexcellent aspect of the troops and the great quantity of new deadly\nrifles on the shoulders of those brave men seemed to fill him with an\necstatic confidence.\n\nCharles Gould, very tall and thin before his chair, listened, but\nnothing could be discovered in his face except a kind and deferential\nattention.\n\nMeantime, Antonia had risen, and, crossing the room, stood looking out\nof one of the three long windows giving on the street. Decoud followed\nher. The window was thrown open, and he leaned against the thickness of\nthe wall. The long folds of the damask curtain, falling straight from\nthe broad brass cornice, hid him partly from the room. He folded his\narms on his breast, and looked steadily at Antonia's profile.\n\nThe people returning from the harbour filled the pavements; the shuffle\nof sandals and a low murmur of voices ascended to the window. Now and\nthen a coach rolled slowly along the disjointed roadway of the Calle de\nla Constitucion. There were not many private carriages in Sulaco; at the\nmost crowded hour on the Alameda they could be counted with one glance\nof the eye. The great family arks swayed on high leathern springs, full\nof pretty powdered faces in which the eyes looked intensely alive\nand black. And first Don Juste Lopez, the President of the Provincial\nAssembly, passed with his three lovely daughters, solemn in a black\nfrock-coat and stiff white tie, as when directing a debate from a high\ntribune. Though they all raised their eyes, Antonia did not make the\nusual greeting gesture of a fluttered hand, and they affected not to\nsee the two young people, Costaguaneros with European manners, whose\neccentricities were discussed behind the barred windows of the first\nfamilies in Sulaco. And then the widowed Senora Gavilaso de Valdes\nrolled by, handsome and dignified, in a great machine in which she used\nto travel to and from her country house, surrounded by an armed retinue\nin leather suits and big sombreros, with carbines at the bows of their\nsaddles. She was a woman of most distinguished family, proud, rich, and\nkind-hearted. Her second son, Jaime, had just gone off on the Staff of\nBarrios. The eldest, a worthless fellow of a moody disposition, filled\nSulaco with the noise of his dissipations, and gambled heavily at the\nclub. The two youngest boys, with yellow Ribierist cockades in their\ncaps, sat on the front seat. She, too, affected not to see the Senor\nDecoud talking publicly with Antonia in defiance of every convention.\nAnd he not even her novio as far as the world knew! Though, even in that\ncase, it would have been scandal enough. But the dignified old lady,\nrespected and admired by the first families, would have been still more\nshocked if she could have heard the words they were exchanging.\n\n\"Did you say I lost sight of the aim? I have only one aim in the world.\"\n\nShe made an almost imperceptible negative movement of her head, still\nstaring across the street at the Avellanos's house, grey, marked with\ndecay, and with iron bars like a prison.\n\n\"And it would be so easy of attainment,\" he continued, \"this aim which,\nwhether knowingly or not, I have always had in my heart--ever since the\nday when you snubbed me so horribly once in Paris, you remember.\"\n\nA slight smile seemed to move the corner of the lip that was on his\nside.\n\n\"You know you were a very terrible person, a sort of Charlotte Corday\nin a schoolgirl's dress; a ferocious patriot. I suppose you would have\nstuck a knife into Guzman Bento?\"\n\nShe interrupted him. \"You do me too much honour.\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" he said, changing suddenly to a tone of bitter levity,\n\"you would have sent me to stab him without compunction.\"\n\n\"_Ah, par exemple!_\" she murmured in a shocked tone.\n\n\"Well,\" he argued, mockingly, \"you do keep me here writing deadly\nnonsense. Deadly to me! It has already killed my self-respect. And you\nmay imagine,\" he continued, his tone passing into light banter, \"that\nMontero, should he be successful, would get even with me in the only way\nsuch a brute can get even with a man of intelligence who condescends to\ncall him a gran' bestia three times a week. It's a sort of intellectual\ndeath; but there is the other one in the background for a journalist of\nmy ability.\"\n\n\"If he is successful!\" said Antonia, thoughtfully.\n\n\"You seem satisfied to see my life hang on a thread,\" Decoud replied,\nwith a broad smile. \"And the other Montero, the 'my trusted brother' of\nthe proclamations, the guerrillero--haven't I written that he was taking\nthe guests' overcoats and changing plates in Paris at our Legation in\nthe intervals of spying on our refugees there, in the time of Rojas? He\nwill wash out that sacred truth in blood. In my blood! Why do you look\nannoyed? This is simply a bit of the biography of one of our great men.\nWhat do you think he will do to me? There is a certain convent wall\nround the corner of the Plaza, opposite the door of the Bull Ring. You\nknow? Opposite the door with the inscription, _Intrada de la Sombra_.'\nAppropriate, perhaps! That's where the uncle of our host gave up his\nAnglo-South-American soul. And, note, he might have run away. A man\nwho has fought with weapons may run away. You might have let me go\nwith Barrios if you had cared for me. I would have carried one of those\nrifles, in which Don Jose believes, with the greatest satisfaction, in\nthe ranks of poor peons and Indios, that know nothing either of reason\nor politics. The most forlorn hope in the most forlorn army on earth\nwould have been safer than that for which you made me stay here. When\nyou make war you may retreat, but not when you spend your time in\ninciting poor ignorant fools to kill and to die.\"\n\nHis tone remained light, and as if unaware of his presence she stood\nmotionless, her hands clasped lightly, the fan hanging down from her\ninterlaced fingers. He waited for a while, and then--\n\n\"I shall go to the wall,\" he said, with a sort of jocular desperation.\n\nEven that declaration did not make her look at him. Her head remained\nstill, her eyes fixed upon the house of the Avellanos, whose chipped\npilasters, broken cornices, the whole degradation of dignity was hidden\nnow by the gathering dusk of the street. In her whole figure her lips\nalone moved, forming the words--\n\n\"Martin, you will make me cry.\"\n\nHe remained silent for a minute, startled, as if overwhelmed by a sort\nof awed happiness, with the lines of the mocking smile still stiffened\nabout his mouth, and incredulous surprise in his eyes. The value of a\nsentence is in the personality which utters it, for nothing new can be\nsaid by man or woman; and those were the last words, it seemed to him,\nthat could ever have been spoken by Antonia. He had never made it up\nwith her so completely in all their intercourse of small encounters; but\neven before she had time to turn towards him, which she did slowly with\na rigid grace, he had begun to plead--\n\n\"My sister is only waiting to embrace you. My father is transported with\njoy. I won't say anything of my mother! Our mothers were like sisters.\nThere is the mail-boat for the south next week--let us go. That Moraga\nis a fool! A man like Montero is bribed. It's the practice of the\ncountry. It's tradition--it's politics. Read 'Fifty Years of Misrule.'\"\n\n\"Leave poor papa alone, Don Martin. He believes--\"\n\n\"I have the greatest tenderness for your father,\" he began, hurriedly.\n\"But I love you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this\nbusiness. Perhaps your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was\nbribeable. Why, I suppose he only wanted his share of this famous loan\nfor national development. Why didn't the stupid Sta. Marta people give\nhim a mission to Europe, or something? He would have taken five years'\nsalary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious\nIndio!\"\n\n\"The man,\" she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst,\n\"was intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from\nMoraga only; from others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" he said. \"Of course you know. You know everything. You read\nall the correspondence, you write all the papers--all those State papers\nthat are inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory\nof political purity. Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de\nSulaco! He and his mine are the practical demonstration of what could\nhave been done. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of\nvirtue? And all those railway people, with their honest work! Of course,\ntheir work is honest! But what if you cannot work honestly till the\nthieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have told this Sir\nJohn what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off--he and all his\nNegro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have\nbeen bought off with his own stupid weight of gold--his weight of gold,\nI tell you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all.\"\n\nShe shook her head slightly. \"It was impossible,\" she murmured.\n\n\"He wanted the whole lot? What?\"\n\nShe was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and\nmotionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the\nwall, listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones\nof her even voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if\nwaves of emotion had run from her heart to pass out into the air in her\nreasonable words. He also had his aspirations, he aspired to carry her\naway out of these deadly futilities of pronunciamientos and reforms. All\nthis was wrong--utterly wrong; but she fascinated him, and sometimes\nthe sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the charm, replace the\nfascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some women\nhovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did\nnot want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that,\nand he was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some\nappreciation of character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the\nmiraculous. In the mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary\nvividness the austere schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his\nattention; sometimes he could not restrain a murmur of assent; now and\nthen he advanced an objection quite seriously. Gradually they began to\nargue; the curtain half hid them from the people in the sala.\n\nOutside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the\nhouses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the\nevening silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages,\nof unshod horses, and a softly sandalled population. The windows of\nthe Casa Gould flung their shining parallelograms upon the house of\nthe Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed below with the\npulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of the walls; and the\nnight air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed their\nfaces.\n\n\"We Occidentals,\" said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the\nprovincials of Sulaco applied to themselves, \"have been always distinct\nand separated. As long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our\ntroubles no army has marched over those mountains. A revolution in the\ncentral provinces isolates us at once. Look how complete it is now! The\nnews of Barrios' movement will be cabled to the United States, and\nonly in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by the cable from the other\nseaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest fertility, the\npurest blood in our great families, the most laborious population. The\nOccidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was not\nbad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted.\nIt opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana\nhangs like a millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is\nlarge enough to make any man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature\nitself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'\"\n\nShe made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell.\n\n\"Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the 'History\nof Fifty Years' Misrule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense\nseems always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very\nmuch with this perfectly reasonable aspiration?\"\n\nShe shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her\nearly convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered\nthat possibility.\n\n\"It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions,\" he said,\nprophetically.\n\nShe did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the\nrail of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics,\ngiving themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of\nthose profound pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the\nplaza end of the street the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market\nwomen cooking their evening meal gleamed red along the edge of the\npavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street lamp,\nshowing the coloured inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on\nhis shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbour\nend of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming\nsilver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider.\n\n\"Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores,\" said Decoud, gently,\n\"coming in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man\nof Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me\nmake friends with him.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed!\" said Antonia. \"How did you make friends?\"\n\n\"A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this\nman is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know\nremarkable men--and this man is remarkable in his way.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" said Antonia, thoughtfully. \"It is known that this Italian\nhas a great influence.\"\n\nThe horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the\nshining broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a\nlong silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was\npowerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with\nan invisible face concealed by a great sombrero.\n\nDecoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side,\ntouching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the\nstreet, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a\ntete-a-tete of extreme impropriety; something of which in the whole\nextent of the Republic only the extraordinary Antonia could be\ncapable--the poor, motherless girl, never accompanied, with a careless\nfather, who had thought only of making her learned. Even Decoud himself\nseemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of having her to\nhimself till--till the revolution was over and he could carry her off\nto Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed\neven harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would\nbe another, the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races,\nbarbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said\nin the bitterness of his spirit, \"America is ungovernable. Those who\nworked for her independence have ploughed the sea.\" He did not care, he\ndeclared boldly; he seized every opportunity to tell her that though she\nhad managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he was no patriot. First\nof all, the word had no sense for cultured minds, to whom the narrowness\nof every belief is odious; and secondly, in connection with the\neverlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was hopelessly\nbesmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of\nlawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving.\n\nHe was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need\nto drop his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the\nsilence of dark houses with their shutters closed early against the\nnight air, as is the custom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould\nflung out defiantly the blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of\nlight in the whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur on the\nlittle balcony went on after a short pause.\n\n\"But we are labouring to change all that,\" Antonia protested. \"It is\nexactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And\nthe word you despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for\nconstancy, for suffering. Papa, who--\"\n\n\"Ploughing the sea,\" interrupted Decoud, looking down.\n\nThere was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps.\n\n\"Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the\ngate,\" observed Decoud. \"He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this\nmorning. They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they\nbrought outside all the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden\nsaints stood militarily in a row at the top of the great flight of\nsteps. They looked like a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. I\nsaw the great function from the windows of the Porvenir. He is amazing,\nyour uncle, the last of the Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in his\nvestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back. And all the\ntime our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at\nan open window. Esprit fort--our Barrios. I expected every moment your\nuncle to launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch\nin the window across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops\nmarched off. Later Barrios came down with some of the officers, and\nstood with his uniform all unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the\npavement. Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glittering, but all\nblack, at the cathedral door with that threatening aspect he has--you\nknow, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look, strides over\nstraight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the general by the\nelbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a\nwall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with\nexaltation, and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious\nscene. The officers seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man,\nyour missionary uncle. He hates an infidel much less than a heretic, and\nprefers a heathen many times to an infidel. He condescends graciously to\ncall me a heathen, sometimes, you know.\"\n\nAntonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and\nshutting the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if\nafraid that she would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative\nisolation, the precious sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their\narms, affected him softly; for now and then a tender inflection crept\ninto the flow of his ironic murmurs.\n\n\"Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia.\nAnd perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre\nCorbelan. The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him\nconsists in the restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing\nelse could have drawn that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the\nwilds to work for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope!\nHe would make a pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any\nGovernment if he could only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould\nthink of that? But, of course, with his English impenetrability, nobody\ncan tell what he thinks. Probably he thinks of nothing apart from his\nmine; of his 'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, she thinks of\nher schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the young babies, of\nevery sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn your head\nnow you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in a\ncheck shirt--what's his name? Monygham--or else catechising Don Pepe or\nperhaps listening to Padre Roman. They are all down here to-day--all\nher ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don\nCarlos is a sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to\nthink too much; to see only what may be of practical use at the moment.\nThese people are not like ourselves. We have no political reason; we\nhave political passions--sometimes. What is a conviction? A particular\nview of our personal advantage either practical or emotional. No one is\na patriot for nothing. The word serves us well. But I am clear-sighted,\nand I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I have no patriotic\nillusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover.\"\n\nHe paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, \"That can lead one very far,\nthough.\"\n\nBehind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four\nhours set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could\nbe heard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in\nsingly, or in twos and threes: the higher officials of the province,\nengineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds, with the frosted head\nof their chief smiling with slow, humorous indulgence amongst the young\neager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had already slipped out in\nsearch of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts of the town. Don\nJuste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered solemnly, in a\nblack creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard. The\nfew members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around\ntheir President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation\nof the rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of \"a\njustly incensed democracy\" upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the\nRepublic to suspend their sittings till his sword had made peace and the\nwill of the people could be consulted. It was practically an invitation\nto dissolve: an unheard-of audacity of that evil madman.\n\nThe indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind Jose Avellanos.\nDon Jose, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back\nof his chair, \"Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his\nflank. If all the other provinces show only half as much patriotism as\nwe Occidentals--\"\n\nA great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the\nlife and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth!\nSulaco was in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the\nhopefulness inspired by the event of the day breaking out amongst those\ncaballeros of the Campo thinking of their herds, of their lands, of\nthe safety of their families. Everything was at stake. . . . No! It was\nimpossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal, this shameless\nIndio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the\nroom looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of\nimpartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial\nAssembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back\non the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his\nlungs, \"Gran' bestia!\"\n\nThis unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes\nwere directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud\nhad already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out\nover the quiet street.\n\n\"This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme\nargument,\" he said to Antonia. \"I have invented this definition, this\nlast word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a\npatriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has\ndone such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the\nmaterial implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell\nconfess over and over again that till he got this man he could never\ntell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress.\nYou have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to\ndazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a\nfortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his\nleisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation.\nAnd he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and\nadmired is--\"\n\n\"And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?\" interrupted\nAntonia.\n\n\"I was speaking of a man of that sort,\" said Decoud, curtly. \"The heroes\nof the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?\"\n\nDecoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall\nshattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too,\nhad suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands\nso often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he\novercame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia\nordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon\nhimself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured\nher that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed\nalmost unrealizable on this earth.\n\nShe coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the\nsierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of\nthe snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was\nenough ardour in his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away\nabruptly, as if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind,\nfull of light, noisy with voices.\n\nThe tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls\nof the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of\nhope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and\nanimated discussions. There was a self-confident ring in all the\nvoices. Even the few Europeans around Charles Gould--a Dane, a couple\nof Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the\nrepresentatives of those material interests that had got a footing in\nSulaco under the protecting might of the San Tome mine--had infused a\nlot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they\nwere paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that\ncould be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt\nhopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen,\nsmall, black, with glittering eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy\nbeard, waved his tiny brown hands and delicate wrists. He had been\ntravelling in the interior of the province for a syndicate of European\ncapitalists. His forcible \"_Monsieur l'Administrateur_\" returning every\nminute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was relating\nhis discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him\ncourteously.\n\nAt a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's\nhabit to withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her\nown, next to the great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia,\nlistened with a slightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief\nof the railway, who stooped over her, relating slowly, without the\nslightest gesture, something apparently amusing, for his eyes had a\nhumorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into the room to join\nMrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud, only for a\nmoment.\n\n\"Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?\" she said,\nrapidly.\n\n\"I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia,\" he answered, through\nclenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly.\n\nThe engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story.\nThe humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen\nappreciation of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant\nprejudice and as ignorant cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him\nall her attention as he walked by her side escorting the ladies out of\nthe room. Finally all three passed unnoticed through the glass doors in\nthe gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silently in the noise of the\nsala checked himself to look after them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoud\nhad seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the Casa\nGould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane\naccentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso\nthrown forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the\npugnacious outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the\nbluish shaven cheeks (a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a\nparty of unconverted Indians), suggested something unlawful behind his\npriesthood, the idea of a chaplain of bandits.\n\nHe separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake\nhis finger at Martin.\n\nDecoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far.\nHe had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of\nnot quite genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game\nof children. He gazed quietly at the threatening finger.\n\n\"I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special\nsermon on the Plaza,\" he said, without making the slightest movement.\n\n\"What miserable nonsense!\" Father Corbelan's deep voice resounded all\nover the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. \"The man is a\ndrunkard. Senores, the God of your General is a bottle!\"\n\nHis contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every\nsound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by\na blow. But nobody took up Father Corbelan's declaration.\n\nIt was known that Father Corbelan had come out of the wilds to advocate\nthe sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness\nwith which he had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid\nof human compassion or worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary\nproportions told of his successes as a missionary beyond the eye of\nChristian men. He had baptized whole nations of Indians, living with\nthem like a savage himself. It was related that the padre used to ride\nwith his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide shield,\nand, no doubt, a long lance, too--who knows? That he had wandered\nclothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of\nthe Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelan himself was never known\nto talk. But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of\nSta. Marta had harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen\nto whom he had carried the word of God. His injudicious zeal for the\ntemporal welfare of the Church was damaging the Ribierist cause. It was\ncommon knowledge that he had refused to be made titular bishop of the\nOccidental diocese till justice was done to a despoiled Church. The\npolitical Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain Mitchell saved\nfrom the mob afterwards) hinted with naive cynicism that doubtless their\nExcellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to Sulaco\nin the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen\nto death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy\nmuleteers--men inured to exposure--were known to perish in that way. But\nwhat would you have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what\na tough priest he was. Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur\nthat the Ribierist reforms meant simply the taking away of the land\nfrom the people. Some of it was to be given to foreigners who made the\nrailway; the greater part was to go to the padres.\n\nThese were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short\nallocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks\ncould have heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of\nan outraged Church waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The\npolitical Gefe had been exasperated. But he could not very well throw\nthe brother-in-law of Don Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief\nmagistrate, an easy-going and popular official, visited the Casa\nGould, walking over after sunset from the Intendencia, unattended,\nacknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations of high and low\nalike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould and had\nhissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar\nout of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for\ninstance. \"The one without water preferably--eh, Don Carlos?\" he had\nadded in a tone between jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest,\nwho had rejected his offer of the episcopal palace for a residence and\npreferred to hang his shabby hammock amongst the rubble and spiders of\nthe sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken into his head to advocate\nan unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And this was not\nenough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most\naudacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police\nknew, of course, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had got hold of that\nreckless Italian, the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such\nan errand, and had sent a message through him. Father Corbelan had\nstudied in Rome, and could speak Italian. The Capataz was known to visit\nthe old Dominican Convent at night. An old woman who served the Grand\nVicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced; and only last Saturday\nafternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of town. He did\nnot return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by the\nheels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of\nmen, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern\nSulaco. Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the\npockets of the railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father\nCorbelan's discourses. And the first magistrate explained to Charles\nGould that now the province was stripped of troops any outbreak of\nlawlessness would find the authorities with their boots off, as it were.\n\nThen he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin\ncigar, not very far from Don Jose, with whom, bending over sideways, he\nexchanged a few words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the\npriest, and whenever Father Corbelan's voice was raised behind him, he\nshrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\nFather Corbelan had remained quite motionless for a time with that\nsomething vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all\nhis attitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar\naspect to the black figure. But its fierceness became softened as the\npadre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud, raised his long, black arm slowly,\nimpressively--\n\n\"And you--you are a perfect heathen,\" he said, in a subdued, deep voice.\n\nHe made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast.\nDecoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his\nhead. Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled.\n\n\"Very well,\" he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well\nused to these passages. \"But is it perhaps that you have not discovered\nyet what is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our\nBarrios.\"\n\nThe priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. \"You believe neither\nin stick nor stone,\" he said.\n\n\"Nor bottle,\" added Decoud without stirring. \"Neither does the other of\nyour reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores.\nHe does not drink. Your reading of my character does honour to your\nperspicacity. But why call me a heathen?\"\n\n\"True,\" retorted the priest. \"You are ten times worse. A miracle could\nnot convert you.\"\n\n\"I certainly do not believe in miracles,\" said Decoud, quietly. Father\nCorbelan shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully.\n\n\"A sort of Frenchman--godless--a materialist,\" he pronounced slowly, as\nif weighing the terms of a careful analysis. \"Neither the son of his own\ncountry nor of any other,\" he continued, thoughtfully.\n\n\"Scarcely human, in fact,\" Decoud commented under his breath, his head\nat rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.\n\n\"The victim of this faithless age,\" Father Corbelan resumed in a deep\nbut subdued voice.\n\n\"But of some use as a journalist.\" Decoud changed his pose and spoke\nin a more animated tone. \"Has your worship neglected to read the last\nnumber of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On\nthe general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and\nstigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey\nand spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the\nProvincial Government to enlist bodily into the national army the band\nof Hernandez the Robber--who is apparently the protege of the Church--or\nat least of the Grand Vicar. Nothing could be more sound.\"\n\nThe priest nodded and turned on the heels of his square-toed shoes with\nbig steel buckles. Again, with his hands clasped behind his back, he\npaced to and fro, planting his feet firmly. When he swung about, the\nskirt of his soutane was inflated slightly by the brusqueness of his\nmovements.\n\nThe great sala had been emptying itself slowly. When the Gefe Politico\nrose to go, most of those still remaining stood up suddenly in sign of\nrespect, and Don Jose Avellanos stopped the rocking of his chair. But\nthe good-natured First Official made a deprecatory gesture, waved his\nhand to Charles Gould, and went out discreetly.\n\nIn the comparative peace of the room the screaming \"Monsieur\nl'Administrateur\" of the frail, hairy Frenchman seemed to acquire a\npreternatural shrillness. The explorer of the Capitalist syndicate was\nstill enthusiastic. \"Ten million dollars' worth of copper practically in\nsight, Monsieur l'Administrateur. Ten millions in sight! And a railway\ncoming--a railway! They will never believe my report. C'est trop beau.\"\nHe fell a prey to a screaming ecstasy, in the midst of sagely nodding\nheads, before Charles Gould's imperturbable calm.\n\nAnd only the priest continued his pacing, flinging round the skirt of\nhis soutane at each end of his beat. Decoud murmured to him ironically:\n\"Those gentlemen talk about their gods.\"\n\nFather Corbelan stopped short, looked at the journalist of Sulaco\nfixedly for a moment, shrugged his shoulders slightly, and resumed his\nplodding walk of an obstinate traveller.\n\nAnd now the Europeans were dropping off from the group around Charles\nGould till the Administrador of the Great Silver Mine could be seen in\nhis whole lank length, from head to foot, left stranded by the\nebbing tide of his guests on the great square of carpet, as it were a\nmulti-coloured shoal of flowers and arabesques under his brown boots.\nFather Corbelan approached the rocking-chair of Don Jose Avellanos.\n\n\"Come, brother,\" he said, with kindly brusqueness and a touch of\nrelieved impatience a man may feel at the end of a perfectly useless\nceremony. \"A la Casa! A la Casa! This has been all talk. Let us now go\nand think and pray for guidance from Heaven.\"\n\nHe rolled his black eyes upwards. By the side of the frail\ndiplomatist--the life and soul of the party--he seemed gigantic, with\na gleam of fanaticism in the glance. But the voice of the party, or,\nrather, its mouthpiece, the \"son Decoud\" from Paris, turned journalist\nfor the sake of Antonia's eyes, knew very well that it was not so, that\nhe was only a strenuous priest with one idea, feared by the women and\nexecrated by the men of the people. Martin Decoud, the dilettante in\nlife, imagined himself to derive an artistic pleasure from watching\nthe picturesque extreme of wrongheadedness into which an honest,\nalmost sacred, conviction may drive a man. \"It is like madness. It must\nbe--because it's self-destructive,\" Decoud had said to himself often.\nIt seemed to him that every conviction, as soon as it became effective,\nturned into that form of dementia the gods send upon those they wish to\ndestroy. But he enjoyed the bitter flavour of that example with the zest\nof a connoisseur in the art of his choice. Those two men got on well\ntogether, as if each had felt respectively that a masterful conviction,\nas well as utter scepticism, may lead a man very far on the by-paths of\npolitical action.\n\nDon Jose obeyed the touch of the big hairy hand. Decoud followed out the\nbrothers-in-law. And there remained only one visitor in the vast empty\nsala, bluishly hazy with tobacco smoke, a heavy-eyed, round-cheeked man,\nwith a drooping moustache, a hide merchant from Esmeralda, who had come\noverland to Sulaco, riding with a few peons across the coast range.\nHe was very full of his journey, undertaken mostly for the purpose\nof seeing the Senor Administrador of San Tome in relation to some\nassistance he required in his hide-exporting business. He hoped to\nenlarge it greatly now that the country was going to be settled. It was\ngoing to be settled, he repeated several times, degrading by a strange,\nanxious whine the sonority of the Spanish language, which he pattered\nrapidly, like some sort of cringing jargon. A plain man could carry\non his little business now in the country, and even think of enlarging\nit--with safety. Was it not so? He seemed to beg Charles Gould for a\nconfirmatory word, a grunt of assent, a simple nod even.\n\nHe could get nothing. His alarm increased, and in the pauses he would\ndart his eyes here and there; then, loth to give up, he would branch\noff into feeling allusion to the dangers of his journey. The audacious\nHernandez, leaving his usual haunts, had crossed the Campo of Sulaco,\nand was known to be lurking in the ravines of the coast range.\nYesterday, when distant only a few hours from Sulaco, the hide merchant\nand his servants had seen three men on the road arrested suspiciously,\nwith their horses' heads together. Two of these rode off at once and\ndisappeared in a shallow quebrada to the left. \"We stopped,\" continued\nthe man from Esmeralda, \"and I tried to hide behind a small bush. But\nnone of my mozos would go forward to find out what it meant, and the\nthird horseman seemed to be waiting for us to come up. It was no use. We\nhad been seen. So we rode slowly on, trembling. He let us pass--a man on\na grey horse with his hat down on his eyes--without a word of greeting;\nbut by-and-by we heard him galloping after us. We faced about, but that\ndid not seem to intimidate him. He rode up at speed, and touching\nmy foot with the toe of his boot, asked me for a cigar, with a\nblood-curdling laugh. He did not seem armed, but when he put his hand\nback to reach for the matches I saw an enormous revolver strapped to his\nwaist. I shuddered. He had very fierce whiskers, Don Carlos, and as he\ndid not offer to go on we dared not move. At last, blowing the smoke of\nmy cigar into the air through his nostrils, he said, 'Senor, it would be\nperhaps better for you if I rode behind your party. You are not very far\nfrom Sulaco now. Go you with God.' What would you? We went on. There\nwas no resisting him. He might have been Hernandez himself; though my\nservant, who has been many times to Sulaco by sea, assured me that he\nhad recognized him very well for the Capataz of the Steamship Company's\nCargadores. Later, that same evening, I saw that very man at the corner\nof the Plaza talking to a girl, a Morenita, who stood by the stirrup\nwith her hand on the grey horse's mane.\"\n\n\"I assure you, Senor Hirsch,\" murmured Charles Gould, \"that you ran no\nrisk on this occasion.\"\n\n\"That may be, senor, though I tremble yet. A most fierce man--to look\nat. And what does it mean? A person employed by the Steamship Company\ntalking with salteadores--no less, senor; the other horsemen were\nsalteadores--in a lonely place, and behaving like a robber himself! A\ncigar is nothing, but what was there to prevent him asking me for my\npurse?\"\n\n\"No, no, Senor Hirsch,\" Charles Gould murmured, letting his glance\nstray away a little vacantly from the round face, with its hooked beak\nupturned towards him in an almost childlike appeal. \"If it was the\nCapataz de Cargadores you met--and there is no doubt, is there?--you\nwere perfectly safe.\"\n\n\"Thank you. You are very good. A very fierce-looking man, Don Carlos. He\nasked me for a cigar in a most familiar manner. What would have happened\nif I had not had a cigar? I shudder yet. What business had he to be\ntalking with robbers in a lonely place?\"\n\nBut Charles Gould, openly preoccupied now, gave not a sign, made no\nsound. The impenetrability of the embodied Gould Concession had its\nsurface shades. To be dumb is merely a fatal affliction; but the King\nof Sulaco had words enough to give him all the mysterious weight of a\ntaciturn force. His silences, backed by the power of speech, had as many\nshades of significance as uttered words in the way of assent, of doubt,\nof negation--even of simple comment. Some seemed to say plainly, \"Think\nit over\"; others meant clearly, \"Go ahead\"; a simple, low \"I see,\" with\nan affirmative nod, at the end of a patient listening half-hour was\nthe equivalent of a verbal contract, which men had learned to trust\nimplicitly, since behind it all there was the great San Tome mine, the\nhead and front of the material interests, so strong that it depended\non no man's goodwill in the whole length and breadth of the Occidental\nProvince--that is, on no goodwill which it could not buy ten times\nover. But to the little hook-nosed man from Esmeralda, anxious about\nthe export of hides, the silence of Charles Gould portended a failure.\nEvidently this was no time for extending a modest man's business. He\nenveloped in a swift mental malediction the whole country, with all\nits inhabitants, partisans of Ribiera and Montero alike; and there were\nincipient tears in his mute anger at the thought of the innumerable\nox-hides going to waste upon the dreamy expanse of the Campo, with its\nsingle palms rising like ships at sea within the perfect circle of the\nhorizon, its clumps of heavy timber motionless like solid islands\nof leaves above the running waves of grass. There were hides there,\nrotting, with no profit to anybody--rotting where they had been dropped\nby men called away to attend the urgent necessities of political\nrevolutions. The practical, mercantile soul of Senor Hirsch rebelled\nagainst all that foolishness, while he was taking a respectful but\ndisconcerted leave of the might and majesty of the San Tome mine in the\nperson of Charles Gould. He could not restrain a heart-broken murmur,\nwrung out of his very aching heart, as it were.\n\n\"It is a great, great foolishness, Don Carlos, all this. The price of\nhides in Hamburg is gone up--up. Of course the Ribierist Government will\ndo away with all that--when it gets established firmly. Meantime--\"\n\nHe sighed.\n\n\"Yes, meantime,\" repeated Charles Gould, inscrutably.\n\nThe other shrugged his shoulders. But he was not ready to go yet. There\nwas a little matter he would like to mention very much if permitted. It\nappeared he had some good friends in Hamburg (he murmured the name\nof the firm) who were very anxious to do business, in dynamite, he\nexplained. A contract for dynamite with the San Tome mine, and then,\nperhaps, later on, other mines, which were sure to--The little man from\nEsmeralda was ready to enlarge, but Charles interrupted him. It seemed\nas though the patience of the Senor Administrador was giving way at\nlast.\n\n\"Senor Hirsch,\" he said, \"I have enough dynamite stored up at the\nmountain to send it down crashing into the valley\"--his voice rose a\nlittle--\"to send half Sulaco into the air if I liked.\"\n\nCharles Gould smiled at the round, startled eyes of the dealer in hides,\nwho was murmuring hastily, \"Just so. Just so.\" And now he was going.\nIt was impossible to do business in explosives with an Administrador so\nwell provided and so discouraging. He had suffered agonies in the saddle\nand had exposed himself to the atrocities of the bandit Hernandez for\nnothing at all. Neither hides nor dynamite--and the very shoulders of\nthe enterprising Israelite expressed dejection. At the door he bowed low\nto the engineer-in-chief. But at the bottom of the stairs in the patio\nhe stopped short, with his podgy hand over his lips in an attitude of\nmeditative astonishment.\n\n\"What does he want to keep so much dynamite for?\" he muttered. \"And why\ndoes he talk like this to me?\"\n\nThe engineer-in-chief, looking in at the door of the empty sala, whence\nthe political tide had ebbed out to the last insignificant drop, nodded\nfamiliarly to the master of the house, standing motionless like a tall\nbeacon amongst the deserted shoals of furniture.\n\n\"Good-night, I am going. Got my bike downstairs. The railway will know\nwhere to go for dynamite should we get short at any time. We have done\ncutting and chopping for a while now. We shall begin soon to blast our\nway through.\"\n\n\"Don't come to me,\" said Charles Gould, with perfect serenity. \"I\nshan't have an ounce to spare for anybody. Not an ounce. Not for my own\nbrother, if I had a brother, and he were the engineer-in-chief of the\nmost promising railway in the world.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" asked the engineer-in-chief, with equanimity.\n\"Unkindness?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Charles Gould, stolidly. \"Policy.\"\n\n\"Radical, I should think,\" the engineer-in-chief observed from the\ndoorway.\n\n\"Is that the right name?\" Charles Gould said, from the middle of the\nroom.\n\n\"I mean, going to the roots, you know,\" the engineer explained, with an\nair of enjoyment.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" Charles pronounced, slowly. \"The Gould Concession has struck\nsuch deep roots in this country, in this province, in that gorge of the\nmountains, that nothing but dynamite shall be allowed to dislodge it\nfrom there. It's my choice. It's my last card to play.\"\n\nThe engineer-in-chief whistled low. \"A pretty game,\" he said, with a\nshade of discretion. \"And have you told Holroyd of that extraordinary\ntrump card you hold in your hand?\"\n\n\"Card only when it's played; when it falls at the end of the game. Till\nthen you may call it a--a--\"\n\n\"Weapon,\" suggested the railway man.\n\n\"No. You may call it rather an argument,\" corrected Charles Gould,\ngently. \"And that's how I've presented it to Mr. Holroyd.\"\n\n\"And what did he say to it?\" asked the engineer, with undisguised\ninterest.\n\n\"He\"--Charles Gould spoke after a slight pause--\"he said something\nabout holding on like grim death and putting our trust in God. I should\nimagine he must have been rather startled. But then\"--pursued the\nAdministrador of the San Tome mine--\"but then, he is very far away, you\nknow, and, as they say in this country, God is very high above.\"\n\nThe engineer's appreciative laugh died away down the stairs, where the\nMadonna with the Child on her arm seemed to look after his shaking broad\nback from her shallow niche.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nA profound stillness reigned in the Casa Gould. The master of the house,\nwalking along the corredor, opened the door of his room, and saw his\nwife sitting in a big armchair--his own smoking armchair--thoughtful,\ncontemplating her little shoes. And she did not raise her eyes when he\nwalked in.\n\n\"Tired?\" asked Charles Gould.\n\n\"A little,\" said Mrs. Gould. Still without looking up, she added with\nfeeling, \"There is an awful sense of unreality about all this.\"\n\nCharles Gould, before the long table strewn with papers, on which lay a\nhunting crop and a pair of spurs, stood looking at his wife: \"The heat\nand dust must have been awful this afternoon by the waterside,\" he\nmurmured, sympathetically. \"The glare on the water must have been simply\nterrible.\"\n\n\"One could close one's eyes to the glare,\" said Mrs. Gould. \"But, my\ndear Charley, it is impossible for me to close my eyes to our position;\nto this awful . . .\"\n\nShe raised her eyes and looked at her husband's face, from which all\nsign of sympathy or any other feeling had disappeared. \"Why don't you\ntell me something?\" she almost wailed.\n\n\"I thought you had understood me perfectly from the first,\" Charles\nGould said, slowly. \"I thought we had said all there was to say a long\ntime ago. There is nothing to say now. There were things to be done. We\nhave done them; we have gone on doing them. There is no going back now.\nI don't suppose that, even from the first, there was really any possible\nway back. And, what's more, we can't even afford to stand still.\"\n\n\"Ah, if one only knew how far you mean to go,\" said his wife inwardly\ntrembling, but in an almost playful tone.\n\n\"Any distance, any length, of course,\" was the answer, in a\nmatter-of-fact tone, which caused Mrs. Gould to make another effort to\nrepress a shudder.\n\nShe stood up, smiling graciously, and her little figure seemed to be\ndiminished still more by the heavy mass of her hair and the long train\nof her gown.\n\n\"But always to success,\" she said, persuasively.\n\nCharles Gould, enveloping her in the steely blue glance of his attentive\neyes, answered without hesitation--\n\n\"Oh, there is no alternative.\"\n\nHe put an immense assurance into his tone. As to the words, this was all\nthat his conscience would allow him to say.\n\nMrs. Gould's smile remained a shade too long upon her lips. She\nmurmured--\n\n\"I will leave you; I've a slight headache. The heat, the dust, were\nindeed--I suppose you are going back to the mine before the morning?\"\n\n\"At midnight,\" said Charles Gould. \"We are bringing down the silver\nto-morrow. Then I shall take three whole days off in town with you.\"\n\n\"Ah, you are going to meet the escort. I shall be on the balcony at five\no'clock to see you pass. Till then, good-bye.\"\n\nCharles Gould walked rapidly round the table, and, seizing her hands,\nbent down, pressing them both to his lips. Before he straightened\nhimself up again to his full height she had disengaged one to smooth his\ncheek with a light touch, as if he were a little boy.\n\n\"Try to get some rest for a couple of hours,\" she murmured, with a\nglance at a hammock stretched in a distant part of the room. Her long\ntrain swished softly after her on the red tiles. At the door she looked\nback.\n\nTwo big lamps with unpolished glass globes bathed in a soft and abundant\nlight the four white walls of the room, with a glass case of arms, the\nbrass hilt of Henry Gould's cavalry sabre on its square of velvet, and\nthe water-colour sketch of the San Tome gorge. And Mrs. Gould, gazing at\nthe last in its black wooden frame, sighed out--\n\n\"Ah, if we had left it alone, Charley!\"\n\n\"No,\" Charles Gould said, moodily; \"it was impossible to leave it\nalone.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was impossible,\" Mrs. Gould admitted, slowly. Her lips\nquivered a little, but she smiled with an air of dainty bravado. \"We\nhave disturbed a good many snakes in that Paradise, Charley, haven't\nwe?\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember,\" said Charles Gould, \"it was Don Pepe who called the\ngorge the Paradise of snakes. No doubt we have disturbed a great many.\nBut remember, my dear, that it is not now as it was when you made that\nsketch.\" He waved his hand towards the small water-colour hanging alone\nupon the great bare wall. \"It is no longer a Paradise of snakes. We have\nbrought mankind into it, and we cannot turn our backs upon them to go\nand begin a new life elsewhere.\"\n\nHe confronted his wife with a firm, concentrated gaze, which Mrs. Gould\nreturned with a brave assumption of fearlessness before she went out,\nclosing the door gently after her.\n\nIn contrast with the white glaring room the dimly lit corredor had a\nrestful mysteriousness of a forest glade, suggested by the stems and the\nleaves of the plants ranged along the balustrade of the open side.\nIn the streaks of light falling through the open doors of the\nreception-rooms, the blossoms, white and red and pale lilac, came out\nvivid with the brilliance of flowers in a stream of sunshine; and Mrs.\nGould, passing on, had the vividness of a figure seen in the clear\npatches of sun that chequer the gloom of open glades in the woods. The\nstones in the rings upon her hand pressed to her forehead glittered in\nthe lamplight abreast of the door of the sala.\n\n\"Who's there?\" she asked, in a startled voice. \"Is that you, Basilio?\"\nShe looked in, and saw Martin Decoud walking about, with an air of\nhaving lost something, amongst the chairs and tables.\n\n\"Antonia has forgotten her fan in here,\" said Decoud, with a strange air\nof distraction; \"so I entered to see.\"\n\nBut, even as he said this, he had obviously given up his search, and\nwalked straight towards Mrs. Gould, who looked at him with doubtful\nsurprise.\n\n\"Senora,\" he began, in a low voice.\n\n\"What is it, Don Martin?\" asked Mrs. Gould. And then she added, with a\nslight laugh, \"I am so nervous to-day,\" as if to explain the eagerness\nof the question.\n\n\"Nothing immediately dangerous,\" said Decoud, who now could not conceal\nhis agitation. \"Pray don't distress yourself. No, really, you must not\ndistress yourself.\"\n\nMrs. Gould, with her candid eyes very wide open, her lips composed into\na smile, was steadying herself with a little bejewelled hand against the\nside of the door.\n\n\"Perhaps you don't know how alarming you are, appearing like this\nunexpectedly--\"\n\n\"I! Alarming!\" he protested, sincerely vexed and surprised. \"I assure\nyou that I am not in the least alarmed myself. A fan is lost; well,\nit will be found again. But I don't think it is here. It is a fan I am\nlooking for. I cannot understand how Antonia could--Well! Have you found\nit, amigo?\"\n\n\"No, senor,\" said behind Mrs. Gould the soft voice of Basilio, the head\nservant of the Casa. \"I don't think the senorita could have left it in\nthis house at all.\"\n\n\"Go and look for it in the patio again. Go now, my friend; look for it\non the steps, under the gate; examine every flagstone; search for it\ntill I come down again. . . . That fellow\"--he addressed himself in\nEnglish to Mrs. Gould--\"is always stealing up behind one's back on his\nbare feet. I set him to look for that fan directly I came in to justify\nmy reappearance, my sudden return.\"\n\nHe paused and Mrs. Gould said, amiably, \"You are always welcome.\" She\npaused for a second, too. \"But I am waiting to learn the cause of your\nreturn.\"\n\nDecoud affected suddenly the utmost nonchalance.\n\n\"I can't bear to be spied upon. Oh, the cause? Yes, there is a cause;\nthere is something else that is lost besides Antonia's favourite fan. As\nI was walking home after seeing Don Jose and Antonia to their house, the\nCapataz de Cargadores, riding down the street, spoke to me.\"\n\n\"Has anything happened to the Violas?\" inquired Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"The Violas? You mean the old Garibaldino who keeps the hotel where\nthe engineers live? Nothing happened there. The Capataz said nothing\nof them; he only told me that the telegraphist of the Cable Company was\nwalking on the Plaza, bareheaded, looking out for me. There is news from\nthe interior, Mrs. Gould. I should rather say rumours of news.\"\n\n\"Good news?\" said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.\n\n\"Worthless, I should think. But if I must define them, I would say bad.\nThey are to the effect that a two days' battle had been fought near Sta.\nMarta, and that the Ribierists are defeated. It must have happened a few\ndays ago--perhaps a week. The rumour has just reached Cayta, and the\nman in charge of the cable station there has telegraphed the news to his\ncolleague here. We might just as well have kept Barrios in Sulaco.\"\n\n\"What's to be done now?\" murmured Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"Nothing. He's at sea with the troops. He will get to Cayta in a couple\nof days' time and learn the news there. What he will do then, who can\nsay? Hold Cayta? Offer his submission to Montero? Disband his army--this\nlast most likely, and go himself in one of the O.S.N. Company's\nsteamers, north or south--to Valparaiso or to San Francisco, no matter\nwhere. Our Barrios has a great practice in exiles and repatriations,\nwhich mark the points in the political game.\"\n\nDecoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs. Gould, added, tentatively,\nas it were, \"And yet, if we had could have been done.\"\n\n\"Montero victorious, completely victorious!\" Mrs. Gould breathed out in\na tone of unbelief.\n\n\"A canard, probably. That sort of bird is hatched in great numbers in\nsuch times as these. And even if it were true? Well, let us put things\nat their worst, let us say it is true.\"\n\n\"Then everything is lost,\" said Mrs. Gould, with the calmness of\ndespair.\n\nSuddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed to see Decoud's tremendous\nexcitement under its cloak of studied carelessness. It was, indeed,\nbecoming visible in his audacious and watchful stare, in the curve,\nhalf-reckless, half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French phrase came\nupon them as if, for this Costaguanero of the Boulevard, that had been\nthe only forcible language--\n\n\"_Non, Madame. Rien n'est perdu_.\"\n\nIt electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbed attitude, and she said,\nvivaciously--\n\n\"What would you think of doing?\"\n\nBut already there was something of mockery in Decoud's suppressed\nexcitement.\n\n\"What would you expect a true Costaguanero to do? Another revolution, of\ncourse. On my word of honour, Mrs. Gould, I believe I am a true _hijo del\npays_, a true son of the country, whatever Father Corbelan may say. And\nI'm not so much of an unbeliever as not to have faith in my own ideas,\nin my own remedies, in my own desires.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.\n\n\"You don't seem convinced,\" Decoud went on again in French. \"Say, then,\nin my passions.\"\n\nMrs. Gould received this addition unflinchingly. To understand it\nthoroughly she did not require to hear his muttered assurance--\n\n\"There is nothing I would not do for the sake of Antonia. There is\nnothing I am not prepared to undertake. There is no risk I am not ready\nto run.\"\n\nDecoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing of his thoughts.\n\"You would not believe me if I were to say that it is the love of the\ncountry which--\"\n\nShe made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm, as if to express\nthat she had given up expecting that motive from any one.\n\n\"A Sulaco revolution,\" Decoud pursued in a forcible undertone. \"The\nGreat Cause may be served here, on the very spot of its inception, in\nthe place of its birth, Mrs. Gould.\"\n\nFrowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she made a step away\nfrom the door.\n\n\"You are not going to speak to your husband?\" Decoud arrested her\nanxiously.\n\n\"But you will need his help?\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" Decoud admitted without hesitation. \"Everything turns upon\nthe San Tome mine, but I would rather he didn't know anything as yet of\nmy--my hopes.\"\n\nA puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould's face, and Decoud, approaching,\nexplained confidentially--\n\n\"Don't you see, he's such an idealist.\"\n\nMrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker at the same time.\n\n\"Charley an idealist!\" she said, as if to herself, wonderingly. \"What on\nearth do you mean?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" conceded Decoud, \"it's a wonderful thing to say with the sight\nof the San Tome mine, the greatest fact in the whole of South America,\nperhaps, before our very eyes. But look even at that, he has idealized\nthis fact to a point--\" He paused. \"Mrs. Gould, are you aware to what\npoint he has idealized the existence, the worth, the meaning of the San\nTome mine? Are you aware of it?\"\n\nHe must have known what he was talking about.\n\nThe effect he expected was produced. Mrs. Gould, ready to take fire,\ngave it up suddenly with a low little sound that resembled a moan.\n\n\"What do you know?\" she asked in a feeble voice.\n\n\"Nothing,\" answered Decoud, firmly. \"But, then, don't you see, he's an\nEnglishman?\"\n\n\"Well, what of that?\" asked Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing every simple\nfeeling, desire, or achievement. He could not believe his own motives if\nhe did not make them first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not\nquite good enough for him, I fear. Do you excuse my frankness? Besides,\nwhether you excuse it or not, it is part of the truth of things which\nhurts the--what do you call them?--the Anglo-Saxon's susceptibilities,\nand at the present moment I don't feel as if I could treat seriously\neither his conception of things or--if you allow me to say so--or yet\nyours.\"\n\nMrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. \"I suppose Antonia\nunderstands you thoroughly?\"\n\n\"Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure that she approves. That,\nhowever, makes no difference. I am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs.\nGould.\"\n\n\"Your idea, of course, is separation,\" she said.\n\n\"Separation, of course,\" declared Martin. \"Yes; separation of the whole\nOccidental Province from the rest of the unquiet body. But my true idea,\nthe only one I care for, is not to be separated from Antonia.\"\n\n\"And that is all?\" asked Mrs. Gould, without severity.\n\n\"Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself about my motives. She won't leave\nSulaco for my sake, therefore Sulaco must leave the rest of the Republic\nto its fate. Nothing could be clearer than that. I like a clearly\ndefined situation. I cannot part with Antonia, therefore the one and\nindivisible Republic of Costaguana must be made to part with its western\nprovince. Fortunately it happens to be also a sound policy. The\nrichest, the most fertile part of this land may be saved from anarchy.\nPersonally, I care little, very little; but it's a fact that the\nestablishment of Montero in power would mean death to me. In all the\nproclamations of general pardon which I have seen, my name, with a few\nothers, is specially excepted. The brothers hate me, as you know very\nwell, Mrs. Gould; and behold, here is the rumour of them having won a\nbattle. You say that supposing it is true, I have plenty of time to run\naway.\"\n\nThe slight, protesting murmur on the part of Mrs. Gould made him pause\nfor a moment, while he looked at her with a sombre and resolute glance.\n\n\"Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would run away if it served that which\nat present is my only desire. I am courageous enough to say that, and to\ndo it, too. But women, even our women, are idealists. It is Antonia that\nwon't run away. A novel sort of vanity.\"\n\n\"You call it vanity,\" said Mrs. Gould, in a shocked voice.\n\n\"Say pride, then, which Father Corbelan would tell you, is a mortal\nsin. But I am not proud. I am simply too much in love to run away. At\nthe same time I want to live. There is no love for a dead man. Therefore\nit is necessary that Sulaco should not recognize the victorious\nMontero.\"\n\n\"And you think my husband will give you his support?\"\n\n\"I think he can be drawn into it, like all idealists, when he once sees\na sentimental basis for his action. But I wouldn't talk to him. Mere\nclear facts won't appeal to his sentiment. It is much better for him\nto convince himself in his own way. And, frankly, I could not, perhaps,\njust now pay sufficient respect to either his motives or even, perhaps,\nto yours, Mrs. Gould.\"\n\nIt was evident that Mrs. Gould was very determined not to be offended.\nShe smiled vaguely, while she seemed to think the matter over. As far\nas she could judge from the girl's half-confidences, Antonia understood\nthat young man. Obviously there was promise of safety in his plan, or\nrather in his idea. Moreover, right or wrong, the idea could do no harm.\nAnd it was quite possible, also, that the rumour was false.\n\n\"You have some sort of a plan,\" she said.\n\n\"Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him go on then; he will\nhold Cayta, which is the door of the sea route to Sulaco. They cannot\nsend a sufficient force over the mountains. No; not even to cope with\nthe band of Hernandez. Meantime we shall organize our resistance here.\nAnd for that, this very Hernandez will be useful. He has defeated troops\nas a bandit; he will no doubt accomplish the same thing if he is made\na colonel or even a general. You know the country well enough not to\nbe shocked by what I say, Mrs. Gould. I have heard you assert that this\npoor bandit was the living, breathing example of cruelty, injustice,\nstupidity, and oppression, that ruin men's souls as well as their\nfortunes in this country. Well, there would be some poetical retribution\nin that man arising to crush the evils which had driven an honest\nranchero into a life of crime. A fine idea of retribution in that, isn't\nthere?\"\n\nDecoud had dropped easily into English, which he spoke with precision,\nvery correctly, but with too many z sounds.\n\n\"Think also of your hospitals, of your schools, of your ailing mothers\nand feeble old men, of all that population which you and your husband\nhave brought into the rocky gorge of San Tome. Are you not responsible\nto your conscience for all these people? Is it not worth while to make\nanother effort, which is not at all so desperate as it looks, rather\nthan--\"\n\nDecoud finished his thought with an upward toss of the arm, suggesting\nannihilation; and Mrs. Gould turned away her head with a look of horror.\n\n\"Why don't you say all this to my husband?\" she asked, without looking\nat Decoud, who stood watching the effect of his words.\n\n\"Ah! But Don Carlos is so English,\" he began. Mrs. Gould interrupted--\n\n\"Leave that alone, Don Martin. He's as much a Costaguanero--No! He's\nmore of a Costaguanero than yourself.\"\n\n\"Sentimentalist, sentimentalist,\" Decoud almost cooed, in a tone of\ngentle and soothing deference. \"Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner\nof your people. I have been watching El Rey de Sulaco since I came here\non a fool's errand, and perhaps impelled by some treason of fate lurking\nbehind the unaccountable turns of a man's life. But I don't matter, I am\nnot a sentimentalist, I cannot endow my personal desires with a shining\nrobe of silk and jewels. Life is not for me a moral romance derived from\nthe tradition of a pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am practical. I\nam not afraid of my motives. But, pardon me, I have been rather carried\naway. What I wish to say is that I have been observing. I won't tell you\nwhat I have discovered--\"\n\n\"No. That is unnecessary,\" whispered Mrs. Gould, once more averting her\nhead.\n\n\"It is. Except one little fact, that your husband does not like me.\nIt's a small matter, which, in the circumstances, seems to acquire a\nperfectly ridiculous importance. Ridiculous and immense; for, clearly,\nmoney is required for my plan,\" he reflected; then added, meaningly,\n\"and we have two sentimentalists to deal with.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I understand you, Don Martin,\" said Mrs. Gould,\ncoldly, preserving the low key of their conversation. \"But, speaking as\nif I did, who is the other?\"\n\n\"The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,\" Decoud whispered,\nlightly. \"I think you understand me very well. Women are idealists; but\nthen they are so perspicacious.\"\n\nBut whatever was the reason of that remark, disparaging and\ncomplimentary at the same time, Mrs. Gould seemed not to pay attention\nto it. The name of Holroyd had given a new tone to her anxiety.\n\n\"The silver escort is coming down to the harbour tomorrow; a whole six\nmonths' working, Don Martin!\" she cried in dismay.\n\n\"Let it come down, then,\" breathed out Decoud, earnestly, almost into\nher ear.\n\n\"But if the rumour should get about, and especially if it turned out\ntrue, troubles might break out in the town,\" objected Mrs. Gould.\n\nDecoud admitted that it was possible. He knew well the town children\nof the Sulaco Campo: sullen, thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty,\nwhatever great qualities their brothers of the plain might have had.\nBut then there was that other sentimentalist, who attached a strangely\nidealistic meaning to concrete facts. This stream of silver must be kept\nflowing north to return in the form of financial backing from the great\nhouse of Holroyd. Up at the mountain in the strong room of the mine\nthe silver bars were worth less for his purpose than so much lead, from\nwhich at least bullets may be run. Let it come down to the harbour,\nready for shipment.\n\nThe next north-going steamer would carry it off for the very salvation\nof the San Tome mine, which had produced so much treasure. And,\nmoreover, the rumour was probably false, he remarked, with much\nconviction in his hurried tone.\n\n\"Besides, senora,\" concluded Decoud, \"we may suppress it for many days.\nI have been talking with the telegraphist in the middle of the Plaza\nMayor; thus I am certain that we could not have been overheard. There\nwas not even a bird in the air near us. And also let me tell you\nsomething more. I have been making friends with this man called\nNostromo, the Capataz. We had a conversation this very evening, I\nwalking by the side of his horse as he rode slowly out of the town just\nnow. He promised me that if a riot took place for any reason--even\nfor the most political of reasons, you understand--his Cargadores, an\nimportant part of the populace, you will admit, should be found on the\nside of the Europeans.\"\n\n\"He has promised you that?\" Mrs. Gould inquired, with interest. \"What\nmade him make that promise to you?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I don't know,\" declared Decoud, in a slightly surprised\ntone. \"He certainly promised me that, but now you ask me why, I could\nnot tell you his reasons. He talked with his usual carelessness, which,\nif he had been anything else but a common sailor, I would call a pose or\nan affectation.\"\n\nDecoud, interrupting himself, looked at Mrs. Gould curiously.\n\n\"Upon the whole,\" he continued, \"I suppose he expects something to his\nadvantage from it. You mustn't forget that he does not exercise his\nextraordinary power over the lower classes without a certain amount of\npersonal risk and without a great profusion in spending his money.\nOne must pay in some way or other for such a solid thing as individual\nprestige. He told me after we made friends at a dance, in a Posada kept\nby a Mexican just outside the walls, that he had come here to make his\nfortune. I suppose he looks upon his prestige as a sort of investment.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he prizes it for its own sake,\" Mrs. Gould said in a tone as\nif she were repelling an undeserved aspersion. \"Viola, the Garibaldino,\nwith whom he has lived for some years, calls him the Incorruptible.\"\n\n\"Ah! he belongs to the group of your proteges out there towards the\nharbour, Mrs. Gould. Muy bien. And Captain Mitchell calls him wonderful.\nI have heard no end of tales of his strength, his audacity, his\nfidelity. No end of fine things. H'm! incorruptible! It is indeed a name\nof honour for the Capataz of the Cargadores of Sulaco. Incorruptible!\nFine, but vague. However, I suppose he's sensible, too. And I talked to\nhim upon that sane and practical assumption.\"\n\n\"I prefer to think him disinterested, and therefore trustworthy,\" Mrs.\nGould said, with the nearest approach to curtness it was in her nature\nto assume.\n\n\"Well, if so, then the silver will be still more safe. Let it come down,\nsenora. Let it come down, so that it may go north and return to us in\nthe shape of credit.\"\n\nMrs. Gould glanced along the corredor towards the door of her husband's\nroom. Decoud, watching her as if she had his fate in her hands, detected\nan almost imperceptible nod of assent. He bowed with a smile, and,\nputting his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a fan of\nlight feathers set upon painted leaves of sandal-wood. \"I had it in my\npocket,\" he murmured, triumphantly, \"for a plausible pretext.\" He bowed\nagain. \"Good-night, senora.\"\n\nMrs. Gould continued along the corredor away from her husband's room.\nThe fate of the San Tome mine was lying heavy upon her heart. It was a\nlong time now since she had begun to fear it. It had been an idea. She\nhad watched it with misgivings turning into a fetish, and now the\nfetish had grown into a monstrous and crushing weight. It was as if the\ninspiration of their early years had left her heart to turn into a wall\nof silver-bricks, erected by the silent work of evil spirits, between\nher and her husband. He seemed to dwell alone within a circumvallation\nof precious metal, leaving her outside with her school, her hospital,\nthe sick mothers and the feeble old men, mere insignificant vestiges of\nthe initial inspiration. \"Those poor people!\" she murmured to herself.\n\nBelow she heard the voice of Martin Decoud in the patio speaking loudly:\n\n\"I have found Dona Antonia's fan, Basilio. Look, here it is!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nIt was part of what Decoud would have called his sane materialism that\nhe did not believe in the possibility of friendship between man and\nwoman.\n\nThe one exception he allowed confirmed, he maintained, that absolute\nrule. Friendship was possible between brother and sister, meaning\nby friendship the frank unreserve, as before another human being, of\nthoughts and sensations; all the objectless and necessary sincerity of\none's innermost life trying to re-act upon the profound sympathies of\nanother existence.\n\nHis favourite sister, the handsome, slightly arbitrary and resolute\nangel, ruling the father and mother Decoud in the first-floor apartments\nof a very fine Parisian house, was the recipient of Martin Decoud's\nconfidences as to his thoughts, actions, purposes, doubts, and even\nfailures. . . .\n\n\"Prepare our little circle in Paris for the birth of another South\nAmerican Republic. One more or less, what does it matter? They may come\ninto the world like evil flowers on a hotbed of rotten institutions; but\nthe seed of this one has germinated in your brother's brain, and that\nwill be enough for your devoted assent. I am writing this to you by the\nlight of a single candle, in a sort of inn, near the harbour, kept by\nan Italian called Viola, a protege of Mrs. Gould. The whole building,\nwhich, for all I know, may have been contrived by a Conquistador farmer\nof the pearl fishery three hundred years ago, is perfectly silent. So is\nthe plain between the town and the harbour; silent, but not so dark as\nthe house, because the pickets of Italian workmen guarding the railway\nhave lighted little fires all along the line. It was not so quiet around\nhere yesterday. We had an awful riot--a sudden outbreak of the populace,\nwhich was not suppressed till late today. Its object, no doubt, was\nloot, and that was defeated, as you may have learned already from the\ncablegram sent via San Francisco and New York last night, when the\ncables were still open. You have read already there that the energetic\naction of the Europeans of the railway has saved the town from\ndestruction, and you may believe that. I wrote out the cable myself. We\nhave no Reuter's agency man here. I have also fired at the mob from the\nwindows of the club, in company with some other young men of position.\nOur object was to keep the Calle de la Constitucion clear for the exodus\nof the ladies and children, who have taken refuge on board a couple of\ncargo ships now in the harbour here. That was yesterday. You should also\nhave learned from the cable that the missing President, Ribiera, who had\ndisappeared after the battle of Sta. Marta, has turned up here in Sulaco\nby one of those strange coincidences that are almost incredible, riding\non a lame mule into the very midst of the street fighting. It appears\nthat he had fled, in company of a muleteer called Bonifacio, across the\nmountains from the threats of Montero into the arms of an enraged mob.\n\n\"The Capataz of Cargadores, that Italian sailor of whom I have written\nto you before, has saved him from an ignoble death. That man seems\nto have a particular talent for being on the spot whenever there is\nsomething picturesque to be done.\n\n\"He was with me at four o'clock in the morning at the offices of the\nPorvenir, where he had turned up so early in order to warn me of the\ncoming trouble, and also to assure me that he would keep his Cargadores\non the side of order. When the full daylight came we were looking\ntogether at the crowd on foot and on horseback, demonstrating on the\nPlaza and shying stones at the windows of the Intendencia. Nostromo\n(that is the name they call him by here) was pointing out to me his\nCargadores interspersed in the mob.\n\n\"The sun shines late upon Sulaco, for it has first to climb above the\nmountains. In that clear morning light, brighter than twilight, Nostromo\nsaw right across the vast Plaza, at the end of the street beyond the\ncathedral, a mounted man apparently in difficulties with a yelling knot\nof leperos. At once he said to me, 'That's a stranger. What is it they\nare doing to him?' Then he took out the silver whistle he is in the\nhabit of using on the wharf (this man seems to disdain the use of any\nmetal less precious than silver) and blew into it twice, evidently a\npreconcerted signal for his Cargadores. He ran out immediately, and they\nrallied round him. I ran out, too, but was too late to follow them and\nhelp in the rescue of the stranger, whose animal had fallen. I was set\nupon at once as a hated aristocrat, and was only too glad to get into\nthe club, where Don Jaime Berges (you may remember him visiting at\nour house in Paris some three years ago) thrust a sporting gun into\nmy hands. They were already firing from the windows. There were little\nheaps of cartridges lying about on the open card-tables. I remember a\ncouple of overturned chairs, some bottles rolling on the floor amongst\nthe packs of cards scattered suddenly as the caballeros rose from their\ngame to open fire upon the mob. Most of the young men had spent the\nnight at the club in the expectation of some such disturbance. In two of\nthe candelabra, on the consoles, the candles were burning down in their\nsockets. A large iron nut, probably stolen from the railway workshops,\nflew in from the street as I entered, and broke one of the large mirrors\nset in the wall. I noticed also one of the club servants tied up hand\nand foot with the cords of the curtain and flung in a corner. I have a\nvague recollection of Don Jaime assuring me hastily that the fellow had\nbeen detected putting poison into the dishes at supper. But I remember\ndistinctly he was shrieking for mercy, without stopping at all,\ncontinuously, and so absolutely disregarded that nobody even took the\ntrouble to gag him. The noise he made was so disagreeable that I had\nhalf a mind to do it myself. But there was no time to waste on such\ntrifles. I took my place at one of the windows and began firing.\n\n\"I didn't learn till later in the afternoon whom it was that Nostromo,\nwith his Cargadores and some Italian workmen as well, had managed to\nsave from those drunken rascals. That man has a peculiar talent when\nanything striking to the imagination has to be done. I made that remark\nto him afterwards when we met after some sort of order had been restored\nin the town, and the answer he made rather surprised me. He said quite\nmoodily, 'And how much do I get for that, senor?' Then it dawned upon me\nthat perhaps this man's vanity has been satiated by the adulation of the\ncommon people and the confidence of his superiors!\"\n\nDecoud paused to light a cigarette, then, with his head still over his\nwriting, he blew a cloud of smoke, which seemed to rebound from the\npaper. He took up the pencil again.\n\n\"That was yesterday evening on the Plaza, while he sat on the steps of\nthe cathedral, his hands between his knees, holding the bridle of his\nfamous silver-grey mare. He had led his body of Cargadores splendidly\nall day long. He looked fatigued. I don't know how I looked. Very\ndirty, I suppose. But I suppose I also looked pleased. From the time the\nfugitive President had been got off to the S. S. Minerva, the tide\nof success had turned against the mob. They had been driven off the\nharbour, and out of the better streets of the town, into their own\nmaze of ruins and tolderias. You must understand that this riot, whose\nprimary object was undoubtedly the getting hold of the San Tome silver\nstored in the lower rooms of the Custom House (besides the general\nlooting of the Ricos), had acquired a political colouring from the fact\nof two Deputies to the Provincial Assembly, Senores Gamacho and Fuentes,\nboth from Bolson, putting themselves at the head of it--late in the\nafternoon, it is true, when the mob, disappointed in their hopes of\nloot, made a stand in the narrow streets to the cries of 'Viva la\nLibertad! Down with Feudalism!' (I wonder what they imagine feudalism to\nbe?) 'Down with the Goths and Paralytics.' I suppose the Senores Gamacho\nand Fuentes knew what they were doing. They are prudent gentlemen.\nIn the Assembly they called themselves Moderates, and opposed every\nenergetic measure with philanthropic pensiveness. At the first rumours\nof Montero's victory, they showed a subtle change of the pensive temper,\nand began to defy poor Don Juste Lopez in his Presidential tribune\nwith an effrontery to which the poor man could only respond by a dazed\nsmoothing of his beard and the ringing of the presidential bell. Then,\nwhen the downfall of the Ribierist cause became confirmed beyond the\nshadow of a doubt, they have blossomed into convinced Liberals, acting\ntogether as if they were Siamese twins, and ultimately taking charge, as\nit were, of the riot in the name of Monterist principles.\n\n\"Their last move of eight o'clock last night was to organize themselves\ninto a Monterist Committee which sits, as far as I know, in a posada\nkept by a retired Mexican bull-fighter, a great politician, too, whose\nname I have forgotten. Thence they have issued a communication to\nus, the Goths and Paralytics of the Amarilla Club (who have our own\ncommittee), inviting us to come to some provisional understanding for a\ntruce, in order, they have the impudence to say, that the noble cause of\nLiberty 'should not be stained by the criminal excesses of Conservative\nselfishness!' As I came out to sit with Nostromo on the cathedral steps\nthe club was busy considering a proper reply in the principal room,\nlittered with exploded cartridges, with a lot of broken glass, blood\nsmears, candlesticks, and all sorts of wreckage on the floor. But all\nthis is nonsense. Nobody in the town has any real power except the\nrailway engineers, whose men occupy the dismantled houses acquired\nby the Company for their town station on one side of the Plaza, and\nNostromo, whose Cargadores were sleeping under the arcades along\nthe front of Anzani's shops. A fire of broken furniture out of the\nIntendencia saloons, mostly gilt, was burning on the Plaza, in a high\nflame swaying right upon the statue of Charles IV. The dead body of a\nman was lying on the steps of the pedestal, his arms thrown wide open,\nand his sombrero covering his face--the attention of some friend,\nperhaps. The light of the flames touched the foliage of the first trees\non the Alameda, and played on the end of a side street near by, blocked\nup by a jumble of ox-carts and dead bullocks. Sitting on one of the\ncarcasses, a lepero, muffled up, smoked a cigarette. It was a truce, you\nunderstand. The only other living being on the Plaza besides ourselves\nwas a Cargador walking to and fro, with a long, bare knife in his hand,\nlike a sentry before the Arcades, where his friends were sleeping. And\nthe only other spot of light in the dark town were the lighted windows\nof the club, at the corner of the Calle.\"\n\nAfter having written so far, Don Martin Decoud, the exotic dandy of the\nParisian boulevard, got up and walked across the sanded floor of the\ncafe at one end of the Albergo of United Italy, kept by Giorgio Viola,\nthe old companion of Garibaldi. The highly coloured lithograph of the\nFaithful Hero seemed to look dimly, in the light of one candle, at the\nman with no faith in anything except the truth of his own sensations.\nLooking out of the window, Decoud was met by a darkness so impenetrable\nthat he could see neither the mountains nor the town, nor yet the\nbuildings near the harbour; and there was not a sound, as if the\ntremendous obscurity of the Placid Gulf, spreading from the waters over\nthe land, had made it dumb as well as blind. Presently Decoud felt a\nlight tremor of the floor and a distant clank of iron. A bright white\nlight appeared, deep in the darkness, growing bigger with a thundering\nnoise. The rolling stock usually kept on the sidings in Rincon was being\nrun back to the yards for safe keeping. Like a mysterious stirring of\nthe darkness behind the headlight of the engine, the train passed in a\ngust of hollow uproar, by the end of the house, which seemed to vibrate\nall over in response. And nothing was clearly visible but, on the end\nof the last flat car, a negro, in white trousers and naked to the waist,\nswinging a blazing torch basket incessantly with a circular movement of\nhis bare arm. Decoud did not stir.\n\nBehind him, on the back of the chair from which he had risen, hung his\nelegant Parisian overcoat, with a pearl-grey silk lining. But when he\nturned back to come to the table the candlelight fell upon a face that\nwas grimy and scratched. His rosy lips were blackened with heat, the\nsmoke of gun-powder. Dirt and rust tarnished the lustre of his short\nbeard. His shirt collar and cuffs were crumpled; the blue silken tie\nhung down his breast like a rag; a greasy smudge crossed his white brow.\nHe had not taken off his clothing nor used water, except to snatch a\nhasty drink greedily, for some forty hours. An awful restlessness had\nmade him its own, had marked him with all the signs of desperate strife,\nand put a dry, sleepless stare into his eyes. He murmured to himself\nin a hoarse voice, \"I wonder if there's any bread here,\" looked vaguely\nabout him, then dropped into the chair and took the pencil up again. He\nbecame aware he had not eaten anything for many hours.\n\nIt occurred to him that no one could understand him so well as his\nsister. In the most sceptical heart there lurks at such moments, when\nthe chances of existence are involved, a desire to leave a correct\nimpression of the feelings, like a light by which the action may be seen\nwhen personality is gone, gone where no light of investigation can ever\nreach the truth which every death takes out of the world. Therefore,\ninstead of looking for something to eat, or trying to snatch an hour or\nso of sleep, Decoud was filling the pages of a large pocket-book with a\nletter to his sister.\n\nIn the intimacy of that intercourse he could not keep out his weariness,\nhis great fatigue, the close touch of his bodily sensations. He began\nagain as if he were talking to her. With almost an illusion of her\npresence, he wrote the phrase, \"I am very hungry.\"\n\n\"I have the feeling of a great solitude around me,\" he continued. \"Is\nit, perhaps, because I am the only man with a definite idea in his head,\nin the complete collapse of every resolve, intention, and hope about me?\nBut the solitude is also very real. All the engineers are out, and have\nbeen for two days, looking after the property of the National Central\nRailway, of that great Costaguana undertaking which is to put money into\nthe pockets of Englishmen, Frenchmen, Americans, Germans, and God knows\nwho else. The silence about me is ominous. There is above the middle\npart of this house a sort of first floor, with narrow openings like\nloopholes for windows, probably used in old times for the better\ndefence against the savages, when the persistent barbarism of our native\ncontinent did not wear the black coats of politicians, but went about\nyelling, half-naked, with bows and arrows in its hands. The woman of\nthe house is dying up there, I believe, all alone with her old husband.\nThere is a narrow staircase, the sort of staircase one man could easily\ndefend against a mob, leading up there, and I have just heard, through\nthe thickness of the wall, the old fellow going down into their kitchen\nfor something or other. It was a sort of noise a mouse might make behind\nthe plaster of a wall. All the servants they had ran away yesterday and\nhave not returned yet, if ever they do. For the rest, there are only two\nchildren here, two girls. The father has sent them downstairs, and\nthey have crept into this cafe, perhaps because I am here. They huddle\ntogether in a corner, in each other's arms; I just noticed them a few\nminutes ago, and I feel more lonely than ever.\"\n\nDecoud turned half round in his chair, and asked, \"Is there any bread\nhere?\"\n\nLinda's dark head was shaken negatively in response, above the fair head\nof her sister nestling on her breast.\n\n\"You couldn't get me some bread?\" insisted Decoud. The child did not\nmove; he saw her large eyes stare at him very dark from the corner.\n\"You're not afraid of me?\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" said Linda, \"we are not afraid of you. You came here with Gian'\nBattista.\"\n\n\"You mean Nostromo?\" said Decoud.\n\n\"The English call him so, but that is no name either for man or beast,\"\nsaid the girl, passing her hand gently over her sister's hair.\n\n\"But he lets people call him so,\" remarked Decoud.\n\n\"Not in this house,\" retorted the child.\n\n\"Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then.\"\n\nDecoud gave up the point, and after writing steadily for a while turned\nround again.\n\n\"When do you expect him back?\" he asked.\n\n\"After he brought you here he rode off to fetch the Senor Doctor from\nthe town for mother. He will be back soon.\"\n\n\"He stands a good chance of getting shot somewhere on the road,\" Decoud\nmurmured to himself audibly; and Linda declared in her high-pitched\nvoice--\n\n\"Nobody would dare to fire a shot at Gian' Battista.\"\n\n\"You believe that,\" asked Decoud, \"do you?\"\n\n\"I know it,\" said the child, with conviction. \"There is no one in this\nplace brave enough to attack Gian' Battista.\"\n\n\"It doesn't require much bravery to pull a trigger behind a bush,\"\nmuttered Decoud to himself. \"Fortunately, the night is dark, or there\nwould be but little chance of saving the silver of the mine.\"\n\nHe turned again to his pocket-book, glanced back through the pages, and\nagain started his pencil.\n\n\"That was the position yesterday, after the Minerva with the fugitive\nPresident had gone out of harbour, and the rioters had been driven back\ninto the side lanes of the town. I sat on the steps of the cathedral\nwith Nostromo, after sending out the cable message for the information\nof a more or less attentive world. Strangely enough, though the offices\nof the Cable Company are in the same building as the Porvenir, the mob,\nwhich has thrown my presses out of the window and scattered the type all\nover the Plaza, has been kept from interfering with the instruments\non the other side of the courtyard. As I sat talking with Nostromo,\nBernhardt, the telegraphist, came out from under the Arcades with a\npiece of paper in his hand. The little man had tied himself up to an\nenormous sword and was hung all over with revolvers. He is ridiculous,\nbut the bravest German of his size that ever tapped the key of a Morse\ntransmitter. He had received the message from Cayta reporting the\ntransports with Barrios's army just entering the port, and ending with\nthe words, 'The greatest enthusiasm prevails.' I walked off to drink\nsome water at the fountain, and I was shot at from the Alameda by\nsomebody hiding behind a tree. But I drank, and didn't care; with\nBarrios in Cayta and the great Cordillera between us and Montero's\nvictorious army I seemed, notwithstanding Messrs. Gamacho and Fuentes,\nto hold my new State in the hollow of my hand. I was ready to sleep, but\nwhen I got as far as the Casa Gould I found the patio full of wounded\nlaid out on straw. Lights were burning, and in that enclosed courtyard\non that hot night a faint odour of chloroform and blood hung about.\nAt one end Doctor Monygham, the doctor of the mine, was dressing the\nwounds; at the other, near the stairs, Father Corbelan, kneeling,\nlistened to the confession of a dying Cargador. Mrs. Gould was walking\nabout through these shambles with a large bottle in one hand and a\nlot of cotton wool in the other. She just looked at me and never even\nwinked. Her camerista was following her, also holding a bottle, and\nsobbing gently to herself.\n\n\"I busied myself for some time in fetching water from the cistern for\nthe wounded. Afterwards I wandered upstairs, meeting some of the first\nladies of Sulaco, paler than I had ever seen them before, with bandages\nover their arms. Not all of them had fled to the ships. A good many had\ntaken refuge for the day in the Casa Gould. On the landing a girl, with\nher hair half down, was kneeling against the wall under the niche where\nstands a Madonna in blue robes and a gilt crown on her head. I think\nit was the eldest Miss Lopez; I couldn't see her face, but I remember\nlooking at the high French heel of her little shoe. She did not make\na sound, she did not stir, she was not sobbing; she remained there,\nperfectly still, all black against the white wall, a silent figure of\npassionate piety. I am sure she was no more frightened than the other\nwhite-faced ladies I met carrying bandages. One was sitting on the top\nstep tearing a piece of linen hastily into strips--the young wife of an\nelderly man of fortune here. She interrupted herself to wave her hand to\nmy bow, as though she were in her carriage on the Alameda. The women\nof our country are worth looking at during a revolution. The rouge and\npearl powder fall off, together with that passive attitude towards the\nouter world which education, tradition, custom impose upon them from the\nearliest infancy. I thought of your face, which from your infancy had\nthe stamp of intelligence instead of that patient and resigned cast\nwhich appears when some political commotion tears down the veil of\ncosmetics and usage.\n\n\"In the great sala upstairs a sort of Junta of Notables was sitting,\nthe remnant of the vanished Provincial Assembly. Don Juste Lopez had had\nhalf his beard singed off at the muzzle of a trabuco loaded with slugs,\nof which every one missed him, providentially. And as he turned his head\nfrom side to side it was exactly as if there had been two men inside his\nfrock-coat, one nobly whiskered and solemn, the other untidy and scared.\n\n\"They raised a cry of 'Decoud! Don Martin!' at my entrance. I asked\nthem, 'What are you deliberating upon, gentlemen?' There did not seem\nto be any president, though Don Jose Avellanos sat at the head of the\ntable. They all answered together, 'On the preservation of life and\nproperty.' 'Till the new officials arrive,' Don Juste explained to me,\nwith the solemn side of his face offered to my view. It was as if a\nstream of water had been poured upon my glowing idea of a new State.\nThere was a hissing sound in my ears, and the room grew dim, as if\nsuddenly filled with vapour.\n\n\"I walked up to the table blindly, as though I had been drunk. 'You are\ndeliberating upon surrender,' I said. They all sat still, with their\nnoses over the sheet of paper each had before him, God only knows why.\nOnly Don Jose hid his face in his hands, muttering, 'Never, never!' But\nas I looked at him, it seemed to me that I could have blown him away\nwith my breath, he looked so frail, so weak, so worn out. Whatever\nhappens, he will not survive. The deception is too great for a man of\nhis age; and hasn't he seen the sheets of 'Fifty Years of Misrule,'\nwhich we have begun printing on the presses of the Porvenir, littering\nthe Plaza, floating in the gutters, fired out as wads for trabucos\nloaded with handfuls of type, blown in the wind, trampled in the mud? I\nhave seen pages floating upon the very waters of the harbour. It would\nbe unreasonable to expect him to survive. It would be cruel.\n\n\"'Do you know,' I cried, 'what surrender means to you, to your women, to\nyour children, to your property?'\n\n\"I declaimed for five minutes without drawing breath, it seems to me,\nharping on our best chances, on the ferocity of Montero, whom I made out\nto be as great a beast as I have no doubt he would like to be if he had\nintelligence enough to conceive a systematic reign of terror. And then\nfor another five minutes or more I poured out an impassioned appeal\nto their courage and manliness, with all the passion of my love for\nAntonia. For if ever man spoke well, it would be from a personal\nfeeling, denouncing an enemy, defending himself, or pleading for what\nreally may be dearer than life. My dear girl, I absolutely thundered at\nthem. It seemed as if my voice would burst the walls asunder, and when\nI stopped I saw all their scared eyes looking at me dubiously. And that\nwas all the effect I had produced! Only Don Jose's head had sunk lower\nand lower on his breast. I bent my ear to his withered lips, and made\nout his whisper, something like, 'In God's name, then, Martin, my son!'\nI don't know exactly. There was the name of God in it, I am certain. It\nseems to me I have caught his last breath--the breath of his departing\nsoul on his lips.\n\n\"He lives yet, it is true. I have seen him since; but it was only a\nsenile body, lying on its back, covered to the chin, with open eyes, and\nso still that you might have said it was breathing no longer. I left him\nthus, with Antonia kneeling by the side of the bed, just before I came\nto this Italian's posada, where the ubiquitous death is also waiting.\nBut I know that Don Jose has really died there, in the Casa Gould, with\nthat whisper urging me to attempt what no doubt his soul, wrapped up in\nthe sanctity of diplomatic treaties and solemn declarations, must\nhave abhorred. I had exclaimed very loud, 'There is never any God in a\ncountry where men will not help themselves.'\n\n\"Meanwhile, Don Juste had begun a pondered oration whose solemn effect\nwas spoiled by the ridiculous disaster to his beard. I did not wait\nto make it out. He seemed to argue that Montero's (he called him The\nGeneral) intentions were probably not evil, though, he went on, 'that\ndistinguished man' (only a week ago we used to call him a gran' bestia)\n'was perhaps mistaken as to the true means.' As you may imagine,\nI didn't stay to hear the rest. I know the intentions of Montero's\nbrother, Pedrito, the guerrillero, whom I exposed in Paris, some years\nago, in a cafe frequented by South American students, where he tried\nto pass himself off for a Secretary of Legation. He used to come in\nand talk for hours, twisting his felt hat in his hairy paws, and his\nambition seemed to become a sort of Duc de Morny to a sort of Napoleon.\nAlready, then, he used to talk of his brother in inflated terms. He\nseemed fairly safe from being found out, because the students, all of\nthe Blanco families, did not, as you may imagine, frequent the Legation.\nIt was only Decoud, a man without faith and principles, as they used to\nsay, that went in there sometimes for the sake of the fun, as it were to\nan assembly of trained monkeys. I know his intentions. I have seen him\nchange the plates at table. Whoever is allowed to live on in terror, I\nmust die the death.\n\n\"No, I didn't stay to the end to hear Don Juste Lopez trying to persuade\nhimself in a grave oration of the clemency and justice, and honesty, and\npurity of the brothers Montero. I went out abruptly to seek Antonia.\nI saw her in the gallery. As I opened the door, she extended to me her\nclasped hands.\n\n\"'What are they doing in there?' she asked.\n\n\"'Talking,' I said, with my eyes looking into hers.\n\n\"'Yes, yes, but--'\n\n\"'Empty speeches,' I interrupted her. 'Hiding their fears behind\nimbecile hopes. They are all great Parliamentarians there--on the\nEnglish model, as you know.' I was so furious that I could hardly speak.\nShe made a gesture of despair.\n\n\"Through the door I held a little ajar behind me, we heard Dun Juste's\nmeasured mouthing monotone go on from phrase to phrase, like a sort of\nawful and solemn madness.\n\n\"'After all, the Democratic aspirations have, perhaps, their legitimacy.\nThe ways of human progress are inscrutable, and if the fate of the\ncountry is in the hand of Montero, we ought--'\n\n\"I crashed the door to on that; it was enough; it was too much. There\nwas never a beautiful face expressing more horror and despair than the\nface of Antonia. I couldn't bear it; I seized her wrists.\n\n\"'Have they killed my father in there?' she asked.\n\n\"Her eyes blazed with indignation, but as I looked on, fascinated, the\nlight in them went out.\n\n\"'It is a surrender,' I said. And I remember I was shaking her wrists I\nheld apart in my hands. 'But it's more than talk. Your father told me to\ngo on in God's name.'\n\n\"My dear girl, there is that in Antonia which would make me believe in\nthe feasibility of anything. One look at her face is enough to set\nmy brain on fire. And yet I love her as any other man would--with the\nheart, and with that alone. She is more to me than his Church to Father\nCorbelan (the Grand Vicar disappeared last night from the town; perhaps\ngone to join the band of Hernandez). She is more to me than his precious\nmine to that sentimental Englishman. I won't speak of his wife. She may\nhave been sentimental once. The San Tome mine stands now between those\ntwo people. 'Your father himself, Antonia,' I repeated; 'your father, do\nyou understand? has told me to go on.'\n\n\"She averted her face, and in a pained voice--\n\n\"'He has?' she cried. 'Then, indeed, I fear he will never speak again.'\n\n\"She freed her wrists from my clutch and began to cry in her\nhandkerchief. I disregarded her sorrow; I would rather see her miserable\nthan not see her at all, never any more; for whether I escaped or stayed\nto die, there was for us no coming together, no future. And that being\nso, I had no pity to waste upon the passing moments of her sorrow. I\nsent her off in tears to fetch Dona Emilia and Don Carlos, too. Their\nsentiment was necessary to the very life of my plan; the sentimentalism\nof the people that will never do anything for the sake of their\npassionate desire, unless it comes to them clothed in the fair robes of\nan idea.\n\n\"Late at night we formed a small junta of four--the two women, Don\nCarlos, and myself--in Mrs. Gould's blue-and-white boudoir.\n\n\"El Rey de Sulaco thinks himself, no doubt, a very honest man. And so\nhe is, if one could look behind his taciturnity. Perhaps he thinks\nthat this alone makes his honesty unstained. Those Englishmen live on\nillusions which somehow or other help them to get a firm hold of the\nsubstance. When he speaks it is by a rare 'yes' or 'no' that seems as\nimpersonal as the words of an oracle. But he could not impose on me by\nhis dumb reserve. I knew what he had in his head; he has his mine in\nhis head; and his wife had nothing in her head but his precious person,\nwhich he has bound up with the Gould Concession and tied up to that\nlittle woman's neck. No matter. The thing was to make him present the\naffair to Holroyd (the Steel and Silver King) in such a manner as to\nsecure his financial support. At that time last night, just twenty-four\nhours ago, we thought the silver of the mine safe in the Custom House\nvaults till the north-bound steamer came to take it away. And as long as\nthe treasure flowed north, without a break, that utter sentimentalist,\nHolroyd, would not drop his idea of introducing, not only justice,\nindustry, peace, to the benighted continents, but also that pet dream\nof his of a purer form of Christianity. Later on, the principal European\nreally in Sulaco, the engineer-in-chief of the railway, came riding up\nthe Calle, from the harbour, and was admitted to our conclave. Meantime,\nthe Junta of the Notables in the great sala was still deliberating;\nonly, one of them had run out in the corredor to ask the servant\nwhether something to eat couldn't be sent in. The first words the\nengineer-in-chief said as he came into the boudoir were, 'What is\nyour house, dear Mrs. Gould? A war hospital below, and apparently a\nrestaurant above. I saw them carrying trays full of good things into the\nsala.'\n\n\"'And here, in this boudoir,' I said, 'you behold the inner cabinet of\nthe Occidental Republic that is to be.'\n\n\"He was so preoccupied that he didn't smile at that, he didn't even look\nsurprised.\n\n\"He told us that he was attending to the general dispositions for the\ndefence of the railway property at the railway yards when he was\nsent for to go into the railway telegraph office. The engineer of the\nrailhead, at the foot of the mountains, wanted to talk to him from his\nend of the wire. There was nobody in the office but himself and the\noperator of the railway telegraph, who read off the clicks aloud as the\ntape coiled its length upon the floor. And the purport of that talk,\nclicked nervously from a wooden shed in the depths of the forests,\nhad informed the chief that President Ribiera had been, or was being,\npursued. This was news, indeed, to all of us in Sulaco. Ribiera himself,\nwhen rescued, revived, and soothed by us, had been inclined to think\nthat he had not been pursued.\n\n\"Ribiera had yielded to the urgent solicitations of his friends, and had\nleft the headquarters of his discomfited army alone, under the\nguidance of Bonifacio, the muleteer, who had been willing to take the\nresponsibility with the risk. He had departed at daybreak of the third\nday. His remaining forces had melted away during the night. Bonifacio\nand he rode hard on horses towards the Cordillera; then they obtained\nmules, entered the passes, and crossed the Paramo of Ivie just before a\nfreezing blast swept over that stony plateau, burying in a drift of\nsnow the little shelter-hut of stones in which they had spent the night.\nAfterwards poor Ribiera had many adventures, got separated from his\nguide, lost his mount, struggled down to the Campo on foot, and if he\nhad not thrown himself on the mercy of a ranchero would have perished a\nlong way from Sulaco. That man, who, as a matter of fact, recognized\nhim at once, let him have a fresh mule, which the fugitive, heavy and\nunskilful, had ridden to death. And it was true he had been pursued by\na party commanded by no less a person than Pedro Montero, the brother of\nthe general. The cold wind of the Paramo luckily caught the pursuers on\nthe top of the pass. Some few men, and all the animals, perished in the\nicy blast. The stragglers died, but the main body kept on. They\nfound poor Bonifacio lying half-dead at the foot of a snow slope, and\nbayoneted him promptly in the true Civil War style. They would have had\nRibiera, too, if they had not, for some reason or other, turned off the\ntrack of the old Camino Real, only to lose their way in the forests\nat the foot of the lower slopes. And there they were at last, having\nstumbled in unexpectedly upon the construction camp. The engineer at\nthe railhead told his chief by wire that he had Pedro Montero absolutely\nthere, in the very office, listening to the clicks. He was going to\ntake possession of Sulaco in the name of the Democracy. He was very\noverbearing. His men slaughtered some of the Railway Company's cattle\nwithout asking leave, and went to work broiling the meat on the embers.\nPedrito made many pointed inquiries as to the silver mine, and what\nhad become of the product of the last six months' working. He had said\nperemptorily, 'Ask your chief up there by wire, he ought to know; tell\nhim that Don Pedro Montero, Chief of the Campo and Minister of the\nInterior of the new Government, desires to be correctly informed.'\n\n\"He had his feet wrapped up in blood-stained rags, a lean, haggard face,\nragged beard and hair, and had walked in limping, with a crooked branch\nof a tree for a staff. His followers were perhaps in a worse plight, but\napparently they had not thrown away their arms, and, at any rate, not\nall their ammunition. Their lean faces filled the door and the windows\nof the telegraph hut. As it was at the same time the bedroom of the\nengineer-in-charge there, Montero had thrown himself on his clean\nblankets and lay there shivering and dictating requisitions to be\ntransmitted by wire to Sulaco. He demanded a train of cars to be sent\ndown at once to transport his men up.\n\n\"'To this I answered from my end,' the engineer-in-chief related to us,\n'that I dared not risk the rolling-stock in the interior, as there had\nbeen attempts to wreck trains all along the line several times. I did\nthat for your sake, Gould,' said the chief engineer. 'The answer to this\nwas, in the words of my subordinate, \"The filthy brute on my bed said,\n'Suppose I were to have you shot?'\" To which my subordinate, who, it\nappears, was himself operating, remarked that it would not bring the\ncars up. Upon that, the other, yawning, said, \"Never mind, there is\nno lack of horses on the Campo.\" And, turning over, went to sleep on\nHarris's bed.'\n\n\"This is why, my dear girl, I am a fugitive to-night. The last wire from\nrailhead says that Pedro Montero and his men left at daybreak, after\nfeeding on asado beef all night. They took all the horses; they will\nfind more on the road; they'll be here in less than thirty hours, and\nthus Sulaco is no place either for me or the great store of silver\nbelonging to the Gould Concession.\n\n\"But that is not the worst. The garrison of Esmeralda has gone over to\nthe victorious party. We have heard this by means of the telegraphist of\nthe Cable Company, who came to the Casa Gould in the early morning with\nthe news. In fact, it was so early that the day had not yet quite broken\nover Sulaco. His colleague in Esmeralda had called him up to say\nthat the garrison, after shooting some of their officers, had taken\npossession of a Government steamer laid up in the harbour. It is really\na heavy blow for me. I thought I could depend on every man in this\nprovince. It was a mistake. It was a Monterist Revolution in Esmeralda,\njust such as was attempted in Sulaco, only that that one came off. The\ntelegraphist was signalling to Bernhardt all the time, and his last\ntransmitted words were, 'They are bursting in the door, and taking\npossession of the cable office. You are cut off. Can do no more.'\n\n\"But, as a matter of fact, he managed somehow to escape the vigilance\nof his captors, who had tried to stop the communication with the outer\nworld. He did manage it. How it was done I don't know, but a few\nhours afterwards he called up Sulaco again, and what he said was, 'The\ninsurgent army has taken possession of the Government transport in the\nbay and are filling her with troops, with the intention of going round\nthe coast to Sulaco. Therefore look out for yourselves. They will be\nready to start in a few hours, and may be upon you before daybreak.'\n\n\"This is all he could say. They drove him away from his instrument this\ntime for good, because Bernhardt has been calling up Esmeralda ever\nsince without getting an answer.\"\n\nAfter setting these words down in the pocket-book which he was filling\nup for the benefit of his sister, Decoud lifted his head to listen. But\nthere were no sounds, neither in the room nor in the house, except the\ndrip of the water from the filter into the vast earthenware jar under\nthe wooden stand. And outside the house there was a great silence.\nDecoud lowered his head again over the pocket-book.\n\n\"I am not running away, you understand,\" he wrote on. \"I am simply\ngoing away with that great treasure of silver which must be saved at\nall costs. Pedro Montero from the Campo and the revolted garrison of\nEsmeralda from the sea are converging upon it. That it is there lying\nready for them is only an accident. The real objective is the San Tome\nmine itself, as you may well imagine; otherwise the Occidental Province\nwould have been, no doubt, left alone for many weeks, to be gathered\nat leisure into the arms of the victorious party. Don Carlos Gould\nwill have enough to do to save his mine, with its organization and its\npeople; this 'Imperium in Imperio,' this wealth-producing thing, to\nwhich his sentimentalism attaches a strange idea of justice. He holds\nto it as some men hold to the idea of love or revenge. Unless I am much\nmistaken in the man, it must remain inviolate or perish by an act of\nhis will alone. A passion has crept into his cold and idealistic life.\nA passion which I can only comprehend intellectually. A passion that\nis not like the passions we know, we men of another blood. But it is as\ndangerous as any of ours.\n\n\"His wife has understood it, too. That is why she is such a good ally\nof mine. She seizes upon all my suggestions with a sure instinct that in\nthe end they make for the safety of the Gould Concession. And he defers\nto her because he trusts her perhaps, but I fancy rather as if he wished\nto make up for some subtle wrong, for that sentimental unfaithfulness\nwhich surrenders her happiness, her life, to the seduction of an idea.\nThe little woman has discovered that he lives for the mine rather\nthan for her. But let them be. To each his fate, shaped by passion or\nsentiment. The principal thing is that she has backed up my advice to\nget the silver out of the town, out of the country, at once, at any\ncost, at any risk. Don Carlos' mission is to preserve unstained the fair\nfame of his mine; Mrs. Gould's mission is to save him from the effects\nof that cold and overmastering passion, which she dreads more than if it\nwere an infatuation for another woman. Nostromo's mission is to save\nthe silver. The plan is to load it into the largest of the Company's\nlighters, and send it across the gulf to a small port out of Costaguana\nterritory just on the other side the Azuera, where the first northbound\nsteamer will get orders to pick it up. The waters here are calm. We\nshall slip away into the darkness of the gulf before the Esmeralda\nrebels arrive; and by the time the day breaks over the ocean we shall be\nout of sight, invisible, hidden by Azuera, which itself looks from the\nSulaco shore like a faint blue cloud on the horizon.\n\n\"The incorruptible Capataz de Cargadores is the man for that work;\nand I, the man with a passion, but without a mission, I go with him to\nreturn--to play my part in the farce to the end, and, if successful, to\nreceive my reward, which no one but Antonia can give me.\n\n\"I shall not see her again now before I depart. I left her, as I have\nsaid, by Don Jose's bedside. The street was dark, the houses shut up,\nand I walked out of the town in the night. Not a single street-lamp had\nbeen lit for two days, and the archway of the gate was only a mass of\ndarkness in the vague form of a tower, in which I heard low, dismal\ngroans, that seemed to answer the murmurs of a man's voice.\n\n\"I recognized something impassive and careless in its tone,\ncharacteristic of that Genoese sailor who, like me, has come casually\nhere to be drawn into the events for which his scepticism as well as\nmine seems to entertain a sort of passive contempt. The only thing he\nseems to care for, as far as I have been able to discover, is to be well\nspoken of. An ambition fit for noble souls, but also a profitable one\nfor an exceptionally intelligent scoundrel. Yes. His very words, 'To\nbe well spoken of. Si, senor.' He does not seem to make any difference\nbetween speaking and thinking. Is it sheer naiveness or the practical\npoint of view, I wonder? Exceptional individualities always interest me,\nbecause they are true to the general formula expressing the moral state\nof humanity.\n\n\"He joined me on the harbour road after I had passed them under the dark\narchway without stopping. It was a woman in trouble he had been talking\nto. Through discretion I kept silent while he walked by my side. After\na time he began to talk himself. It was not what I expected. It was\nonly an old woman, an old lace-maker, in search of her son, one of the\nstreet-sweepers employed by the municipality. Friends had come the day\nbefore at daybreak to the door of their hovel calling him out. He had\ngone with them, and she had not seen him since; so she had left the food\nshe had been preparing half-cooked on the extinct embers and had crawled\nout as far as the harbour, where she had heard that some town mozos had\nbeen killed on the morning of the riot. One of the Cargadores guarding\nthe Custom House had brought out a lantern, and had helped her to look\nat the few dead left lying about there. Now she was creeping back,\nhaving failed in her search. So she sat down on the stone seat under the\narch, moaning, because she was very tired. The Capataz had questioned\nher, and after hearing her broken and groaning tale had advised her to\ngo and look amongst the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould. He had\nalso given her a quarter dollar, he mentioned carelessly.\"\n\n\"'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'Do you know her?'\n\n\"'No, senor. I don't suppose I have ever seen her before. How should I?\nShe has not probably been out in the streets for years. She is one\nof those old women that you find in this country at the back of huts,\ncrouching over fireplaces, with a stick on the ground by their side, and\nalmost too feeble to drive away the stray dogs from their cooking-pots.\nCaramba! I could tell by her voice that death had forgotten her. But,\nold or young, they like money, and will speak well of the man who gives\nit to them.' He laughed a little. 'Senor, you should have felt the\nclutch of her paw as I put the piece in her palm.' He paused. 'My last,\ntoo,' he added.\n\n\"I made no comment. He's known for his liberality and his bad luck at\nthe game of monte, which keeps him as poor as when he first came here.\n\n\"'I suppose, Don Martin,' he began, in a thoughtful, speculative tone,\n'that the Senor Administrador of San Tome will reward me some day if I\nsave his silver?'\n\n\"I said that it could not be otherwise, surely. He walked on, muttering\nto himself. 'Si, si, without doubt, without doubt; and, look you, Senor\nMartin, what it is to be well spoken of! There is not another man that\ncould have been even thought of for such a thing. I shall get something\ngreat for it some day. And let it come soon,' he mumbled. 'Time passes\nin this country as quick as anywhere else.'\n\n\"This, _soeur cherie_, is my companion in the great escape for the sake\nof the great cause. He is more naive than shrewd, more masterful than\ncrafty, more generous with his personality than the people who make use\nof him are with their money. At least, that is what he thinks himself\nwith more pride than sentiment. I am glad I have made friends with him.\nAs a companion he acquires more importance than he ever had as a sort of\nminor genius in his way--as an original Italian sailor whom I allowed\nto come in in the small hours and talk familiarly to the editor of the\nPorvenir while the paper was going through the press. And it is curious\nto have met a man for whom the value of life seems to consist in\npersonal prestige.\n\n\"I am waiting for him here now. On arriving at the posada kept by Viola\nwe found the children alone down below, and the old Genoese shouted to\nhis countryman to go and fetch the doctor. Otherwise we would have gone\non to the wharf, where it appears Captain Mitchell with some volunteer\nEuropeans and a few picked Cargadores are loading the lighter with the\nsilver that must be saved from Montero's clutches in order to be used\nfor Montero's defeat. Nostromo galloped furiously back towards the town.\nHe has been long gone already. This delay gives me time to talk to you.\nBy the time this pocket-book reaches your hands much will have happened.\nBut now it is a pause under the hovering wing of death in this silent\nhouse buried in the black night, with this dying woman, the two children\ncrouching without a sound, and that old man whom I can hear through the\nthickness of the wall passing up and down with a light rubbing noise no\nlouder than a mouse. And I, the only other with them, don't really know\nwhether to count myself with the living or with the dead. 'Quien sabe?'\nas the people here are prone to say in answer to every question. But no!\nfeeling for you is certainly not dead, and the whole thing, the house,\nthe dark night, the silent children in this dim room, my very presence\nhere--all this is life, must be life, since it is so much like a dream.\"\n\nWith the writing of the last line there came upon Decoud a moment of\nsudden and complete oblivion. He swayed over the table as if struck by\na bullet. The next moment he sat up, confused, with the idea that he had\nheard his pencil roll on the floor. The low door of the cafe, wide open,\nwas filled with the glare of a torch in which was visible half of a\nhorse, switching its tail against the leg of a rider with a long iron\nspur strapped to the naked heel. The two girls were gone, and Nostromo,\nstanding in the middle of the room, looked at him from under the round\nbrim of the sombrero low down over his brow.\n\n\"I have brought that sour-faced English doctor in Senora Gould's\ncarriage,\" said Nostromo. \"I doubt if, with all his wisdom, he can\nsave the Padrona this time. They have sent for the children. A bad sign\nthat.\"\n\nHe sat down on the end of a bench. \"She wants to give them her blessing,\nI suppose.\"\n\nDazedly Decoud observed that he must have fallen sound asleep, and\nNostromo said, with a vague smile, that he had looked in at the window\nand had seen him lying still across the table with his head on his arms.\nThe English senora had also come in the carriage, and went upstairs at\nonce with the doctor. She had told him not to wake up Don Martin yet;\nbut when they sent for the children he had come into the cafe.\n\nThe half of the horse with its half of the rider swung round outside the\ndoor; the torch of tow and resin in the iron basket which was carried on\na stick at the saddle-bow flared right into the room for a moment, and\nMrs. Gould entered hastily with a very white, tired face. The hood of\nher dark, blue cloak had fallen back. Both men rose.\n\n\"Teresa wants to see you, Nostromo,\" she said. The Capataz did not move.\nDecoud, with his back to the table, began to button up his coat.\n\n\"The silver, Mrs. Gould, the silver,\" he murmured in English. \"Don't\nforget that the Esmeralda garrison have got a steamer. They may appear\nat any moment at the harbour entrance.\"\n\n\"The doctor says there is no hope,\" Mrs. Gould spoke rapidly, also in\nEnglish. \"I shall take you down to the wharf in my carriage and then\ncome back to fetch away the girls.\" She changed swiftly into Spanish to\naddress Nostromo. \"Why are you wasting time? Old Giorgio's wife wishes\nto see you.\"\n\n\"I am going to her, senora,\" muttered the Capataz. Dr. Monygham now\nshowed himself, bringing back the children. To Mrs. Gould's inquiring\nglance he only shook his head and went outside at once, followed by\nNostromo.\n\nThe horse of the torch-bearer, motionless, hung his head low, and the\nrider had dropped the reins to light a cigarette. The glare of the torch\nplayed on the front of the house crossed by the big black letters of its\ninscription in which only the word _Italia_ was lighted fully. The patch\nof wavering glare reached as far as Mrs. Gould's carriage waiting on\nthe road, with the yellow-faced, portly Ignacio apparently dozing on the\nbox. By his side Basilio, dark and skinny, held a Winchester carbine in\nfront of him, with both hands, and peered fearfully into the darkness.\nNostromo touched lightly the doctor's shoulder.\n\n\"Is she really dying, senor doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the doctor, with a strange twitch of his scarred cheek. \"And\nwhy she wants to see you I cannot imagine.\"\n\n\"She has been like that before,\" suggested Nostromo, looking away.\n\n\"Well, Capataz, I can assure you she will never be like that again,\"\nsnarled Dr. Monygham. \"You may go to her or stay away. There is very\nlittle to be got from talking to the dying. But she told Dona Emilia in\nmy hearing that she has been like a mother to you ever since you first\nset foot ashore here.\"\n\n\"Si! And she never had a good word to say for me to anybody. It is more\nas if she could not forgive me for being alive, and such a man, too, as\nshe would have liked her son to be.\"\n\n\"Maybe!\" exclaimed a mournful deep voice near them. \"Women have their\nown ways of tormenting themselves.\" Giorgio Viola had come out of the\nhouse. He threw a heavy black shadow in the torchlight, and the glare\nfell on his big face, on the great bushy head of white hair. He motioned\nthe Capataz indoors with his extended arm.\n\nDr. Monygham, after busying himself with a little medicament box of\npolished wood on the seat of the landau, turned to old Giorgio and\nthrust into his big, trembling hand one of the glass-stoppered bottles\nout of the case.\n\n\"Give her a spoonful of this now and then, in water,\" he said. \"It will\nmake her easier.\"\n\n\"And there is nothing more for her?\" asked the old man, patiently.\n\n\"No. Not on earth,\" said the doctor, with his back to him, clicking the\nlock of the medicine case.\n\nNostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, all dark but for the glow of\na heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel of the cooking-range, where\nwater was boiling in an iron pot with a loud bubbling sound. Between\nthe two walls of a narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the\nsick-room above; and the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores stepping\nnoiselessly in soft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his muscular\nneck and bronzed chest bare in the open check shirt, resembled a\nMediterranean sailor just come ashore from some wine or fruit-laden\nfelucca. At the top he paused, broad shouldered, narrow hipped and\nsupple, looking at the large bed, like a white couch of state, with a\nprofusion of snowy linen, amongst which the Padrona sat unpropped and\nbowed, her handsome, black-browed face bent over her chest. A mass of\nraven hair with only a few white threads in it covered her shoulders;\none thick strand fallen forward half veiled her cheek. Perfectly\nmotionless in that pose, expressing physical anxiety and unrest, she\nturned her eyes alone towards Nostromo.\n\nThe Capataz had a red sash wound many times round his waist, and a heavy\nsilver ring on the forefinger of the hand he raised to give a twist to\nhis moustache.\n\n\"Their revolutions, their revolutions,\" gasped Senora Teresa. \"Look,\nGian' Battista, it has killed me at last!\"\n\nNostromo said nothing, and the sick woman with an upward glance\ninsisted. \"Look, this one has killed me, while you were away fighting\nfor what did not concern you, foolish man.\"\n\n\"Why talk like this?\" mumbled the Capataz between his teeth. \"Will you\nnever believe in my good sense? It concerns me to keep on being what I\nam: every day alike.\"\n\n\"You never change, indeed,\" she said, bitterly. \"Always thinking of\nyourself and taking your pay out in fine words from those who care\nnothing for you.\"\n\nThere was between them an intimacy of antagonism as close in its way as\nthe intimacy of accord and affection. He had not walked along the way\nof Teresa's expectations. It was she who had encouraged him to leave his\nship, in the hope of securing a friend and defender for the girls. The\nwife of old Giorgio was aware of her precarious health, and was haunted\nby the fear of her aged husband's loneliness and the unprotected state\nof the children. She had wanted to annex that apparently quiet and\nsteady young man, affectionate and pliable, an orphan from his tenderest\nage, as he had told her, with no ties in Italy except an uncle, owner\nand master of a felucca, from whose ill-usage he had run away before he\nwas fourteen. He had seemed to her courageous, a hard worker, determined\nto make his way in the world. From gratitude and the ties of habit he\nwould become like a son to herself and Giorgio; and then, who knows,\nwhen Linda had grown up. . . . Ten years' difference between husband and\nwife was not so much. Her own great man was nearly twenty years older\nthan herself. Gian' Battista was an attractive young fellow, besides;\nattractive to men, women, and children, just by that profound quietness\nof personality which, like a serene twilight, rendered more seductive\nthe promise of his vigorous form and the resolution of his conduct.\n\nOld Giorgio, in profound ignorance of his wife's views and hopes, had a\ngreat regard for his young countryman. \"A man ought not to be tame,\" he\nused to tell her, quoting the Spanish proverb in defence of the splendid\nCapataz. She was growing jealous of his success. He was escaping from\nher, she feared. She was practical, and he seemed to her to be an absurd\nspendthrift of these qualities which made him so valuable. He got too\nlittle for them. He scattered them with both hands amongst too many\npeople, she thought. He laid no money by. She railed at his poverty, his\nexploits, his adventures, his loves and his reputation; but in her heart\nshe had never given him up, as though, indeed, he had been her son.\n\nEven now, ill as she was, ill enough to feel the chill, black breath of\nthe approaching end, she had wished to see him. It was like putting out\nher benumbed hand to regain her hold. But she had presumed too much on\nher strength. She could not command her thoughts; they had become dim,\nlike her vision. The words faltered on her lips, and only the paramount\nanxiety and desire of her life seemed to be too strong for death.\n\nThe Capataz said, \"I have heard these things many times. You are unjust,\nbut it does not hurt me. Only now you do not seem to have much strength\nto talk, and I have but little time to listen. I am engaged in a work of\nvery great moment.\"\n\nShe made an effort to ask him whether it was true that he had found time\nto go and fetch a doctor for her. Nostromo nodded affirmatively.\n\nShe was pleased: it relieved her sufferings to know that the man had\ncondescended to do so much for those who really wanted his help. It was\na proof of his friendship. Her voice become stronger.\n\n\"I want a priest more than a doctor,\" she said, pathetically. She did\nnot move her head; only her eyes ran into the corners to watch the\nCapataz standing by the side of her bed. \"Would you go to fetch a priest\nfor me now? Think! A dying woman asks you!\"\n\nNostromo shook his head resolutely. He did not believe in priests in\ntheir sacerdotal character. A doctor was an efficacious person; but a\npriest, as priest, was nothing, incapable of doing either good or harm.\nNostromo did not even dislike the sight of them as old Giorgio did. The\nutter uselessness of the errand was what struck him most.\n\n\"Padrona,\" he said, \"you have been like this before, and got better\nafter a few days. I have given you already the very last moments I can\nspare. Ask Senora Gould to send you one.\"\n\nHe was feeling uneasy at the impiety of this refusal. The Padrona\nbelieved in priests, and confessed herself to them. But all women\ndid that. It could not be of much consequence. And yet his heart felt\noppressed for a moment--at the thought what absolution would mean to her\nif she believed in it only ever so little. No matter. It was quite true\nthat he had given her already the very last moment he could spare.\n\n\"You refuse to go?\" she gasped. \"Ah! you are always yourself, indeed.\"\n\n\"Listen to reason, Padrona,\" he said. \"I am needed to save the silver of\nthe mine. Do you hear? A greater treasure than the one which they say\nis guarded by ghosts and devils on Azuera. It is true. I am resolved to\nmake this the most desperate affair I was ever engaged on in my whole\nlife.\"\n\nShe felt a despairing indignation. The supreme test had failed. Standing\nabove her, Nostromo did not see the distorted features of her face,\ndistorted by a paroxysm of pain and anger. Only she began to tremble all\nover. Her bowed head shook. The broad shoulders quivered.\n\n\"Then God, perhaps, will have mercy upon me! But do you look to it, man,\nthat you get something for yourself out of it, besides the remorse that\nshall overtake you some day.\"\n\nShe laughed feebly. \"Get riches at least for once, you indispensable,\nadmired Gian' Battista, to whom the peace of a dying woman is less\nthan the praise of people who have given you a silly name--and nothing\nbesides--in exchange for your soul and body.\"\n\nThe Capataz de Cargadores swore to himself under his breath.\n\n\"Leave my soul alone, Padrona, and I shall know how to take care of\nmy body. Where is the harm of people having need of me? What are you\nenvying me that I have robbed you and the children of? Those very people\nyou are throwing in my teeth have done more for old Giorgio than they\never thought of doing for me.\"\n\nHe struck his breast with his open palm; his voice had remained low\nthough he had spoken in a forcible tone. He twisted his moustaches one\nafter another, and his eyes wandered a little about the room.\n\n\"Is it my fault that I am the only man for their purposes? What angry\nnonsense are you talking, mother? Would you rather have me timid and\nfoolish, selling water-melons on the market-place or rowing a boat for\npassengers along the harbour, like a soft Neapolitan without courage\nor reputation? Would you have a young man live like a monk? I do not\nbelieve it. Would you want a monk for your eldest girl? Let her grow.\nWhat are you afraid of? You have been angry with me for everything I did\nfor years; ever since you first spoke to me, in secret from old Giorgio,\nabout your Linda. Husband to one and brother to the other, did you say?\nWell, why not! I like the little ones, and a man must marry some time.\nBut ever since that time you have been making little of me to everyone.\nWhy? Did you think you could put a collar and chain on me as if I were\none of the watch-dogs they keep over there in the railway yards? Look\nhere, Padrona, I am the same man who came ashore one evening and sat\ndown in the thatched ranche you lived in at that time on the other side\nof the town and told you all about himself. You were not unjust to me\nthen. What has happened since? I am no longer an insignificant youth. A\ngood name, Giorgio says, is a treasure, Padrona.\"\n\n\"They have turned your head with their praises,\" gasped the sick woman.\n\"They have been paying you with words. Your folly shall betray you into\npoverty, misery, starvation. The very leperos shall laugh at you--the\ngreat Capataz.\"\n\nNostromo stood for a time as if struck dumb. She never looked at him. A\nself-confident, mirthless smile passed quickly from his lips, and then\nhe backed away. His disregarded figure sank down beyond the doorway.\nHe descended the stairs backwards, with the usual sense of having been\nsomehow baffled by this woman's disparagement of this reputation he had\nobtained and desired to keep.\n\nDownstairs in the big kitchen a candle was burning, surrounded by the\nshadows of the walls, of the ceiling, but no ruddy glare filled the open\nsquare of the outer door. The carriage with Mrs. Gould and Don Martin,\npreceded by the horseman bearing the torch, had gone on to the jetty.\nDr. Monygham, who had remained, sat on the corner of a hard wood table\nnear the candlestick, his seamed, shaven face inclined sideways, his\narms crossed on his breast, his lips pursed up, and his prominent eyes\nglaring stonily upon the floor of black earth. Near the overhanging\nmantel of the fireplace, where the pot of water was still boiling\nviolently, old Giorgio held his chin in his hand, one foot advanced, as\nif arrested by a sudden thought.\n\n\"Adios, viejo,\" said Nostromo, feeling the handle of his revolver in the\nbelt and loosening his knife in its sheath. He picked up a blue poncho\nlined with red from the table, and put it over his head. \"Adios, look\nafter the things in my sleeping-room, and if you hear from me no more,\ngive up the box to Paquita. There is not much of value there, except my\nnew serape from Mexico, and a few silver buttons on my best jacket. No\nmatter! The things will look well enough on the next lover she gets, and\nthe man need not be afraid I shall linger on earth after I am dead, like\nthose Gringos that haunt the Azuera.\"\n\nDr. Monygham twisted his lips into a bitter smile. After old Giorgio,\nwith an almost imperceptible nod and without a word, had gone up the\nnarrow stairs, he said--\n\n\"Why, Capataz! I thought you could never fail in anything.\"\n\nNostromo, glancing contemptuously at the doctor, lingered in the doorway\nrolling a cigarette, then struck a match, and, after lighting it, held\nthe burning piece of wood above his head till the flame nearly touched\nhis fingers.\n\n\"No wind!\" he muttered to himself. \"Look here, senor--do you know the\nnature of my undertaking?\"\n\nDr. Monygham nodded sourly.\n\n\"It is as if I were taking up a curse upon me, senor doctor. A man with\na treasure on this coast will have every knife raised against him in\nevery place upon the shore. You see that, senor doctor? I shall float\nalong with a spell upon my life till I meet somewhere the north-bound\nsteamer of the Company, and then indeed they will talk about the Capataz\nof the Sulaco Cargadores from one end of America to another.\"\n\nDr. Monygham laughed his short, throaty laugh. Nostromo turned round in\nthe doorway.\n\n\"But if your worship can find any other man ready and fit for such\nbusiness I will stand back. I am not exactly tired of my life, though I\nam so poor that I can carry all I have with myself on my horse's back.\"\n\n\"You gamble too much, and never say 'no' to a pretty face, Capataz,\"\nsaid Dr. Monygham, with sly simplicity. \"That's not the way to make a\nfortune. But nobody that I know ever suspected you of being poor. I\nhope you have made a good bargain in case you come back safe from this\nadventure.\"\n\n\"What bargain would your worship have made?\" asked Nostromo, blowing the\nsmoke out of his lips through the doorway.\n\nDr. Monygham listened up the staircase for a moment before he answered,\nwith another of his short, abrupt laughs--\n\n\"Illustrious Capataz, for taking the curse of death upon my back, as you\ncall it, nothing else but the whole treasure would do.\"\n\nNostromo vanished out of the doorway with a grunt of discontent at\nthis jeering answer. Dr. Monygham heard him gallop away. Nostromo rode\nfuriously in the dark. There were lights in the buildings of the\nO.S.N. Company near the wharf, but before he got there he met the Gould\ncarriage. The horseman preceded it with the torch, whose light showed\nthe white mules trotting, the portly Ignacio driving, and Basilio with\nthe carbine on the box. From the dark body of the landau Mrs. Gould's\nvoice cried, \"They are waiting for you, Capataz!\" She was returning,\nchilly and excited, with Decoud's pocket-book still held in her hand. He\nhad confided it to her to send to his sister. \"Perhaps my last words to\nher,\" he had said, pressing Mrs. Gould's hand.\n\nThe Capataz never checked his speed. At the head of the wharf vague\nfigures with rifles leapt to the head of his horse; others closed upon\nhim--cargadores of the company posted by Captain Mitchell on the watch.\nAt a word from him they fell back with subservient murmurs, recognizing\nhis voice. At the other end of the jetty, near a cargo crane, in a dark\ngroup with glowing cigars, his name was pronounced in a tone of relief.\nMost of the Europeans in Sulaco were there, rallied round Charles Gould,\nas if the silver of the mine had been the emblem of a common cause, the\nsymbol of the supreme importance of material interests. They had loaded\nit into the lighter with their own hands. Nostromo recognized Don Carlos\nGould, a thin, tall shape standing a little apart and silent, to whom\nanother tall shape, the engineer-in-chief, said aloud, \"If it must be\nlost, it is a million times better that it should go to the bottom of\nthe sea.\"\n\nMartin Decoud called out from the lighter, \"_Au revoir_, messieurs, till\nwe clasp hands again over the new-born Occidental Republic.\" Only a\nsubdued murmur responded to his clear, ringing tones; and then it seemed\nto him that the wharf was floating away into the night; but it was\nNostromo, who was already pushing against a pile with one of the heavy\nsweeps. Decoud did not move; the effect was that of being launched\ninto space. After a splash or two there was not a sound but the thud\nof Nostromo's feet leaping about the boat. He hoisted the big sail; a\nbreath of wind fanned Decoud's cheek. Everything had vanished but the\nlight of the lantern Captain Mitchell had hoisted upon the post at the\nend of the jetty to guide Nostromo out of the harbour.\n\nThe two men, unable to see each other, kept silent till the lighter,\nslipping before the fitful breeze, passed out between almost invisible\nheadlands into the still deeper darkness of the gulf. For a time the\nlantern on the jetty shone after them. The wind failed, then fanned up\nagain, but so faintly that the big, half-decked boat slipped along with\nno more noise than if she had been suspended in the air.\n\n\"We are out in the gulf now,\" said the calm voice of Nostromo. A moment\nafter he added, \"Senor Mitchell has lowered the light.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Decoud; \"nobody can find us now.\"\n\nA great recrudescence of obscurity embraced the boat. The sea in the\ngulf was as black as the clouds above. Nostromo, after striking a couple\nof matches to get a glimpse of the boat-compass he had with him in the\nlighter, steered by the feel of the wind on his cheek.\n\nIt was a new experience for Decoud, this mysteriousness of the great\nwaters spread out strangely smooth, as if their restlessness had been\ncrushed by the weight of that dense night. The Placido was sleeping\nprofoundly under its black poncho.\n\nThe main thing now for success was to get away from the coast and gain\nthe middle of the gulf before day broke. The Isabels were somewhere\nat hand. \"On your left as you look forward, senor,\" said Nostromo,\nsuddenly. When his voice ceased, the enormous stillness, without light\nor sound, seemed to affect Decoud's senses like a powerful drug. He\ndidn't even know at times whether he were asleep or awake. Like a man\nlost in slumber, he heard nothing, he saw nothing. Even his hand\nheld before his face did not exist for his eyes. The change from the\nagitation, the passions and the dangers, from the sights and sounds of\nthe shore, was so complete that it would have resembled death had it\nnot been for the survival of his thoughts. In this foretaste of eternal\npeace they floated vivid and light, like unearthly clear dreams of\nearthly things that may haunt the souls freed by death from the misty\natmosphere of regrets and hopes. Decoud shook himself, shuddered a bit,\nthough the air that drifted past him was warm. He had the strangest\nsensation of his soul having just returned into his body from the\ncircumambient darkness in which land, sea, sky, the mountains, and the\nrocks were as if they had not been.\n\nNostromo's voice was speaking, though he, at the tiller, was also as\nif he were not. \"Have you been asleep, Don Martin? Caramba! If it were\npossible I would think that I, too, have dozed off. I have a strange\nnotion somehow of having dreamt that there was a sound of blubbering,\na sound a sorrowing man could make, somewhere near this boat. Something\nbetween a sigh and a sob.\"\n\n\"Strange!\" muttered Decoud, stretched upon the pile of treasure boxes\ncovered by many tarpaulins. \"Could it be that there is another boat near\nus in the gulf? We could not see it, you know.\"\n\nNostromo laughed a little at the absurdity of the idea. They dismissed\nit from their minds. The solitude could almost be felt. And when the\nbreeze ceased, the blackness seemed to weigh upon Decoud like a stone.\n\n\"This is overpowering,\" he muttered. \"Do we move at all, Capataz?\"\n\n\"Not so fast as a crawling beetle tangled in the grass,\" answered\nNostromo, and his voice seemed deadened by the thick veil of obscurity\nthat felt warm and hopeless all about them. There were long periods\nwhen he made no sound, invisible and inaudible as if he had mysteriously\nstepped out of the lighter.\n\nIn the featureless night Nostromo was not even certain which way the\nlighter headed after the wind had completely died out. He peered for the\nislands. There was not a hint of them to be seen, as if they had sunk to\nthe bottom of the gulf. He threw himself down by the side of Decoud at\nlast, and whispered into his ear that if daylight caught them near the\nSulaco shore through want of wind, it would be possible to sweep the\nlighter behind the cliff at the high end of the Great Isabel, where\nshe would lie concealed. Decoud was surprised at the grimness of his\nanxiety. To him the removal of the treasure was a political move. It was\nnecessary for several reasons that it should not fall into the hands of\nMontero, but here was a man who took another view of this enterprise.\nThe Caballeros over there did not seem to have the slightest idea of\nwhat they had given him to do. Nostromo, as if affected by the gloom\naround, seemed nervously resentful. Decoud was surprised. The Capataz,\nindifferent to those dangers that seemed obvious to his companion,\nallowed himself to become scornfully exasperated by the deadly nature\nof the trust put, as a matter of course, into his hands. It was more\ndangerous, Nostromo said, with a laugh and a curse, than sending a man\nto get the treasure that people said was guarded by devils and ghosts in\nthe deep ravines of Azuera. \"Senor,\" he said, \"we must catch the steamer\nat sea. We must keep out in the open looking for her till we have eaten\nand drunk all that has been put on board here. And if we miss her by\nsome mischance, we must keep away from the land till we grow weak,\nand perhaps mad, and die, and drift dead, until one or another of the\nsteamers of the Compania comes upon the boat with the two dead men who\nhave saved the treasure. That, senor, is the only way to save it; for,\ndon't you see? for us to come to the land anywhere in a hundred miles\nalong this coast with this silver in our possession is to run the naked\nbreast against the point of a knife. This thing has been given to me\nlike a deadly disease. If men discover it I am dead, and you, too,\nsenor, since you would come with me. There is enough silver to make a\nwhole province rich, let alone a seaboard pueblo inhabited by thieves\nand vagabonds. Senor, they would think that heaven itself sent these\nriches into their hands, and would cut our throats without hesitation.\nI would trust no fair words from the best man around the shores of this\nwild gulf. Reflect that, even by giving up the treasure at the first\ndemand, we would not be able to save our lives. Do you understand this,\nor must I explain?\"\n\n\"No, you needn't explain,\" said Decoud, a little listlessly. \"I can see\nit well enough myself, that the possession of this treasure is very\nmuch like a deadly disease for men situated as we are. But it had to be\nremoved from Sulaco, and you were the man for the task.\"\n\n\"I was; but I cannot believe,\" said Nostromo, \"that its loss would have\nimpoverished Don Carlos Gould very much. There is more wealth in the\nmountain. I have heard it rolling down the shoots on quiet nights when\nI used to ride to Rincon to see a certain girl, after my work at the\nharbour was done. For years the rich rocks have been pouring down with a\nnoise like thunder, and the miners say that there is enough at the heart\nof the mountain to thunder on for years and years to come. And yet, the\nday before yesterday, we have been fighting to save it from the mob,\nand to-night I am sent out with it into this darkness, where there is no\nwind to get away with; as if it were the last lot of silver on earth to\nget bread for the hungry with. Ha! ha! Well, I am going to make it the\nmost famous and desperate affair of my life--wind or no wind. It shall\nbe talked about when the little children are grown up and the grown\nmen are old. Aha! the Monterists must not get hold of it, I am told,\nwhatever happens to Nostromo the Capataz; and they shall not have it, I\ntell you, since it has been tied for safety round Nostromo's neck.\"\n\n\"I see it,\" murmured Decoud. He saw, indeed, that his companion had his\nown peculiar view of this enterprise.\n\nNostromo interrupted his reflections upon the way men's qualities are\nmade use of, without any fundamental knowledge of their nature, by the\nproposal they should slip the long oars out and sweep the lighter in\nthe direction of the Isabels. It wouldn't do for daylight to reveal\nthe treasure floating within a mile or so of the harbour entrance. The\ndenser the darkness generally, the smarter were the puffs of wind on\nwhich he had reckoned to make his way; but tonight the gulf, under its\nponcho of clouds, remained breathless, as if dead rather than asleep.\n\nDon Martin's soft hands suffered cruelly, tugging at the thick handle of\nthe enormous oar. He stuck to it manfully, setting his teeth. He, too,\nwas in the toils of an imaginative existence, and that strange work of\npulling a lighter seemed to belong naturally to the inception of a new\nstate, acquired an ideal meaning from his love for Antonia. For all\ntheir efforts, the heavily laden lighter hardly moved. Nostromo could\nbe heard swearing to himself between the regular splashes of the sweeps.\n\"We are making a crooked path,\" he muttered to himself. \"I wish I could\nsee the islands.\"\n\nIn his unskilfulness Don Martin over-exerted himself. Now and then a\nsort of muscular faintness would run from the tips of his aching fingers\nthrough every fibre of his body, and pass off in a flush of heat. He had\nfought, talked, suffered mentally and physically, exerting his mind and\nbody for the last forty-eight hours without intermission. He had had no\nrest, very little food, no pause in the stress of his thoughts and his\nfeelings. Even his love for Antonia, whence he drew his strength and\nhis inspiration, had reached the point of tragic tension during their\nhurried interview by Don Jose's bedside. And now, suddenly, he was\nthrown out of all this into a dark gulf, whose very gloom, silence, and\nbreathless peace added a torment to the necessity for physical exertion.\nHe imagined the lighter sinking to the bottom with an extraordinary\nshudder of delight. \"I am on the verge of delirium,\" he thought. He\nmastered the trembling of all his limbs, of his breast, the inward\ntrembling of all his body exhausted of its nervous force.\n\n\"Shall we rest, Capataz?\" he proposed in a careless tone. \"There are\nmany hours of night yet before us.\"\n\n\"True. It is but a mile or so, I suppose. Rest your arms, senor, if that\nis what you mean. You will find no other sort of rest, I can promise\nyou, since you let yourself be bound to this treasure whose loss would\nmake no poor man poorer. No, senor; there is no rest till we find a\nnorth-bound steamer, or else some ship finds us drifting about stretched\nout dead upon the Englishman's silver. Or rather--no; por Dios! I shall\ncut down the gunwale with the axe right to the water's edge before\nthirst and hunger rob me of my strength. By all the saints and devils\nI shall let the sea have the treasure rather than give it up to any\nstranger. Since it was the good pleasure of the Caballeros to send me\noff on such an errand, they shall learn I am just the man they take me\nfor.\"\n\nDecoud lay on the silver boxes panting. All his active sensations and\nfeelings from as far back as he could remember seemed to him the maddest\nof dreams. Even his passionate devotion to Antonia into which he had\nworked himself up out of the depths of his scepticism had lost all\nappearance of reality. For a moment he was the prey of an extremely\nlanguid but not unpleasant indifference.\n\n\"I am sure they didn't mean you to take such a desperate view of this\naffair,\" he said.\n\n\"What was it, then? A joke?\" snarled the man, who on the pay-sheets of\nthe O.S.N. Company's establishment in Sulaco was described as \"Foreman\nof the wharf\" against the figure of his wages. \"Was it for a joke they\nwoke me up from my sleep after two days of street fighting to make me\nstake my life upon a bad card? Everybody knows, too, that I am not a\nlucky gambler.\"\n\n\"Yes, everybody knows of your good luck with women, Capataz,\" Decoud\npropitiated his companion in a weary drawl.\n\n\"Look here, senor,\" Nostromo went on. \"I never even remonstrated about\nthis affair. Directly I heard what was wanted I saw what a desperate\naffair it must be, and I made up my mind to see it out. Every minute was\nof importance. I had to wait for you first. Then, when we arrived at\nthe Italia Una, old Giorgio shouted to me to go for the English doctor.\nLater on, that poor dying woman wanted to see me, as you know. Senor,\nI was reluctant to go. I felt already this cursed silver growing heavy\nupon my back, and I was afraid that, knowing herself to be dying, she\nwould ask me to ride off again for a priest. Father Corbelan, who is\nfearless, would have come at a word; but Father Corbelan is far away,\nsafe with the band of Hernandez, and the populace, that would have liked\nto tear him to pieces, are much incensed against the priests. Not\na single fat padre would have consented to put his head out of his\nhiding-place to-night to save a Christian soul, except, perhaps, under\nmy protection. That was in her mind. I pretended I did not believe she\nwas going to die. Senor, I refused to fetch a priest for a dying\nwoman. . . .\"\n\nDecoud was heard to stir.\n\n\"You did, Capataz!\" he exclaimed. His tone changed. \"Well, you know--it\nwas rather fine.\"\n\n\"You do not believe in priests, Don Martin? Neither do I. What was the\nuse of wasting time? But she--she believes in them. The thing sticks in\nmy throat. She may be dead already, and here we are floating helpless\nwith no wind at all. Curse on all superstition. She died thinking I\ndeprived her of Paradise, I suppose. It shall be the most desperate\naffair of my life.\"\n\nDecoud remained lost in reflection. He tried to analyze the sensations\nawaked by what he had been told. The voice of the Capataz was heard\nagain:\n\n\"Now, Don Martin, let us take up the sweeps and try to find the Isabels.\nIt is either that or sinking the lighter if the day overtakes us. We\nmust not forget that the steamer from Esmeralda with the soldiers may be\ncoming along. We will pull straight on now. I have discovered a bit of a\ncandle here, and we must take the risk of a small light to make a course\nby the boat compass. There is not enough wind to blow it out--may the\ncurse of Heaven fall upon this blind gulf!\"\n\nA small flame appeared burning quite straight. It showed fragmentarily\nthe stout ribs and planking in the hollow, empty part of the lighter.\nDecoud could see Nostromo standing up to pull. He saw him as high as the\nred sash on his waist, with a gleam of a white-handled revolver and the\nwooden haft of a long knife protruding on his left side. Decoud nerved\nhimself for the effort of rowing. Certainly there was not enough wind to\nblow the candle out, but its flame swayed a little to the slow movement\nof the heavy boat. It was so big that with their utmost efforts\nthey could not move it quicker than about a mile an hour. This was\nsufficient, however, to sweep them amongst the Isabels long before\ndaylight came. There was a good six hours of darkness before them, and\nthe distance from the harbour to the Great Isabel did not exceed two\nmiles. Decoud put this heavy toil to the account of the Capataz's\nimpatience. Sometimes they paused, and then strained their ears to hear\nthe boat from Esmeralda. In this perfect quietness a steamer moving\nwould have been heard from far off. As to seeing anything it was out of\nthe question. They could not see each other. Even the lighter's sail,\nwhich remained set, was invisible. Very often they rested.\n\n\"Caramba!\" said Nostromo, suddenly, during one of those intervals when\nthey lolled idly against the heavy handles of the sweeps. \"What is it?\nAre you distressed, Don Martin?\"\n\nDecoud assured him that he was not distressed in the least. Nostromo\nfor a time kept perfectly still, and then in a whisper invited Martin to\ncome aft.\n\nWith his lips touching Decoud's ear he declared his belief that there\nwas somebody else besides themselves upon the lighter. Twice now he had\nheard the sound of stifled sobbing.\n\n\"Senor,\" he whispered with awed wonder, \"I am certain that there is\nsomebody weeping in this lighter.\"\n\nDecoud had heard nothing. He expressed his incredulity. However, it was\neasy to ascertain the truth of the matter.\n\n\"It is most amazing,\" muttered Nostromo. \"Could anybody have concealed\nhimself on board while the lighter was lying alongside the wharf?\"\n\n\"And you say it was like sobbing?\" asked Decoud, lowering his voice,\ntoo. \"If he is weeping, whoever he is he cannot be very dangerous.\"\n\nClambering over the precious pile in the middle, they crouched low on\nthe foreside of the mast and groped under the half-deck. Right forward,\nin the narrowest part, their hands came upon the limbs of a man, who\nremained as silent as death. Too startled themselves to make a sound,\nthey dragged him aft by one arm and the collar of his coat. He was\nlimp--lifeless.\n\nThe light of the bit of candle fell upon a round, hook-nosed face with\nblack moustaches and little side-whiskers. He was extremely dirty. A\ngreasy growth of beard was sprouting on the shaven parts of the cheeks.\nThe thick lips were slightly parted, but the eyes remained closed.\nDecoud, to his immense astonishment, recognized Senor Hirsch, the hide\nmerchant from Esmeralda. Nostromo, too, had recognized him. And they\ngazed at each other across the body, lying with its naked feet higher\nthan its head, in an absurd pretence of sleep, faintness, or death.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nFor a moment, before this extraordinary find, they forgot their own\nconcerns and sensations. Senor Hirsch's sensations as he lay there must\nhave been those of extreme terror. For a long time he refused to give\na sign of life, till at last Decoud's objurgations, and, perhaps more,\nNostromo's impatient suggestion that he should be thrown overboard, as\nhe seemed to be dead, induced him to raise one eyelid first, and then\nthe other.\n\nIt appeared that he had never found a safe opportunity to leave Sulaco.\nHe lodged with Anzani, the universal storekeeper, on the Plaza Mayor.\nBut when the riot broke out he had made his escape from his host's house\nbefore daylight, and in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put on his\nshoes. He had run out impulsively in his socks, and with his hat in his\nhand, into the garden of Anzani's house. Fear gave him the necessary\nagility to climb over several low walls, and afterwards he blundered\ninto the overgrown cloisters of the ruined Franciscan convent in one of\nthe by-streets. He forced himself into the midst of matted bushes with\nthe recklessness of desperation, and this accounted for his scratched\nbody and his torn clothing. He lay hidden there all day, his tongue\ncleaving to the roof of his mouth with all the intensity of thirst\nengendered by heat and fear. Three times different bands of men invaded\nthe place with shouts and imprecations, looking for Father Corbelan; but\ntowards the evening, still lying on his face in the bushes, he thought\nhe would die from the fear of silence. He was not very clear as to what\nhad induced him to leave the place, but evidently he had got out\nand slunk successfully out of town along the deserted back lanes. He\nwandered in the darkness near the railway, so maddened by apprehension\nthat he dared not even approach the fires of the pickets of Italian\nworkmen guarding the line. He had a vague idea evidently of finding\nrefuge in the railway yards, but the dogs rushed upon him, barking; men\nbegan to shout; a shot was fired at random. He fled away from the gates.\nBy the merest accident, as it happened, he took the direction of the\nO.S.N. Company's offices. Twice he stumbled upon the bodies of men\nkilled during the day. But everything living frightened him much more.\nHe crouched, crept, crawled, made dashes, guided by a sort of animal\ninstinct, keeping away from every light and from every sound of voices.\nHis idea was to throw himself at the feet of Captain Mitchell and\nbeg for shelter in the Company's offices. It was all dark there as\nhe approached on his hands and knees, but suddenly someone on guard\nchallenged loudly, \"Quien vive?\" There were more dead men lying about,\nand he flattened himself down at once by the side of a cold corpse. He\nheard a voice saying, \"Here is one of those wounded rascals crawling\nabout. Shall I go and finish him?\" And another voice objected that it\nwas not safe to go out without a lantern upon such an errand; perhaps it\nwas only some negro Liberal looking for a chance to stick a knife into\nthe stomach of an honest man. Hirsch didn't stay to hear any more, but\ncrawling away to the end of the wharf, hid himself amongst a lot of\nempty casks. After a while some people came along, talking, and with\nglowing cigarettes. He did not stop to ask himself whether they would be\nlikely to do him any harm, but bolted incontinently along the jetty,\nsaw a lighter lying moored at the end, and threw himself into it. In his\ndesire to find cover he crept right forward under the half-deck, and he\nhad remained there more dead than alive, suffering agonies of hunger\nand thirst, and almost fainting with terror, when he heard numerous\nfootsteps and the voices of the Europeans who came in a body escorting\nthe wagonload of treasure, pushed along the rails by a squad of\nCargadores. He understood perfectly what was being done from the talk,\nbut did not disclose his presence from the fear that he would not\nbe allowed to remain. His only idea at the time, overpowering and\nmasterful, was to get away from this terrible Sulaco. And now he\nregretted it very much. He had heard Nostromo talk to Decoud, and wished\nhimself back on shore. He did not desire to be involved in any desperate\naffair--in a situation where one could not run away. The involuntary\ngroans of his anguished spirit had betrayed him to the sharp ears of the\nCapataz.\n\nThey had propped him up in a sitting posture against the side of the\nlighter, and he went on with the moaning account of his adventures till\nhis voice broke, his head fell forward. \"Water,\" he whispered, with\ndifficulty. Decoud held one of the cans to his lips. He revived after\nan extraordinarily short time, and scrambled up to his feet wildly.\nNostromo, in an angry and threatening voice, ordered him forward. Hirsch\nwas one of those men whom fear lashes like a whip, and he must have\nhad an appalling idea of the Capataz's ferocity. He displayed an\nextraordinary agility in disappearing forward into the darkness. They\nheard him getting over the tarpaulin; then there was the sound of a\nheavy fall, followed by a weary sigh. Afterwards all was still in\nthe fore-part of the lighter, as though he had killed himself in his\nheadlong tumble. Nostromo shouted in a menacing voice--\n\n\"Lie still there! Do not move a limb. If I hear as much as a loud breath\nfrom you I shall come over there and put a bullet through your head.\"\n\nThe mere presence of a coward, however passive, brings an element of\ntreachery into a dangerous situation. Nostromo's nervous impatience\npassed into gloomy thoughtfulness. Decoud, in an undertone, as if\nspeaking to himself, remarked that, after all, this bizarre event made\nno great difference. He could not conceive what harm the man could\ndo. At most he would be in the way, like an inanimate and useless\nobject--like a block of wood, for instance.\n\n\"I would think twice before getting rid of a piece of wood,\" said\nNostromo, calmly. \"Something may happen unexpectedly where you could\nmake use of it. But in an affair like ours a man like this ought to be\nthrown overboard. Even if he were as brave as a lion we would not want\nhim here. We are not running away for our lives. Senor, there is no harm\nin a brave man trying to save himself with ingenuity and courage; but\nyou have heard his tale, Don Martin. His being here is a miracle of\nfear--\" Nostromo paused. \"There is no room for fear in this lighter,\" he\nadded through his teeth.\n\nDecoud had no answer to make. It was not a position for argument, for a\ndisplay of scruples or feelings. There were a thousand ways in which\na panic-stricken man could make himself dangerous. It was evident\nthat Hirsch could not be spoken to, reasoned with, or persuaded into a\nrational line of conduct. The story of his own escape demonstrated that\nclearly enough. Decoud thought that it was a thousand pities the wretch\nhad not died of fright. Nature, who had made him what he was, seemed to\nhave calculated cruelly how much he could bear in the way of atrocious\nanguish without actually expiring. Some compassion was due to so much\nterror. Decoud, though imaginative enough for sympathy, resolved not\nto interfere with any action that Nostromo would take. But Nostromo did\nnothing. And the fate of Senor Hirsch remained suspended in the darkness\nof the gulf at the mercy of events which could not be foreseen.\n\nThe Capataz, extending his hand, put out the candle suddenly. It was to\nDecoud as if his companion had destroyed, by a single touch, the world\nof affairs, of loves, of revolution, where his complacent superiority\nanalyzed fearlessly all motives and all passions, including his own.\n\nHe gasped a little. Decoud was affected by the novelty of his position.\nIntellectually self-confident, he suffered from being deprived of the\nonly weapon he could use with effect. No intelligence could penetrate\nthe darkness of the Placid Gulf. There remained only one thing he was\ncertain of, and that was the overweening vanity of his companion. It was\ndirect, uncomplicated, naive, and effectual. Decoud, who had been\nmaking use of him, had tried to understand his man thoroughly. He\nhad discovered a complete singleness of motive behind the varied\nmanifestations of a consistent character. This was why the man remained\nso astonishingly simple in the jealous greatness of his conceit. And now\nthere was a complication. It was evident that he resented having been\ngiven a task in which there were so many chances of failure. \"I wonder,\"\nthought Decoud, \"how he would behave if I were not here.\"\n\nHe heard Nostromo mutter again, \"No! there is no room for fear on this\nlighter. Courage itself does not seem good enough. I have a good eye and\na steady hand; no man can say he ever saw me tired or uncertain what to\ndo; but por Dios, Don Martin, I have been sent out into this black calm\non a business where neither a good eye, nor a steady hand, nor judgment\nare any use. . . .\" He swore a string of oaths in Spanish and Italian\nunder his breath. \"Nothing but sheer desperation will do for this\naffair.\"\n\nThese words were in strange contrast to the prevailing peace--to\nthis almost solid stillness of the gulf. A shower fell with an abrupt\nwhispering sound all round the boat, and Decoud took off his hat, and,\nletting his head get wet, felt greatly refreshed. Presently a steady\nlittle draught of air caressed his cheek. The lighter began to move,\nbut the shower distanced it. The drops ceased to fall upon his head and\nhands, the whispering died out in the distance. Nostromo emitted a grunt\nof satisfaction, and grasping the tiller, chirruped softly, as sailors\ndo, to encourage the wind. Never for the last three days had Decoud felt\nless the need for what the Capataz would call desperation.\n\n\"I fancy I hear another shower on the water,\" he observed in a tone of\nquiet content. \"I hope it will catch us up.\"\n\nNostromo ceased chirruping at once. \"You hear another shower?\" he said,\ndoubtfully. A sort of thinning of the darkness seemed to have taken\nplace, and Decoud could see now the outline of his companion's figure,\nand even the sail came out of the night like a square block of dense\nsnow.\n\nThe sound which Decoud had detected came along the water harshly.\nNostromo recognized that noise partaking of a hiss and a rustle which\nspreads out on all sides of a steamer making her way through a smooth\nwater on a quiet night. It could be nothing else but the captured\ntransport with troops from Esmeralda. She carried no lights. The noise\nof her steaming, growing louder every minute, would stop at times\naltogether, and then begin again abruptly, and sound startlingly nearer;\nas if that invisible vessel, whose position could not be precisely\nguessed, were making straight for the lighter. Meantime, that last kept\non sailing slowly and noiselessly before a breeze so faint that it was\nonly by leaning over the side and feeling the water slip through his\nfingers that Decoud convinced himself they were moving at all. His\ndrowsy feeling had departed. He was glad to know that the lighter\nwas moving. After so much stillness the noise of the steamer seemed\nuproarious and distracting. There was a weirdness in not being able to\nsee her. Suddenly all was still. She had stopped, but so close to them\nthat the steam, blowing off, sent its rumbling vibration right over\ntheir heads.\n\n\"They are trying to make out where they are,\" said Decoud in a whisper.\nAgain he leaned over and put his fingers into the water. \"We are moving\nquite smartly,\" he informed Nostromo.\n\n\"We seem to be crossing her bows,\" said the Capataz in a cautious tone.\n\"But this is a blind game with death. Moving on is of no use. We mustn't\nbe seen or heard.\"\n\nHis whisper was hoarse with excitement. Of all his face there was\nnothing visible but a gleam of white eyeballs. His fingers gripped\nDecoud's shoulder. \"That is the only way to save this treasure from this\nsteamer full of soldiers. Any other would have carried lights. But you\nobserve there is not a gleam to show us where she is.\"\n\nDecoud stood as if paralyzed; only his thoughts were wildly active. In\nthe space of a second he remembered the desolate glance of Antonia as he\nleft her at the bedside of her father in the gloomy house of Avellanos,\nwith shuttered windows, but all the doors standing open, and deserted by\nall the servants except an old negro at the gate. He remembered the\nCasa Gould on his last visit, the arguments, the tones of his voice,\nthe impenetrable attitude of Charles, Mrs. Gould's face so blanched\nwith anxiety and fatigue that her eyes seemed to have changed colour,\nappearing nearly black by contrast. Even whole sentences of the\nproclamation which he meant to make Barrios issue from his headquarters\nat Cayta as soon as he got there passed through his mind; the very germ\nof the new State, the Separationist proclamation which he had tried\nbefore he left to read hurriedly to Don Jose, stretched out on his\nbed under the fixed gaze of his daughter. God knows whether the\nold statesman had understood it; he was unable to speak, but he had\ncertainly lifted his arm off the coverlet; his hand had moved as if\nto make the sign of the cross in the air, a gesture of blessing, of\nconsent. Decoud had that very draft in his pocket, written in pencil\non several loose sheets of paper, with the heavily-printed heading,\n\"Administration of the San Tome Silver Mine. Sulaco. Republic of\nCostaguana.\" He had written it furiously, snatching page after page\non Charles Gould's table. Mrs. Gould had looked several times over\nhis shoulder as he wrote; but the Senor Administrador, standing\nstraddle-legged, would not even glance at it when it was finished. He\nhad waved it away firmly. It must have been scorn, and not caution,\nsince he never made a remark about the use of the Administration's paper\nfor such a compromising document. And that showed his disdain, the true\nEnglish disdain of common prudence, as if everything outside the range\nof their own thoughts and feelings were unworthy of serious recognition.\nDecoud had the time in a second or two to become furiously angry with\nCharles Gould, and even resentful against Mrs. Gould, in whose care,\ntacitly it is true, he had left the safety of Antonia. Better perish a\nthousand times than owe your preservation to such people, he exclaimed\nmentally. The grip of Nostromo's fingers never removed from his\nshoulder, tightening fiercely, recalled him to himself.\n\n\"The darkness is our friend,\" the Capataz murmured into his ear. \"I am\ngoing to lower the sail, and trust our escape to this black gulf. No\neyes could make us out lying silent with a naked mast. I will do it\nnow, before this steamer closes still more upon us. The faint creak of a\nblock would betray us and the San Tome treasure into the hands of those\nthieves.\"\n\nHe moved about as warily as a cat. Decoud heard no sound; and it was\nonly by the disappearance of the square blotch of darkness that he knew\nthe yard had come down, lowered as carefully as if it had been made of\nglass. Next moment he heard Nostromo's quiet breathing by his side.\n\n\"You had better not move at all from where you are, Don Martin,\" advised\nthe Capataz, earnestly. \"You might stumble or displace something which\nwould make a noise. The sweeps and the punting poles are lying about.\nMove not for your life. Por Dios, Don Martin,\" he went on in a keen but\nfriendly whisper, \"I am so desperate that if I didn't know your worship\nto be a man of courage, capable of standing stock still whatever\nhappens, I would drive my knife into your heart.\"\n\nA deathlike stillness surrounded the lighter. It was difficult to\nbelieve that there was near a steamer full of men with many pairs of\neyes peering from her bridge for some hint of land in the night. Her\nsteam had ceased blowing off, and she remained stopped too far off\napparently for any other sound to reach the lighter.\n\n\"Perhaps you would, Capataz,\" Decoud began in a whisper. \"However, you\nneed not trouble. There are other things than the fear of your knife\nto keep my heart steady. It shall not betray you. Only, have you\nforgotten--\"\n\n\"I spoke to you openly as to a man as desperate as myself,\" explained\nthe Capataz. \"The silver must be saved from the Monterists. I told\nCaptain Mitchell three times that I preferred to go alone. I told Don\nCarlos Gould, too. It was in the Casa Gould. They had sent for me. The\nladies were there; and when I tried to explain why I did not wish to\nhave you with me, they promised me, both of them, great rewards for your\nsafety. A strange way to talk to a man you are sending out to an almost\ncertain death. Those gentlefolk do not seem to have sense enough to\nunderstand what they are giving one to do. I told them I could do\nnothing for you. You would have been safer with the bandit Hernandez.\nIt would have been possible to ride out of the town with no greater risk\nthan a chance shot sent after you in the dark. But it was as if they had\nbeen deaf. I had to promise I would wait for you under the harbour gate.\nI did wait. And now because you are a brave man you are as safe as the\nsilver. Neither more nor less.\"\n\nAt that moment, as if by way of comment upon Nostromo's words, the\ninvisible steamer went ahead at half speed only, as could be judged\nby the leisurely beat of her propeller. The sound shifted its place\nmarkedly, but without coming nearer. It even grew a little more distant\nright abeam of the lighter, and then ceased again.\n\n\"They are trying for a sight of the Isabels,\" muttered Nostromo, \"in\norder to make for the harbour in a straight line and seize the Custom\nHouse with the treasure in it. Have you ever seen the Commandant of\nEsmeralda, Sotillo? A handsome fellow, with a soft voice. When I first\ncame here I used to see him in the Calle talking to the senoritas at the\nwindows of the houses, and showing his white teeth all the time. But\none of my Cargadores, who had been a soldier, told me that he had once\nordered a man to be flayed alive in the remote Campo, where he was sent\nrecruiting amongst the people of the Estancias. It has never entered his\nhead that the Compania had a man capable of baffling his game.\"\n\nThe murmuring loquacity of the Capataz disturbed Decoud like a hint\nof weakness. And yet, talkative resolution may be as genuine as grim\nsilence.\n\n\"Sotillo is not baffled so far,\" he said. \"Have you forgotten that crazy\nman forward?\"\n\nNostromo had not forgotten Senor Hirsch. He reproached himself bitterly\nfor not having visited the lighter carefully before leaving the wharf.\nHe reproached himself for not having stabbed and flung Hirsch overboard\nat the very moment of discovery without even looking at his face. That\nwould have been consistent with the desperate character of the affair.\nWhatever happened, Sotillo was already baffled. Even if that wretch, now\nas silent as death, did anything to betray the nearness of the lighter,\nSotillo--if Sotillo it was in command of the troops on board--would be\nstill baffled of his plunder.\n\n\"I have an axe in my hand,\" Nostromo whispered, wrathfully, \"that in\nthree strokes would cut through the side down to the water's edge.\nMoreover, each lighter has a plug in the stern, and I know exactly where\nit is. I feel it under the sole of my foot.\"\n\nDecoud recognized the ring of genuine determination in the nervous\nmurmurs, the vindictive excitement of the famous Capataz. Before the\nsteamer, guided by a shriek or two (for there could be no more than\nthat, Nostromo said, gnashing his teeth audibly), could find the lighter\nthere would be plenty of time to sink this treasure tied up round his\nneck.\n\nThe last words he hissed into Decoud's ear. Decoud said nothing. He was\nperfectly convinced. The usual characteristic quietness of the man was\ngone. It was not equal to the situation as he conceived it. Something\ndeeper, something unsuspected by everyone, had come to the surface.\nDecoud, with careful movements, slipped off his overcoat and divested\nhimself of his boots; he did not consider himself bound in honour to\nsink with the treasure. His object was to get down to Barrios, in Cayta,\nas the Capataz knew very well; and he, too, meant, in his own way,\nto put into that attempt all the desperation of which he was capable.\nNostromo muttered, \"True, true! You are a politician, senor. Rejoin the\narmy, and start another revolution.\" He pointed out, however, that there\nwas a little boat belonging to every lighter fit to carry two men, if\nnot more. Theirs was towing behind.\n\nOf that Decoud had not been aware. Of course, it was too dark to see,\nand it was only when Nostromo put his hand upon its painter fastened to\na cleat in the stern that he experienced a full measure of relief. The\nprospect of finding himself in the water and swimming, overwhelmed\nby ignorance and darkness, probably in a circle, till he sank from\nexhaustion, was revolting. The barren and cruel futility of such an end\nintimidated his affectation of careless pessimism. In comparison to it,\nthe chance of being left floating in a boat, exposed to thirst, hunger,\ndiscovery, imprisonment, execution, presented itself with an aspect of\namenity worth securing even at the cost of some self-contempt. He did\nnot accept Nostromo's proposal that he should get into the boat at\nonce. \"Something sudden may overwhelm us, senor,\" the Capataz remarked\npromising faithfully, at the same time, to let go the painter at the\nmoment when the necessity became manifest.\n\nBut Decoud assured him lightly that he did not mean to take to the boat\ntill the very last moment, and that then he meant the Capataz to come\nalong, too. The darkness of the gulf was no longer for him the end of\nall things. It was part of a living world since, pervading it, failure\nand death could be felt at your elbow. And at the same time it was a\nshelter. He exulted in its impenetrable obscurity. \"Like a wall, like a\nwall,\" he muttered to himself.\n\nThe only thing which checked his confidence was the thought of Senor\nHirsch. Not to have bound and gagged him seemed to Decoud now the height\nof improvident folly. As long as the miserable creature had the power to\nraise a yell he was a constant danger. His abject terror was mute now,\nbut there was no saying from what cause it might suddenly find vent in\nshrieks.\n\nThis very madness of fear which both Decoud and Nostromo had seen in\nthe wild and irrational glances, and in the continuous twitchings of\nhis mouth, protected Senor Hirsch from the cruel necessities of this\ndesperate affair. The moment of silencing him for ever had passed. As\nNostromo remarked, in answer to Decoud's regrets, it was too late! It\ncould not be done without noise, especially in the ignorance of the\nman's exact position. Wherever he had elected to crouch and tremble, it\nwas too hazardous to go near him. He would begin probably to yell for\nmercy. It was much better to leave him quite alone since he was keeping\nso still. But to trust to his silence became every moment a greater\nstrain upon Decoud's composure.\n\n\"I wish, Capataz, you had not let the right moment pass,\" he murmured.\n\n\"What! To silence him for ever? I thought it good to hear first how he\ncame to be here. It was too strange. Who could imagine that it was\nall an accident? Afterwards, senor, when I saw you giving him water to\ndrink, I could not do it. Not after I had seen you holding up the can to\nhis lips as though he were your brother. Senor, that sort of necessity\nmust not be thought of too long. And yet it would have been no cruelty\nto take away from him his wretched life. It is nothing but fear. Your\ncompassion saved him then, Don Martin, and now it is too late. It\ncouldn't be done without noise.\"\n\nIn the steamer they were keeping a perfect silence, and the stillness\nwas so profound that Decoud felt as if the slightest sound conceivable\nmust travel unchecked and audible to the end of the world. What if\nHirsch coughed or sneezed? To feel himself at the mercy of such an\nidiotic contingency was too exasperating to be looked upon with irony.\nNostromo, too, seemed to be getting restless. Was it possible, he\nasked himself, that the steamer, finding the night too dark altogether,\nintended to remain stopped where she was till daylight? He began to\nthink that this, after all, was the real danger. He was afraid that\nthe darkness, which was his protection, would, in the end, cause his\nundoing.\n\nSotillo, as Nostromo had surmised, was in command on board the\ntransport. The events of the last forty-eight hours in Sulaco were not\nknown to him; neither was he aware that the telegraphist in Esmeralda\nhad managed to warn his colleague in Sulaco. Like a good many officers\nof the troops garrisoning the province, Sotillo had been influenced\nin his adoption of the Ribierist cause by the belief that it had the\nenormous wealth of the Gould Concession on its side. He had been one\nof the frequenters of the Casa Gould, where he had aired his Blanco\nconvictions and his ardour for reform before Don Jose Avellanos, casting\nfrank, honest glances towards Mrs. Gould and Antonia the while. He was\nknown to belong to a good family persecuted and impoverished during the\ntyranny of Guzman Bento. The opinions he expressed appeared eminently\nnatural and proper in a man of his parentage and antecedents. And he\nwas not a deceiver; it was perfectly natural for him to express elevated\nsentiments while his whole faculties were taken up with what seemed then\na solid and practical notion--the notion that the husband of Antonia\nAvellanos would be, naturally, the intimate friend of the Gould\nConcession. He even pointed this out to Anzani once, when negotiating\nthe sixth or seventh small loan in the gloomy, damp apartment with\nenormous iron bars, behind the principal shop in the whole row under the\nArcades. He hinted to the universal shopkeeper at the excellent terms\nhe was on with the emancipated senorita, who was like a sister to the\nEnglishwoman. He would advance one leg and put his arms akimbo, posing\nfor Anzani's inspection, and fixing him with a haughty stare.\n\n\"Look, miserable shopkeeper! How can a man like me fail with any woman,\nlet alone an emancipated girl living in scandalous freedom?\" he seemed\nto say.\n\nHis manner in the Casa Gould was, of course, very different--devoid of\nall truculence, and even slightly mournful. Like most of his countrymen,\nhe was carried away by the sound of fine words, especially if uttered\nby himself. He had no convictions of any sort upon anything except as to\nthe irresistible power of his personal advantages. But that was so\nfirm that even Decoud's appearance in Sulaco, and his intimacy with\nthe Goulds and the Avellanos, did not disquiet him. On the contrary,\nhe tried to make friends with that rich Costaguanero from Europe in the\nhope of borrowing a large sum by-and-by. The only guiding motive of\nhis life was to get money for the satisfaction of his expensive tastes,\nwhich he indulged recklessly, having no self-control. He imagined\nhimself a master of intrigue, but his corruption was as simple as an\nanimal instinct. At times, in solitude, he had his moments of ferocity,\nand also on such occasions as, for instance, when alone in a room with\nAnzani trying to get a loan.\n\nHe had talked himself into the command of the Esmeralda garrison. That\nsmall seaport had its importance as the station of the main submarine\ncable connecting the Occidental Provinces with the outer world, and the\njunction with it of the Sulaco branch. Don Jose Avellanos proposed him,\nand Barrios, with a rude and jeering guffaw, had said, \"Oh, let Sotillo\ngo. He is a very good man to keep guard over the cable, and the ladies\nof Esmeralda ought to have their turn.\" Barrios, an indubitably brave\nman, had no great opinion of Sotillo.\n\nIt was through the Esmeralda cable alone that the San Tome mine could\nbe kept in constant touch with the great financier, whose tacit approval\nmade the strength of the Ribierist movement. This movement had its\nadversaries even there. Sotillo governed Esmeralda with repressive\nseverity till the adverse course of events upon the distant theatre\nof civil war forced upon him the reflection that, after all, the great\nsilver mine was fated to become the spoil of the victors. But caution\nwas necessary. He began by assuming a dark and mysterious attitude\ntowards the faithful Ribierist municipality of Esmeralda. Later on, the\ninformation that the commandant was holding assemblies of officers in\nthe dead of night (which had leaked out somehow) caused those gentlemen\nto neglect their civil duties altogether, and remain shut up in their\nhouses. Suddenly one day all the letters from Sulaco by the overland\ncourier were carried off by a file of soldiers from the post office to\nthe Commandancia, without disguise, concealment, or apology. Sotillo had\nheard through Cayta of the final defeat of Ribiera.\n\nThis was the first open sign of the change in his convictions. Presently\nnotorious democrats, who had been living till then in constant fear of\narrest, leg irons, and even floggings, could be observed going in and\nout at the great door of the Commandancia, where the horses of the\norderlies doze under their heavy saddles, while the men, in ragged\nuniforms and pointed straw hats, lounge on a bench, with their naked\nfeet stuck out beyond the strip of shade; and a sentry, in a red baize\ncoat with holes at the elbows, stands at the top of the steps glaring\nhaughtily at the common people, who uncover their heads to him as they\npass.\n\nSotillo's ideas did not soar above the care for his personal safety and\nthe chance of plundering the town in his charge, but he feared that such\na late adhesion would earn but scant gratitude from the victors. He had\nbelieved just a little too long in the power of the San Tome mine. The\nseized correspondence had confirmed his previous information of a\nlarge amount of silver ingots lying in the Sulaco Custom House. To gain\npossession of it would be a clear Monterist move; a sort of service that\nwould have to be rewarded. With the silver in his hands he could make\nterms for himself and his soldiers. He was aware neither of the riots,\nnor of the President's escape to Sulaco and the close pursuit led by\nMontero's brother, the guerrillero. The game seemed in his own hands.\nThe initial moves were the seizure of the cable telegraph office and the\nsecuring of the Government steamer lying in the narrow creek which is\nthe harbour of Esmeralda. The last was effected without difficulty by\na company of soldiers swarming with a rush over the gangways as she\nlay alongside the quay; but the lieutenant charged with the duty of\narresting the telegraphist halted on the way before the only cafe in\nEsmeralda, where he distributed some brandy to his men, and refreshed\nhimself at the expense of the owner, a known Ribierist. The whole party\nbecame intoxicated, and proceeded on their mission up the street yelling\nand firing random shots at the windows. This little festivity, which\nmight have turned out dangerous to the telegraphist's life, enabled him\nin the end to send his warning to Sulaco. The lieutenant, staggering\nupstairs with a drawn sabre, was before long kissing him on both\ncheeks in one of those swift changes of mood peculiar to a state of\ndrunkenness. He clasped the telegraphist close round the neck, assuring\nhim that all the officers of the Esmeralda garrison were going to be\nmade colonels, while tears of happiness streamed down his sodden face.\nThus it came about that the town major, coming along later, found the\nwhole party sleeping on the stairs and in passages, and the telegraphist\n(who scorned this chance of escape) very busy clicking the key of the\ntransmitter. The major led him away bareheaded, with his hands tied\nbehind his back, but concealed the truth from Sotillo, who remained in\nignorance of the warning despatched to Sulaco.\n\nThe colonel was not the man to let any sort of darkness stand in the way\nof the planned surprise. It appeared to him a dead certainty; his heart\nwas set upon his object with an ungovernable, childlike impatience. Ever\nsince the steamer had rounded Punta Mala, to enter the deeper shadow\nof the gulf, he had remained on the bridge in a group of officers as\nexcited as himself. Distracted between the coaxings and menaces of\nSotillo and his Staff, the miserable commander of the steamer kept her\nmoving with as much prudence as they would let him exercise. Some of\nthem had been drinking heavily, no doubt; but the prospect of laying\nhands on so much wealth made them absurdly foolhardy, and, at the same\ntime, extremely anxious. The old major of the battalion, a stupid,\nsuspicious man, who had never been afloat in his life, distinguished\nhimself by putting out suddenly the binnacle light, the only one allowed\non board for the necessities of navigation. He could not understand of\nwhat use it could be for finding the way. To the vehement protestations\nof the ship's captain, he stamped his foot and tapped the handle of\nhis sword. \"Aha! I have unmasked you,\" he cried, triumphantly. \"You are\ntearing your hair from despair at my acuteness. Am I a child to believe\nthat a light in that brass box can show you where the harbour is? I am\nan old soldier, I am. I can smell a traitor a league off. You wanted\nthat gleam to betray our approach to your friend the Englishman. A thing\nlike that show you the way! What a miserable lie! Que picardia! You\nSulaco people are all in the pay of those foreigners. You deserve to\nbe run through the body with my sword.\" Other officers, crowding round,\ntried to calm his indignation, repeating persuasively, \"No, no! This is\nan appliance of the mariners, major. This is no treachery.\" The captain\nof the transport flung himself face downwards on the bridge, and refused\nto rise. \"Put an end to me at once,\" he repeated in a stifled voice.\nSotillo had to interfere.\n\nThe uproar and confusion on the bridge became so great that the helmsman\nfled from the wheel. He took refuge in the engine-room, and alarmed the\nengineers, who, disregarding the threats of the soldiers set on guard\nover them, stopped the engines, protesting that they would rather be\nshot than run the risk of being drowned down below.\n\nThis was the first time Nostromo and Decoud heard the steamer stop.\nAfter order had been restored, and the binnacle lamp relighted, she went\nahead again, passing wide of the lighter in her search for the Isabels.\nThe group could not be made out, and, at the pitiful entreaties of the\ncaptain, Sotillo allowed the engines to be stopped again to wait for one\nof those periodical lightenings of darkness caused by the shifting of\nthe cloud canopy spread above the waters of the gulf.\n\nSotillo, on the bridge, muttered from time to time angrily to the\ncaptain. The other, in an apologetic and cringing tone, begged su merced\nthe colonel to take into consideration the limitations put upon human\nfaculties by the darkness of the night. Sotillo swelled with rage and\nimpatience. It was the chance of a lifetime.\n\n\"If your eyes are of no more use to you than this, I shall have them put\nout,\" he yelled.\n\nThe captain of the steamer made no answer, for just then the mass of the\nGreat Isabel loomed up darkly after a passing shower, then vanished, as\nif swept away by a wave of greater obscurity preceding another downpour.\nThis was enough for him. In the voice of a man come back to life again,\nhe informed Sotillo that in an hour he would be alongside the Sulaco\nwharf. The ship was put then full speed on the course, and a great\nbustle of preparation for landing arose among the soldiers on her deck.\n\nIt was heard distinctly by Decoud and Nostromo. The Capataz understood\nits meaning. They had made out the Isabels, and were going on now in\na straight line for Sulaco. He judged that they would pass close; but\nbelieved that lying still like this, with the sail lowered, the lighter\ncould not be seen. \"No, not even if they rubbed sides with us,\" he\nmuttered.\n\nThe rain began to fall again; first like a wet mist, then with a heavier\ntouch, thickening into a smart, perpendicular downpour; and the hiss and\nthump of the approaching steamer was coming extremely near. Decoud,\nwith his eyes full of water, and lowered head, asked himself how long\nit would be before she drew past, when unexpectedly he felt a lurch.\nAn inrush of foam broke swishing over the stern, simultaneously with\na crack of timbers and a staggering shock. He had the impression of\nan angry hand laying hold of the lighter and dragging it along to\ndestruction. The shock, of course, had knocked him down, and he found\nhimself rolling in a lot of water at the bottom of the lighter. A\nviolent churning went on alongside; a strange and amazed voice cried out\nsomething above him in the night. He heard a piercing shriek for help\nfrom Senor Hirsch. He kept his teeth hard set all the time. It was a\ncollision!\n\nThe steamer had struck the lighter obliquely, heeling her over till she\nwas half swamped, starting some of her timbers, and swinging her head\nparallel to her own course with the force of the blow. The shock of\nit on board of her was hardly perceptible. All the violence of that\ncollision was, as usual, felt only on board the smaller craft. Even\nNostromo himself thought that this was perhaps the end of his desperate\nadventure. He, too, had been flung away from the long tiller, which\ntook charge in the lurch. Next moment the steamer would have passed on,\nleaving the lighter to sink or swim after having shouldered her thus out\nof her way, and without even getting a glimpse of her form, had it not\nbeen that, being deeply laden with stores and the great number of people\non board, her anchor was low enough to hook itself into one of the wire\nshrouds of the lighter's mast. For the space of two or three gasping\nbreaths that new rope held against the sudden strain. It was this that\ngave Decoud the sensation of the snatching pull, dragging the lighter\naway to destruction. The cause of it, of course, was inexplicable to\nhim. The whole thing was so sudden that he had no time to think. But all\nhis sensations were perfectly clear; he had kept complete possession of\nhimself; in fact, he was even pleasantly aware of that calmness at the\nvery moment of being pitched head first over the transom, to struggle\non his back in a lot of water. Senor Hirsch's shriek he had heard and\nrecognized while he was regaining his feet, always with that mysterious\nsensation of being dragged headlong through the darkness. Not a word,\nnot a cry escaped him; he had no time to see anything; and following\nupon the despairing screams for help, the dragging motion ceased so\nsuddenly that he staggered forward with open arms and fell against the\npile of the treasure boxes. He clung to them instinctively, in the\nvague apprehension of being flung about again; and immediately he heard\nanother lot of shrieks for help, prolonged and despairing, not near\nhim at all, but unaccountably in the distance, away from the lighter\naltogether, as if some spirit in the night were mocking at Senor\nHirsch's terror and despair.\n\nThen all was still--as still as when you wake up in your bed in a dark\nroom from a bizarre and agitated dream. The lighter rocked slightly; the\nrain was still falling. Two groping hands took hold of his bruised sides\nfrom behind, and the Capataz's voice whispered, in his ear, \"Silence,\nfor your life! Silence! The steamer has stopped.\"\n\nDecoud listened. The gulf was dumb. He felt the water nearly up to his\nknees. \"Are we sinking?\" he asked in a faint breath.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Nostromo breathed back to him. \"Senor, make not the\nslightest sound.\"\n\nHirsch, when ordered forward by Nostromo, had not returned into his\nfirst hiding-place. He had fallen near the mast, and had no strength to\nrise; moreover, he feared to move. He had given himself up for dead,\nbut not on any rational grounds. It was simply a cruel and terrifying\nfeeling. Whenever he tried to think what would become of him his teeth\nwould start chattering violently. He was too absorbed in the utter\nmisery of his fear to take notice of anything.\n\nThough he was stifling under the lighter's sail which Nostromo had\nunwittingly lowered on top of him, he did not even dare to put out his\nhead till the very moment of the steamer striking. Then, indeed, he\nleaped right out, spurred on to new miracles of bodily vigour by this\nnew shape of danger. The inrush of water when the lighter heeled over\nunsealed his lips. His shriek, \"Save me!\" was the first distinct warning\nof the collision for the people on board the steamer. Next moment the\nwire shroud parted, and the released anchor swept over the lighter's\nforecastle. It came against the breast of Senor Hirsch, who simply\nseized hold of it, without in the least knowing what it was, but curling\nhis arms and legs upon the part above the fluke with an invincible,\nunreasonable tenacity. The lighter yawed off wide, and the steamer,\nmoving on, carried him away, clinging hard, and shouting for help. It\nwas some time, however, after the steamer had stopped that his position\nwas discovered. His sustained yelping for help seemed to come from\nsomebody swimming in the water. At last a couple of men went over the\nbows and hauled him on board. He was carried straight off to Sotillo on\nthe bridge. His examination confirmed the impression that some craft had\nbeen run over and sunk, but it was impracticable on such a dark night\nto look for the positive proof of floating wreckage. Sotillo was more\nanxious than ever now to enter the harbour without loss of time; the\nidea that he had destroyed the principal object of his expedition was\ntoo intolerable to be accepted. This feeling made the story he had heard\nappear the more incredible. Senor Hirsch, after being beaten a little\nfor telling lies, was thrust into the chartroom. But he was beaten only\na little. His tale had taken the heart out of Sotillo's Staff, though\nthey all repeated round their chief, \"Impossible! impossible!\" with the\nexception of the old major, who triumphed gloomily.\n\n\"I told you; I told you,\" he mumbled. \"I could smell some treachery,\nsome diableria a league off.\"\n\nMeantime, the steamer had kept on her way towards Sulaco, where only the\ntruth of that matter could be ascertained. Decoud and Nostromo heard the\nloud churning of her propeller diminish and die out; and then, with no\nuseless words, busied themselves in making for the Isabels. The last\nshower had brought with it a gentle but steady breeze. The danger was\nnot over yet, and there was no time for talk. The lighter was leaking\nlike a sieve. They splashed in the water at every step. The Capataz put\ninto Decoud's hands the handle of the pump which was fitted at the side\naft, and at once, without question or remark, Decoud began to pump in\nutter forgetfulness of every desire but that of keeping the treasure\nafloat. Nostromo hoisted the sail, flew back to the tiller, pulled at\nthe sheet like mad. The short flare of a match (they had been kept\ndry in a tight tin box, though the man himself was completely wet),\ndisclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over\nthe box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew\nnow where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in\nthe shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is\ndivided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine.\n\nDecoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing\nfor a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was\nas if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak.\nThere was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the\ndamaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge,\nwhich was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have\nbecome completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock\nof the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same\nthing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim,\nin view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the\nprivate vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common\nidea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure,\ninvolved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had\nnothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible\ntruth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their\nmental and bodily powers.\n\nThere was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz\nmade the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape\nand the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine\nopens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out\nof the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and\nthe two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her\nprecious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet\nbeyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had\nmade below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like\na falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose\nstones.\n\nA couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone,\nexploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was\ndone, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down\nthe low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind\nmen aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth\nsense.\n\n\"Yes,\" Nostromo repeated, \"I never forget a place I have carefully\nlooked at once.\" He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a\nwhole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before\ndaylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this\nimprobable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step,\nupon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial\nfailure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation\nhe had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial\nsuccess. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had\nsubsided.\n\n\"You never know what may be of use,\" he pursued with his usual quietness\nof tone and manner. \"I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this\ncrumb of land.\"\n\n\"A misanthropic sort of occupation,\" muttered Decoud, viciously. \"You\nhad no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the\ngirls in your usual haunts, Capataz.\"\n\n\"_E vero!_\" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native\ntongue by so much perspicacity. \"I had not! Therefore I did not want\nto go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is\nlooked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men,\nand, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care\nfor cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having\nopened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of\nthem twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the\ngood people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by\nlistening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed\nI was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that\nparticular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house\nswearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch\naway my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more\nexasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good\nreputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I\nuntied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with\nnothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this\nisland. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool\nand sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke.\" He was silent\nfor a while, then added reflectively, \"That was the first Sunday after\nI brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the\nmountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the\ncoach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the\nmemory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty\npeons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my\ndirection. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the\nmaking of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were\nnot due till the end of the month.\"\n\nHe slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in\nthe brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost\namong the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff.\nAs often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part\nof the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned\nconsiderably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight\nas yet.\n\nThe cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly,\nhalf-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched\naway like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to\nthe grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a\ntree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine.\n\nThere was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received\nfrom Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell\nhad put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little\ndinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst\nthe bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a\nhiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The\nO.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into\nSulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president,\nhad taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was\npossible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the\nport altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew,\nwas for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that\nthere would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went;\nbut Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only\nshelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was,\nof course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he\nthought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour.\n\nHe passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades\nwhich belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting\nships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough\nto see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the\ncavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look\nas if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity,\nbut even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones,\nand even the broken bushes.\n\n\"Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure\nhere?\" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the\nspot. \"Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want\nwith this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the\nmainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even\nno fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that\nis done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are\nforced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do\nnot try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros,\nwhere they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold\nwatch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one\nwhatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever\nget on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must\nlook to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor,\nbefore you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be\nleft safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And\nsilver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value\nfor ever. . . . An incorruptible metal,\" he repeated, as if the idea had\ngiven him a profound pleasure.\n\n\"As some men are said to be,\" Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while\nthe Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden\nbucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash.\nDecoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but\nwith general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his\nenormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect\nof every virtue.\n\nNostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped\nthe bucket with a clatter into the lighter.\n\n\"Have you any message?\" he asked in a lowered voice. \"Remember, I shall\nbe asked questions.\"\n\n\"You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people\nin town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience,\nCapataz. You understand?\"\n\n\"Si, senor. . . . For the ladies.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Decoud, hastily. \"Your wonderful reputation will make\nthem attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you\nsay. I am looking forward,\" he continued, feeling the fatal touch of\ncontempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, \"I am\nlooking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do\nyou hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you\nspeak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and\nsuccessfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not\nonly this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out\nof it.\"\n\nNostromo detected the ironic tone. \"I dare say, Senor Don Martin,\" he\nsaid, moodily. \"There are very few things that I am not equal to.\nAsk the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always\nunderstand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here,\nlet me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not\nbeen with me at all.\"\n\nAn exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. \"Shall I go\nback with you to Sulaco?\" he asked in an angry tone.\n\n\"Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?\" retorted\nNostromo, contemptuously. \"It would be the same thing as taking you to\nSulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is\nbound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there\nhad been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me,\nsenor.\"\n\n\"You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me,\" Decoud almost\nshouted. \"You would have gone to the bottom with her.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" uttered Nostromo, slowly; \"alone.\"\n\nHere was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have\npreferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such\na man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on\nboard. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy\noar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a\ndream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his\nheart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon\nwhich she floated.\n\n\"What do you think has become of Hirsch?\" he shouted.\n\n\"Knocked overboard and drowned,\" cried Nostromo's voice confidently out\nof the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. \"Keep close in the\nravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two.\"\n\nA slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It\nfilled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud\nwent back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time\nto time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by\nlittle, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when\nhe turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a\nsolid wall.\n\nThen he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed\nheavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while\nthe man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality\naffecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz\nof the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct.\nNostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer\nstraight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and\nto try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or,\nas a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo\nwould find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores\nhad been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom\nHouse store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would\nbe arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what\nmanner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out.\n\nNostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at\nthis thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into\nthe wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very\nboat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely\nput Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in\nthe Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make\nhim speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by,\nHermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight\nrun of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The\nlighter must be sunk at once.\n\nHe allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good\ndeal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour\nentrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and\nbusied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very\nquickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make\nher go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash\nabout the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he\ncould make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a\ndesperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him,\nand he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of\nthe old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination\nthat this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after\nso many sleepless nights.\n\nWith one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the\nplug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the\nwater welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the\ntaffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only,\nhe stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a\nmighty splash.\n\nAt once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the\nmountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail,\na dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it\nvanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nDirectly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost\nin the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to\nprepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching\nSulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea.\n\nThis bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted\naction. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to\nthe newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town\nfrom the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty,\nCaptain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to\nwalk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up.\nThe engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian\nworkmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom\nHouse, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to\nthe four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely\nand faithfully during the famous \"three days\" of Sulaco. In a great part\nthis faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence\nrather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles\nGould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least\nloud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky\ncircumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen\nwith the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first.\n\nDoctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this\nretreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of\nthe army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions.\n\nAlgarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their\npenetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the\nfront of the house, made the letters of the inscription, \"Albergo\nd'ltalia Una,\" leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes\nblinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall,\nshepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of\nslanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The\ndoctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was\ndoing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on,\nfollowing the line of rails.\n\n\"Withdrawing your people from the harbour?\" said the doctor, addressing\nhimself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied\nCharles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the\nhorse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside\nthe open door to let the workmen cross the road.\n\n\"As quick as I can. We are not a political faction,\" answered the\nengineer, meaningly. \"And we are not going to give our new rulers a\nhandle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?\"\n\n\"Absolutely,\" said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside\nthe dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open\ndoor.\n\nWith Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other,\nthe engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with\neither. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops,\na great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended\nits property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave\nman; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce\nto the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes\nand Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the\nPlaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to\nthe table linen of the Amarilla Club.\n\nHe was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor,\nbusy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had\nnot had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had\ncommunicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to\nPedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured\nthem, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he\nanticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced\na rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies\nalso, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off\nto meet the great man. \"I have misled them a little as to the time,\" the\nchief engineer confessed. \"However hard he rides, he can scarcely get\nhere before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several\nhours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything\nabout Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try\nto get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome\nhim--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests\nthe remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too.\nI think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without\ncompromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to\nthemselves.\"\n\n\"Costaguana for the Costaguaneros,\" interjected the doctor,\nsardonically. \"It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of\nhates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country.\"\n\n\"Well, I am one of them,\" Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, \"and\nI must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven\nstraight on, doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls\nwith her.\"\n\nCharles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor\nindoors.\n\n\"That man is calmness personified,\" he said, appreciatively, dropping on\na bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly\nacross the doorway. \"He must be extremely sure of himself.\"\n\n\"If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing,\" said the\ndoctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed\nhis cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the\nelbow. \"It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of.\" The candle,\nhalf-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below\nhis inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices\nin the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated\nremorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon\nsinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he\nprotested.\n\n\"I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else.\nHowever----\"\n\nHe was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that\nsort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans\nof Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in\nMrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could\nbe no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty\nyears in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be\naltogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their\nactivities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden\nimperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years\nbefore, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical\nofficer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service\nof Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old\nDictator.\n\nAfterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the\ninnumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a\nstream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges,\ndiminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made\nno secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of\nthe Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great\nforests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources.\nBut it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected\nnothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests,\nwhich seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco,\nwhere it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of\nthe sea.\n\nIt was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the\narrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken\nup the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his\nsavage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was\nonly hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been\nacquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter\nwhat were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of\nthe San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized,\nbut not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such\nan outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of\njudgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of\nsome account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen\ninto disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the\nso-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends\namongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the\nwhole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure;\nit is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy\nexcept in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore,\nnothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished\nCostaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The\nprocedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like\na pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed\nkinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the\nonly one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties.\nHe had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders\nand a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him,\nas it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham,\na personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with\nreverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs.\nGould, remained somehow outside the pale.\n\nIt was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had\nlingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He\nhad come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the\nrailway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's\ninterest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The\nengineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated\nthe moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His\naustere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of\nfaithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had\nto fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a\nmore or less large share of booty.\n\n\"Poor old chap!\" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of\nTeresa. \"He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall\nbe sorry.\"\n\n\"He's quite alone up there,\" grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his\nheavy head towards the narrow staircase. \"Every living soul has cleared\nout, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be\nover-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I\ncan do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola,\nand as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I\nmade no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town.\"\n\n\"I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see\nwhether anything happens to-night at the harbour,\" declared the\nengineer-in-chief. \"He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who\nmay push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to\nme at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any\nof his friends here in the face I can't imagine.\"\n\n\"He'll no doubt begin by shooting some of them to get over the first\nawkwardness,\" said the doctor. \"Nothing in this country serves better\nyour military man who has changed sides than a few summary executions.\"\nHe spoke with a gloomy positiveness that left no room for protest. The\nengineer-in-chief did not attempt any. He simply nodded several times\nregretfully, then said--\n\n\"I think we shall be able to mount you in the morning, doctor. Our peons\nhave recovered some of our stampeded horses. By riding hard and taking\na wide circuit by Los Hatos and along the edge of the forest, clear of\nRincon altogether, you may hope to reach the San Tome bridge without\nbeing interfered with. The mine is just now, to my mind, the safest\nplace for anybody at all compromised. I only wish the railway was as\ndifficult to touch.\"\n\n\"Am I compromised?\" Doctor Monygham brought out slowly after a short\nsilence.\n\n\"The whole Gould Concession is compromised. It could not have remained\nfor ever outside the political life of the country--if those convulsions\nmay be called life. The thing is--can it be touched? The moment was\nbound to come when neutrality would become impossible, and Charles Gould\nunderstood this well. I believe he is prepared for every extremity. A\nman of his sort has never contemplated remaining indefinitely at the\nmercy of ignorance and corruption. It was like being a prisoner in a\ncavern of banditti with the price of your ransom in your pocket, and\nbuying your life from day to day. Your mere safety, not your liberty,\nmind, doctor. I know what I am talking about. The image at which you\nshrug your shoulders is perfectly correct, especially if you conceive\nsuch a prisoner endowed with the power of replenishing his pocket by\nmeans as remote from the faculties of his captors as if they were magic.\nYou must have understood that as well as I do, doctor. He was in the\nposition of the goose with the golden eggs. I broached this matter to\nhim as far back as Sir John's visit here. The prisoner of stupid and\ngreedy banditti is always at the mercy of the first imbecile ruffian,\nwho may blow out his brains in a fit of temper or for some prospect of\nan immediate big haul. The tale of killing the goose with the golden\neggs has not been evolved for nothing out of the wisdom of mankind. It\nis a story that will never grow old. That is why Charles Gould in his\ndeep, dumb way has countenanced the Ribierist Mandate, the first public\nact that promised him safety on other than venal grounds. Ribierism has\nfailed, as everything merely rational fails in this country. But Gould\nremains logical in wishing to save this big lot of silver. Decoud's plan\nof a counter-revolution may be practicable or not, it may have a\nchance, or it may not have a chance. With all my experience of this\nrevolutionary continent, I can hardly yet look at their methods\nseriously. Decoud has been reading to us his draft of a proclamation,\nand talking very well for two hours about his plan of action. He had\narguments which should have appeared solid enough if we, members of old,\nstable political and national organizations, were not startled by the\nmere idea of a new State evolved like this out of the head of a scoffing\nyoung man fleeing for his life, with a proclamation in his pocket, to a\nrough, jeering, half-bred swashbuckler, who in this part of the world is\ncalled a general. It sounds like a comic fairy tale--and behold, it may\ncome off; because it is true to the very spirit of the country.\"\n\n\"Is the silver gone off, then?\" asked the doctor, moodily.\n\nThe chief engineer pulled out his watch. \"By Captain Mitchell's\nreckoning--and he ought to know--it has been gone long enough now to\nbe some three or four miles outside the harbour; and, as Mitchell says,\nNostromo is the sort of seaman to make the best of his opportunities.\"\nHere the doctor grunted so heavily that the other changed his tone.\n\n\"You have a poor opinion of that move, doctor? But why? Charles Gould\nhas got to play his game out, though he is not the man to formulate his\nconduct even to himself, perhaps, let alone to others. It may be that\nthe game has been partly suggested to him by Holroyd; but it accords\nwith his character, too; and that is why it has been so successful.\nHaven't they come to calling him 'El Rey de Sulaco' in Sta. Marta? A\nnickname may be the best record of a success. That's what I call putting\nthe face of a joke upon the body of a truth. My dear sir, when I first\narrived in Sta. Marta I was struck by the way all those journalists,\ndemagogues, members of Congress, and all those generals and judges\ncringed before a sleepy-eyed advocate without practice simply because he\nwas the plenipotentiary of the Gould Concession. Sir John when he came\nout was impressed, too.\"\n\n\"A new State, with that plump dandy, Decoud, for the first President,\"\nmused Dr. Monygham, nursing his cheek and swinging his legs all the\ntime.\n\n\"Upon my word, and why not?\" the chief engineer retorted in an\nunexpectedly earnest and confidential voice. It was as if something\nsubtle in the air of Costaguana had inoculated him with the local faith\nin \"pronunciamientos.\" All at once he began to talk, like an expert\nrevolutionist, of the instrument ready to hand in the intact army at\nCayta, which could be brought back in a few days to Sulaco if only\nDecoud managed to make his way at once down the coast. For the military\nchief there was Barrios, who had nothing but a bullet to expect from\nMontero, his former professional rival and bitter enemy. Barrios's\nconcurrence was assured. As to his army, it had nothing to expect from\nMontero either; not even a month's pay. From that point of view the\nexistence of the treasure was of enormous importance. The mere knowledge\nthat it had been saved from the Monterists would be a strong inducement\nfor the Cayta troops to embrace the cause of the new State.\n\nThe doctor turned round and contemplated his companion for some time.\n\n\"This Decoud, I see, is a persuasive young beggar,\" he remarked at last.\n\"And pray is it for this, then, that Charles Gould has let the whole lot\nof ingots go out to sea in charge of that Nostromo?\"\n\n\"Charles Gould,\" said the engineer-in-chief, \"has said no more about his\nmotive than usual. You know, he doesn't talk. But we all here know his\nmotive, and he has only one--the safety of the San Tome mine with the\npreservation of the Gould Concession in the spirit of his compact with\nHolroyd. Holroyd is another uncommon man. They understand each other's\nimaginative side. One is thirty, the other nearly sixty, and they have\nbeen made for each other. To be a millionaire, and such a millionaire\nas Holroyd, is like being eternally young. The audacity of youth\nreckons upon what it fancies an unlimited time at its disposal; but a\nmillionaire has unlimited means in his hand--which is better. One's time\non earth is an uncertain quantity, but about the long reach of millions\nthere is no doubt. The introduction of a pure form of Christianity into\nthis continent is a dream for a youthful enthusiast, and I have been\ntrying to explain to you why Holroyd at fifty-eight is like a man on the\nthreshold of life, and better, too. He's not a missionary, but the San\nTome mine holds just that for him. I assure you, in sober truth, that he\ncould not manage to keep this out of a strictly business conference upon\nthe finances of Costaguana he had with Sir John a couple of years ago.\nSir John mentioned it with amazement in a letter he wrote to me here,\nfrom San Francisco, when on his way home. Upon my word, doctor, things\nseem to be worth nothing by what they are in themselves. I begin to\nbelieve that the only solid thing about them is the spiritual value\nwhich everyone discovers in his own form of activity----\"\n\n\"Bah!\" interrupted the doctor, without stopping for an instant the idle\nswinging movement of his legs. \"Self-flattery. Food for that vanity\nwhich makes the world go round. Meantime, what do you think is going to\nhappen to the treasure floating about the gulf with the great Capataz\nand the great politician?\"\n\n\"Why are you uneasy about it, doctor?\"\n\n\"I uneasy! And what the devil is it to me? I put no spiritual value into\nmy desires, or my opinions, or my actions. They have not enough\nvastness to give me room for self-flattery. Look, for instance, I should\ncertainly have liked to ease the last moments of that poor woman. And\nI can't. It's impossible. Have you met the impossible face to face--or\nhave you, the Napoleon of railways, no such word in your dictionary?\"\n\n\"Is she bound to have a very bad time of it?\" asked the chief engineer,\nwith humane concern.\n\nSlow, heavy footsteps moved across the planks above the heavy hard wood\nbeams of the kitchen. Then down the narrow opening of the staircase made\nin the thickness of the wall, and narrow enough to be defended by one\nman against twenty enemies, came the murmur of two voices, one faint and\nbroken, the other deep and gentle answering it, and in its graver tone\ncovering the weaker sound.\n\nThe two men remained still and silent till the murmurs ceased, then the\ndoctor shrugged his shoulders and muttered--\n\n\"Yes, she's bound to. And I could do nothing if I went up now.\"\n\nA long period of silence above and below ensued.\n\n\"I fancy,\" began the engineer, in a subdued voice, \"that you mistrust\nCaptain Mitchell's Capataz.\"\n\n\"Mistrust him!\" muttered the doctor through his teeth. \"I believe him\ncapable of anything--even of the most absurd fidelity. I am the last\nperson he spoke to before he left the wharf, you know. The poor woman up\nthere wanted to see him, and I let him go up to her. The dying must not\nbe contradicted, you know. She seemed then fairly calm and resigned,\nbut the scoundrel in those ten minutes or so has done or said something\nwhich seems to have driven her into despair. You know,\" went on\nthe doctor, hesitatingly, \"women are so very unaccountable in every\nposition, and at all times of life, that I thought sometimes she was in\na way, don't you see? in love with him--the Capataz. The rascal has his\nown charm indubitably, or he would not have made the conquest of all the\npopulace of the town. No, no, I am not absurd. I may have given a wrong\nname to some strong sentiment for him on her part, to an unreasonable\nand simple attitude a woman is apt to take up emotionally towards a\nman. She used to abuse him to me frequently, which, of course, is not\ninconsistent with my idea. Not at all. It looked to me as if she were\nalways thinking of him. He was something important in her life. You\nknow, I have seen a lot of those people. Whenever I came down from\nthe mine Mrs. Gould used to ask me to keep my eye on them. She likes\nItalians; she has lived a long time in Italy, I believe, and she took\na special fancy to that old Garibaldino. A remarkable chap enough. A\nrugged and dreamy character, living in the republicanism of his\nyoung days as if in a cloud. He has encouraged much of the Capataz's\nconfounded nonsense--the high-strung, exalted old beggar!\"\n\n\"What sort of nonsense?\" wondered the chief engineer. \"I found the\nCapataz always a very shrewd and sensible fellow, absolutely fearless,\nand remarkably useful. A perfect handy man. Sir John was greatly\nimpressed by his resourcefulness and attention when he made that\noverland journey from Sta. Marta. Later on, as you might have heard,\nhe rendered us a service by disclosing to the then chief of police\nthe presence in the town of some professional thieves, who came from\na distance to wreck and rob our monthly pay train. He has certainly\norganized the lighterage service of the harbour for the O.S.N. Company\nwith great ability. He knows how to make himself obeyed, foreigner\nthough he is. It is true that the Cargadores are strangers here, too,\nfor the most part--immigrants, Islenos.\"\n\n\"His prestige is his fortune,\" muttered the doctor, sourly.\n\n\"The man has proved his trustworthiness up to the hilt on innumerable\noccasions and in all sorts of ways,\" argued the engineer. \"When this\nquestion of the silver arose, Captain Mitchell naturally was very warmly\nof the opinion that his Capataz was the only man fit for the trust. As\na sailor, of course, I suppose so. But as a man, don't you know, Gould,\nDecoud, and myself judged that it didn't matter in the least who went.\nAny boatman would have done just as well. Pray, what could a thief do\nwith such a lot of ingots? If he ran off with them he would have in\nthe end to land somewhere, and how could he conceal his cargo from the\nknowledge of the people ashore? We dismissed that consideration from our\nminds. Moreover, Decoud was going. There have been occasions when the\nCapataz has been more implicitly trusted.\"\n\n\"He took a slightly different view,\" the doctor said. \"I heard him\ndeclare in this very room that it would be the most desperate affair of\nhis life. He made a sort of verbal will here in my hearing, appointing\nold Viola his executor; and, by Jove! do you know, he--he's not grown\nrich by his fidelity to you good people of the railway and the harbour.\nI suppose he obtains some--how do you say that?--some spiritual value\nfor his labours, or else I don't know why the devil he should be\nfaithful to you, Gould, Mitchell, or anybody else. He knows this country\nwell. He knows, for instance, that Gamacho, the Deputy from Javira, has\nbeen nothing else but a 'tramposo' of the commonest sort, a petty pedlar\nof the Campo, till he managed to get enough goods on credit from Anzani\nto open a little store in the wilds, and got himself elected by the\ndrunken mozos that hang about the Estancias and the poorest sort of\nrancheros who were in his debt. And Gamacho, who to-morrow will be\nprobably one of our high officials, is a stranger, too--an Isleno.\nHe might have been a Cargador on the O. S. N. wharf had he not (the\nposadero of Rincon is ready to swear it) murdered a pedlar in the woods\nand stolen his pack to begin life on. And do you think that Gamacho,\nthen, would have ever become a hero with the democracy of this place,\nlike our Capataz? Of course not. He isn't half the man. No; decidedly, I\nthink that Nostromo is a fool.\"\n\nThe doctor's talk was distasteful to the builder of railways. \"It is\nimpossible to argue that point,\" he said, philosophically. \"Each man has\nhis gifts. You should have heard Gamacho haranguing his friends in the\nstreet. He has a howling voice, and he shouted like mad, lifting his\nclenched fist right above his head, and throwing his body half out\nof the window. At every pause the rabble below yelled, 'Down with the\nOligarchs! Viva la Libertad!' Fuentes inside looked extremely miserable.\nYou know, he is the brother of Jorge Fuentes, who has been Minister of\nthe Interior for six months or so, some few years back. Of course, he\nhas no conscience; but he is a man of birth and education--at one time\nthe director of the Customs of Cayta. That idiot-brute Gamacho fastened\nhimself upon him with his following of the lowest rabble. His sickly\nfear of that ruffian was the most rejoicing sight imaginable.\"\n\nHe got up and went to the door to look out towards the harbour. \"All\nquiet,\" he said; \"I wonder if Sotillo really means to turn up here?\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nCaptain Mitchell, pacing the wharf, was asking himself the same\nquestion. There was always the doubt whether the warning of the\nEsmeralda telegraphist--a fragmentary and interrupted message--had been\nproperly understood. However, the good man had made up his mind not\nto go to bed till daylight, if even then. He imagined himself to have\nrendered an enormous service to Charles Gould. When he thought of the\nsaved silver he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. In his\nsimple way he was proud at being a party to this extremely clever\nexpedient. It was he who had given it a practical shape by suggesting\nthe possibility of intercepting at sea the north-bound steamer. And it\nwas advantageous to his Company, too, which would have lost a valuable\nfreight if the treasure had been left ashore to be confiscated.\nThe pleasure of disappointing the Monterists was also very great.\nAuthoritative by temperament and the long habit of command, Captain\nMitchell was no democrat. He even went so far as to profess a contempt\nfor parliamentarism itself. \"His Excellency Don Vincente Ribiera,\" he\nused to say, \"whom I and that fellow of mine, Nostromo, had the honour,\nsir, and the pleasure of saving from a cruel death, deferred too much to\nhis Congress. It was a mistake--a distinct mistake, sir.\"\n\nThe guileless old seaman superintending the O.S.N. service imagined that\nthe last three days had exhausted every startling surprise the political\nlife of Costaguana could offer. He used to confess afterwards that the\nevents which followed surpassed his imagination. To begin with, Sulaco\n(because of the seizure of the cables and the disorganization of the\nsteam service) remained for a whole fortnight cut off from the rest of\nthe world like a besieged city.\n\n\"One would not have believed it possible; but so it was, sir. A full\nfortnight.\"\n\nThe account of the extraordinary things that happened during that\ntime, and the powerful emotions he experienced, acquired a comic\nimpressiveness from the pompous manner of his personal narrative. He\nopened it always by assuring his hearer that he was \"in the thick\nof things from first to last.\" Then he would begin by describing the\ngetting away of the silver, and his natural anxiety lest \"his fellow\" in\ncharge of the lighter should make some mistake. Apart from the loss of\nso much precious metal, the life of Senor Martin Decoud, an agreeable,\nwealthy, and well-informed young gentleman, would have been jeopardized\nthrough his falling into the hands of his political enemies. Captain\nMitchell also admitted that in his solitary vigil on the wharf he had\nfelt a certain measure of concern for the future of the whole country.\n\n\"A feeling, sir,\" he explained, \"perfectly comprehensible in a man\nproperly grateful for the many kindnesses received from the best\nfamilies of merchants and other native gentlemen of independent means,\nwho, barely saved by us from the excesses of the mob, seemed, to my\nmind's eye, destined to become the prey in person and fortune of the\nnative soldiery, which, as is well known, behave with regrettable\nbarbarity to the inhabitants during their civil commotions. And then,\nsir, there were the Goulds, for both of whom, man and wife, I could not\nbut entertain the warmest feelings deserved by their hospitality and\nkindness. I felt, too, the dangers of the gentlemen of the Amarilla\nClub, who had made me honorary member, and had treated me with uniform\nregard and civility, both in my capacity of Consular Agent and as\nSuperintendent of an important Steam Service. Miss Antonia Avellanos,\nthe most beautiful and accomplished young lady whom it had ever been my\nprivilege to speak to, was not a little in my mind, I confess. How the\ninterests of my Company would be affected by the impending change of\nofficials claimed a large share of my attention, too. In short, sir,\nI was extremely anxious and very tired, as you may suppose, by the\nexciting and memorable events in which I had taken my little part. The\nCompany's building containing my residence was within five minutes'\nwalk, with the attraction of some supper and of my hammock (I always\ntake my nightly rest in a hammock, as the most suitable to the climate);\nbut somehow, sir, though evidently I could do nothing for any one by\nremaining about, I could not tear myself away from that wharf, where the\nfatigue made me stumble painfully at times. The night was excessively\ndark--the darkest I remember in my life; so that I began to think that\nthe arrival of the transport from Esmeralda could not possibly take\nplace before daylight, owing to the difficulty of navigating the gulf.\nThe mosquitoes bit like fury. We have been infested here with mosquitoes\nbefore the late improvements; a peculiar harbour brand, sir, renowned\nfor its ferocity. They were like a cloud about my head, and I shouldn't\nwonder that but for their attacks I would have dozed off as I walked\nup and down, and got a heavy fall. I kept on smoking cigar after cigar,\nmore to protect myself from being eaten up alive than from any real\nrelish for the weed. Then, sir, when perhaps for the twentieth time I\nwas approaching my watch to the lighted end in order to see the time,\nand observing with surprise that it wanted yet ten minutes to midnight,\nI heard the splash of a ship's propeller--an unmistakable sound to a\nsailor's ear on such a calm night. It was faint indeed, because they\nwere advancing with precaution and dead slow, both on account of the\ndarkness and from their desire of not revealing too soon their presence:\na very unnecessary care, because, I verily believe, in all the enormous\nextent of this harbour I was the only living soul about. Even the\nusual staff of watchmen and others had been absent from their posts for\nseveral nights owing to the disturbances. I stood stock still, after\ndropping and stamping out my cigar--a circumstance highly agreeable,\nI should think, to the mosquitoes, if I may judge from the state of my\nface next morning. But that was a trifling inconvenience in comparison\nwith the brutal proceedings I became victim of on the part of Sotillo.\nSomething utterly inconceivable, sir; more like the proceedings of\na maniac than the action of a sane man, however lost to all sense\nof honour and decency. But Sotillo was furious at the failure of his\nthievish scheme.\"\n\nIn this Captain Mitchell was right. Sotillo was indeed infuriated.\nCaptain Mitchell, however, had not been arrested at once; a vivid\ncuriosity induced him to remain on the wharf (which is nearly four\nhundred feet long) to see, or rather hear, the whole process of\ndisembarkation. Concealed by the railway truck used for the silver,\nwhich had been run back afterwards to the shore end of the jetty,\nCaptain Mitchell saw the small detachment thrown forward, pass by,\ntaking different directions upon the plain. Meantime, the troops were\nbeing landed and formed into a column, whose head crept up gradually so\nclose to him that he made it out, barring nearly the whole width of\nthe wharf, only a very few yards from him. Then the low, shuffling,\nmurmuring, clinking sounds ceased, and the whole mass remained for about\nan hour motionless and silent, awaiting the return of the scouts. On\nland nothing was to be heard except the deep baying of the mastiffs at\nthe railway yards, answered by the faint barking of the curs infesting\nthe outer limits of the town. A detached knot of dark shapes stood in\nfront of the head of the column.\n\nPresently the picket at the end of the wharf began to challenge in\nundertones single figures approaching from the plain. Those messengers\nsent back from the scouting parties flung to their comrades brief\nsentences and passed on rapidly, becoming lost in the great motionless\nmass, to make their report to the Staff. It occurred to Captain Mitchell\nthat his position could become disagreeable and perhaps dangerous, when\nsuddenly, at the head of the jetty, there was a shout of command, a\nbugle call, followed by a stir and a rattling of arms, and a murmuring\nnoise that ran right up the column. Near by a loud voice directed\nhurriedly, \"Push that railway car out of the way!\" At the rush of bare\nfeet to execute the order Captain Mitchell skipped back a pace or two;\nthe car, suddenly impelled by many hands, flew away from him along the\nrails, and before he knew what had happened he found himself surrounded\nand seized by his arms and the collar of his coat.\n\n\"We have caught a man hiding here, mi teniente!\" cried one of his\ncaptors.\n\n\"Hold him on one side till the rearguard comes along,\" answered the\nvoice. The whole column streamed past Captain Mitchell at a run, the\nthundering noise of their feet dying away suddenly on the shore. His\ncaptors held him tightly, disregarding his declaration that he was\nan Englishman and his loud demands to be taken at once before their\ncommanding officer. Finally he lapsed into dignified silence. With a\nhollow rumble of wheels on the planks a couple of field guns, dragged\nby hand, rolled by. Then, after a small body of men had marched past\nescorting four or five figures which walked in advance, with a jingle\nof steel scabbards, he felt a tug at his arms, and was ordered to come\nalong. During the passage from the wharf to the Custom House it is to be\nfeared that Captain Mitchell was subjected to certain indignities at\nthe hands of the soldiers--such as jerks, thumps on the neck, forcible\napplication of the butt of a rifle to the small of his back. Their ideas\nof speed were not in accord with his notion of his dignity. He became\nflustered, flushed, and helpless. It was as if the world were coming to\nan end.\n\nThe long building was surrounded by troops, which were already piling\narms by companies and preparing to pass the night lying on the ground in\ntheir ponchos with their sacks under their heads. Corporals moved with\nswinging lanterns posting sentries all round the walls wherever there\nwas a door or an opening. Sotillo was taking his measures to protect his\nconquest as if it had indeed contained the treasure. His desire to\nmake his fortune at one audacious stroke of genius had overmastered his\nreasoning faculties. He would not believe in the possibility of failure;\nthe mere hint of such a thing made his brain reel with rage. Every\ncircumstance pointing to it appeared incredible. The statement of\nHirsch, which was so absolutely fatal to his hopes, could by no means\nbe admitted. It is true, too, that Hirsch's story had been told so\nincoherently, with such excessive signs of distraction, that it really\nlooked improbable. It was extremely difficult, as the saying is, to make\nhead or tail of it. On the bridge of the steamer, directly after his\nrescue, Sotillo and his officers, in their impatience and excitement,\nwould not give the wretched man time to collect such few wits as\nremained to him. He ought to have been quieted, soothed, and reassured,\nwhereas he had been roughly handled, cuffed, shaken, and addressed in\nmenacing tones. His struggles, his wriggles, his attempts to get down on\nhis knees, followed by the most violent efforts to break away, as if he\nmeant incontinently to jump overboard, his shrieks and shrinkings and\ncowering wild glances had filled them first with amazement, then with\na doubt of his genuineness, as men are wont to suspect the sincerity of\nevery great passion. His Spanish, too, became so mixed up with German\nthat the better half of his statements remained incomprehensible. He\ntried to propitiate them by calling them hochwohlgeboren herren, which\nin itself sounded suspicious. When admonished sternly not to trifle he\nrepeated his entreaties and protestations of loyalty and innocence again\nin German, obstinately, because he was not aware in what language he was\nspeaking. His identity, of course, was perfectly known as an inhabitant\nof Esmeralda, but this made the matter no clearer. As he kept on\nforgetting Decoud's name, mixing him up with several other people he had\nseen in the Casa Gould, it looked as if they all had been in the lighter\ntogether; and for a moment Sotillo thought that he had drowned every\nprominent Ribierist of Sulaco. The improbability of such a thing threw\na doubt upon the whole statement. Hirsch was either mad or playing a\npart--pretending fear and distraction on the spur of the moment to\ncover the truth. Sotillo's rapacity, excited to the highest pitch by the\nprospect of an immense booty, could believe in nothing adverse. This Jew\nmight have been very much frightened by the accident, but he knew where\nthe silver was concealed, and had invented this story, with his Jewish\ncunning, to put him entirely off the track as to what had been done.\n\nSotillo had taken up his quarters on the upper floor in a vast apartment\nwith heavy black beams. But there was no ceiling, and the eye lost\nitself in the darkness under the high pitch of the roof. The thick\nshutters stood open. On a long table could be seen a large inkstand,\nsome stumpy, inky quill pens, and two square wooden boxes, each holding\nhalf a hundred-weight of sand. Sheets of grey coarse official paper\nbestrewed the floor. It must have been a room occupied by some higher\nofficial of the Customs, because a large leathern armchair stood behind\nthe table, with other high-backed chairs scattered about. A net hammock\nwas swung under one of the beams--for the official's afternoon siesta,\nno doubt. A couple of candles stuck into tall iron candlesticks gave a\ndim reddish light. The colonel's hat, sword, and revolver lay between\nthem, and a couple of his more trusty officers lounged gloomily against\nthe table. The colonel threw himself into the armchair, and a big negro\nwith a sergeant's stripes on his ragged sleeve, kneeling down, pulled\noff his boots. Sotillo's ebony moustache contrasted violently with the\nlivid colouring of his cheeks. His eyes were sombre and as if sunk very\nfar into his head. He seemed exhausted by his perplexities, languid with\ndisappointment; but when the sentry on the landing thrust his head in to\nannounce the arrival of a prisoner, he revived at once.\n\n\"Let him be brought in,\" he shouted, fiercely.\n\nThe door flew open, and Captain Mitchell, bareheaded, his waistcoat\nopen, the bow of his tie under his ear, was hustled into the room.\n\nSotillo recognized him at once. He could not have hoped for a more\nprecious capture; here was a man who could tell him, if he chose,\neverything he wished to know--and directly the problem of how best to\nmake him talk to the point presented itself to his mind. The resentment\nof a foreign nation had no terrors for Sotillo. The might of the whole\narmed Europe would not have protected Captain Mitchell from insults and\nill-usage, so well as the quick reflection of Sotillo that this was an\nEnglishman who would most likely turn obstinate under bad treatment, and\nbecome quite unmanageable. At all events, the colonel smoothed the scowl\non his brow.\n\n\"What! The excellent Senor Mitchell!\" he cried, in affected dismay.\nThe pretended anger of his swift advance and of his shout, \"Release\nthe caballero at once,\" was so effective that the astounded soldiers\npositively sprang away from their prisoner. Thus suddenly deprived\nof forcible support, Captain Mitchell reeled as though about to fall.\nSotillo took him familiarly under the arm, led him to a chair, waved his\nhand at the room. \"Go out, all of you,\" he commanded.\n\nWhen they had been left alone he stood looking down, irresolute and\nsilent, watching till Captain Mitchell had recovered his power of\nspeech.\n\nHere in his very grasp was one of the men concerned in the removal of\nthe silver. Sotillo's temperament was of that sort that he experienced\nan ardent desire to beat him; just as formerly when negotiating with\ndifficulty a loan from the cautious Anzani, his fingers always itched\nto take the shopkeeper by the throat. As to Captain Mitchell, the\nsuddenness, unexpectedness, and general inconceivableness of this\nexperience had confused his thoughts. Moreover, he was physically out of\nbreath.\n\n\"I've been knocked down three times between this and the wharf,\" he\ngasped out at last. \"Somebody shall be made to pay for this.\" He had\ncertainly stumbled more than once, and had been dragged along for some\ndistance before he could regain his stride. With his recovered breath\nhis indignation seemed to madden him. He jumped up, crimson, all his\nwhite hair bristling, his eyes glaring vengefully, and shook violently\nthe flaps of his ruined waistcoat before the disconcerted Sotillo.\n\"Look! Those uniformed thieves of yours downstairs have robbed me of my\nwatch.\"\n\nThe old sailor's aspect was very threatening. Sotillo saw himself cut\noff from the table on which his sabre and revolver were lying.\n\n\"I demand restitution and apologies,\" Mitchell thundered at him, quite\nbeside himself. \"From you! Yes, from you!\"\n\nFor the space of a second or so the colonel stood with a perfectly stony\nexpression of face; then, as Captain Mitchell flung out an arm towards\nthe table as if to snatch up the revolver, Sotillo, with a yell of\nalarm, bounded to the door and was gone in a flash, slamming it after\nhim. Surprise calmed Captain Mitchell's fury. Behind the closed door\nSotillo shouted on the landing, and there was a great tumult of feet on\nthe wooden staircase.\n\n\"Disarm him! Bind him!\" the colonel could be heard vociferating.\n\nCaptain Mitchell had just the time to glance once at the windows, with\nthree perpendicular bars of iron each and some twenty feet from the\nground, as he well knew, before the door flew open and the rush upon him\ntook place. In an incredibly short time he found himself bound with\nmany turns of a hide rope to a high-backed chair, so that his head alone\nremained free. Not till then did Sotillo, who had been leaning in the\ndoorway trembling visibly, venture again within. The soldiers, picking\nup from the floor the rifles they had dropped to grapple with the\nprisoner, filed out of the room. The officers remained leaning on their\nswords and looking on.\n\n\"The watch! the watch!\" raved the colonel, pacing to and fro like a\ntiger in a cage. \"Give me that man's watch.\"\n\nIt was true, that when searched for arms in the hall downstairs, before\nbeing taken into Sotillo's presence, Captain Mitchell had been relieved\nof his watch and chain; but at the colonel's clamour it was produced\nquickly enough, a corporal bringing it up, carried carefully in the\npalms of his joined hands. Sotillo snatched it, and pushed the clenched\nfist from which it dangled close to Captain Mitchell's face.\n\n\"Now then! You arrogant Englishman! You dare to call the soldiers of the\narmy thieves! Behold your watch.\"\n\nHe flourished his fist as if aiming blows at the prisoner's nose.\nCaptain Mitchell, helpless as a swathed infant, looked anxiously at\nthe sixty-guinea gold half-chronometer, presented to him years ago by\na Committee of Underwriters for saving a ship from total loss by fire.\nSotillo, too, seemed to perceive its valuable appearance. He became\nsilent suddenly, stepped aside to the table, and began a careful\nexamination in the light of the candles. He had never seen anything so\nfine. His officers closed in and craned their necks behind his back.\n\nHe became so interested that for an instant he forgot his precious\nprisoner. There is always something childish in the rapacity of the\npassionate, clear-minded, Southern races, wanting in the misty idealism\nof the Northerners, who at the smallest encouragement dream of nothing\nless than the conquest of the earth. Sotillo was fond of jewels, gold\ntrinkets, of personal adornment. After a moment he turned about, and\nwith a commanding gesture made all his officers fall back. He laid down\nthe watch on the table, then, negligently, pushed his hat over it.\n\n\"Ha!\" he began, going up very close to the chair. \"You dare call my\nvaliant soldiers of the Esmeralda regiment, thieves. You dare! What\nimpudence! You foreigners come here to rob our country of its wealth.\nYou never have enough! Your audacity knows no bounds.\"\n\nHe looked towards the officers, amongst whom there was an approving\nmurmur. The older major was moved to declare--\n\n\"Si, mi colonel. They are all traitors.\"\n\n\"I shall say nothing,\" continued Sotillo, fixing the motionless and\npowerless Mitchell with an angry but uneasy stare. \"I shall say nothing\nof your treacherous attempt to get possession of my revolver to shoot me\nwhile I was trying to treat you with consideration you did not deserve.\nYou have forfeited your life. Your only hope is in my clemency.\"\n\nHe watched for the effect of his words, but there was no obvious sign of\nfear on Captain Mitchell's face. His white hair was full of dust,\nwhich covered also the rest of his helpless person. As if he had heard\nnothing, he twitched an eyebrow to get rid of a bit of straw which hung\namongst the hairs.\n\nSotillo advanced one leg and put his arms akimbo. \"It is you, Mitchell,\"\nhe said, emphatically, \"who are the thief, not my soldiers!\" He pointed\nat his prisoner a forefinger with a long, almond-shaped nail. \"Where\nis the silver of the San Tome mine? I ask you, Mitchell, where is the\nsilver that was deposited in this Custom House? Answer me that! You\nstole it. You were a party to stealing it. It was stolen from the\nGovernment. Aha! you think I do not know what I say; but I am up to your\nforeign tricks. It is gone, the silver! No? Gone in one of your lanchas,\nyou miserable man! How dared you?\"\n\nThis time he produced his effect. \"How on earth could Sotillo know\nthat?\" thought Mitchell. His head, the only part of his body that could\nmove, betrayed his surprise by a sudden jerk.\n\n\"Ha! you tremble,\" Sotillo shouted, suddenly. \"It is a conspiracy. It is\na crime against the State. Did you not know that the silver belongs\nto the Republic till the Government claims are satisfied? Where is it?\nWhere have you hidden it, you miserable thief?\"\n\nAt this question Captain Mitchell's sinking spirits revived. In whatever\nincomprehensible manner Sotillo had already got his information about\nthe lighter, he had not captured it. That was clear. In his outraged\nheart, Captain Mitchell had resolved that nothing would induce him to\nsay a word while he remained so disgracefully bound, but his desire to\nhelp the escape of the silver made him depart from this resolution. His\nwits were very much at work. He detected in Sotillo a certain air of\ndoubt, of irresolution.\n\n\"That man,\" he said to himself, \"is not certain of what he advances.\"\nFor all his pomposity in social intercourse, Captain Mitchell could meet\nthe realities of life in a resolute and ready spirit. Now he had\ngot over the first shock of the abominable treatment he was cool and\ncollected enough. The immense contempt he felt for Sotillo steadied him,\nand he said oracularly, \"No doubt it is well concealed by this time.\"\n\nSotillo, too, had time to cool down. \"Muy bien, Mitchell,\" he said in a\ncold and threatening manner. \"But can you produce the Government receipt\nfor the royalty and the Custom House permit of embarkation, hey? Can\nyou? No. Then the silver has been removed illegally, and the guilty\nshall be made to suffer, unless it is produced within five days from\nthis.\" He gave orders for the prisoner to be unbound and locked up in\none of the smaller rooms downstairs. He walked about the room, moody and\nsilent, till Captain Mitchell, with each of his arms held by a couple of\nmen, stood up, shook himself, and stamped his feet.\n\n\"How did you like to be tied up, Mitchell?\" he asked, derisively.\n\n\"It is the most incredible, abominable use of power!\" Captain Mitchell\ndeclared in a loud voice. \"And whatever your purpose, you shall gain\nnothing from it, I can promise you.\"\n\nThe tall colonel, livid, with his coal-black ringlets and moustache,\ncrouched, as it were, to look into the eyes of the short, thick-set,\nred-faced prisoner with rumpled white hair.\n\n\"That we shall see. You shall know my power a little better when I tie\nyou up to a potalon outside in the sun for a whole day.\" He drew himself\nup haughtily, and made a sign for Captain Mitchell to be led away.\n\n\"What about my watch?\" cried Captain Mitchell, hanging back from the\nefforts of the men pulling him towards the door.\n\nSotillo turned to his officers. \"No! But only listen to this picaro,\ncaballeros,\" he pronounced with affected scorn, and was answered by a\nchorus of derisive laughter. \"He demands his watch!\" . . . He ran up\nagain to Captain Mitchell, for the desire to relieve his feelings by\ninflicting blows and pain upon this Englishman was very strong within\nhim. \"Your watch! You are a prisoner in war time, Mitchell! In war time!\nYou have no rights and no property! Caramba! The very breath in your\nbody belongs to me. Remember that.\"\n\n\"Bosh!\" said Captain Mitchell, concealing a disagreeable impression.\n\nDown below, in a great hall, with the earthen floor and with a tall\nmound thrown up by white ants in a corner, the soldiers had kindled\na small fire with broken chairs and tables near the arched gateway,\nthrough which the faint murmur of the harbour waters on the beach could\nbe heard. While Captain Mitchell was being led down the staircase, an\nofficer passed him, running up to report to Sotillo the capture of more\nprisoners. A lot of smoke hung about in the vast gloomy place, the\nfire crackled, and, as if through a haze, Captain Mitchell made out,\nsurrounded by short soldiers with fixed bayonets, the heads of three\ntall prisoners--the doctor, the engineer-in-chief, and the white leonine\nmane of old Viola, who stood half-turned away from the others with his\nchin on his breast and his arms crossed. Mitchell's astonishment knew no\nbounds. He cried out; the other two exclaimed also. But he hurried on,\ndiagonally, across the big cavern-like hall. Lots of thoughts, surmises,\nhints of caution, and so on, crowded his head to distraction.\n\n\"Is he actually keeping you?\" shouted the chief engineer, whose single\neyeglass glittered in the firelight.\n\nAn officer from the top of the stairs was shouting urgently, \"Bring them\nall up--all three.\"\n\nIn the clamour of voices and the rattle of arms, Captain Mitchell made\nhimself heard imperfectly: \"By heavens! the fellow has stolen my watch.\"\n\nThe engineer-in-chief on the staircase resisted the pressure long enough\nto shout, \"What? What did you say?\"\n\n\"My chronometer!\" Captain Mitchell yelled violently at the very moment\nof being thrust head foremost through a small door into a sort of cell,\nperfectly black, and so narrow that he fetched up against the opposite\nwall. The door had been instantly slammed. He knew where they had put\nhim. This was the strong room of the Custom House, whence the silver\nhad been removed only a few hours earlier. It was almost as narrow as\na corridor, with a small square aperture, barred by a heavy grating, at\nthe distant end. Captain Mitchell staggered for a few steps, then sat\ndown on the earthen floor with his back to the wall. Nothing, not even\na gleam of light from anywhere, interfered with Captain Mitchell's\nmeditation. He did some hard but not very extensive thinking. It was\nnot of a gloomy cast. The old sailor, with all his small weaknesses\nand absurdities, was constitutionally incapable of entertaining for\nany length of time a fear of his personal safety. It was not so much\nfirmness of soul as the lack of a certain kind of imagination--the kind\nwhose undue development caused intense suffering to Senor Hirsch; that\nsort of imagination which adds the blind terror of bodily suffering and\nof death, envisaged as an accident to the body alone, strictly--to all\nthe other apprehensions on which the sense of one's existence is based.\nUnfortunately, Captain Mitchell had not much penetration of any kind;\ncharacteristic, illuminating trifles of expression, action, or movement,\nescaped him completely. He was too pompously and innocently aware of\nhis own existence to observe that of others. For instance, he could\nnot believe that Sotillo had been really afraid of him, and this simply\nbecause it would never have entered into his head to shoot any one\nexcept in the most pressing case of self-defence. Anybody could see he\nwas not a murdering kind of man, he reflected quite gravely. Then\nwhy this preposterous and insulting charge? he asked himself. But his\nthoughts mainly clung around the astounding and unanswerable question:\nHow the devil the fellow got to know that the silver had gone off in the\nlighter? It was obvious that he had not captured it. And, obviously, he\ncould not have captured it! In this last conclusion Captain Mitchell\nwas misled by the assumption drawn from his observation of the weather\nduring his long vigil on the wharf. He thought that there had been much\nmore wind than usual that night in the gulf; whereas, as a matter of\nfact, the reverse was the case.\n\n\"How in the name of all that's marvellous did that confounded fellow get\nwind of the affair?\" was the first question he asked directly after the\nbang, clatter, and flash of the open door (which was closed again\nalmost before he could lift his dropped head) informed him that he had a\ncompanion of captivity. Dr. Monygham's voice stopped muttering curses in\nEnglish and Spanish.\n\n\"Is that you, Mitchell?\" he made answer, surlily. \"I struck my forehead\nagainst this confounded wall with enough force to fell an ox. Where are\nyou?\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell, accustomed to the darkness, could make out the doctor\nstretching out his hands blindly.\n\n\"I am sitting here on the floor. Don't fall over my legs,\" Captain\nMitchell's voice announced with great dignity of tone. The doctor,\nentreated not to walk about in the dark, sank down to the ground, too.\nThe two prisoners of Sotillo, with their heads nearly touching, began to\nexchange confidences.\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor related in a low tone to Captain Mitchell's vehement\ncuriosity, \"we have been nabbed in old Viola's place. It seems that one\nof their pickets, commanded by an officer, pushed as far as the town\ngate. They had orders not to enter, but to bring along every soul they\ncould find on the plain. We had been talking in there with the door\nopen, and no doubt they saw the glimmer of our light. They must have\nbeen making their approaches for some time. The engineer laid himself\non a bench in a recess by the fire-place, and I went upstairs to have a\nlook. I hadn't heard any sound from there for a long time. Old Viola,\nas soon as he saw me come up, lifted his arm for silence. I stole in\non tiptoe. By Jove, his wife was lying down and had gone to sleep. The\nwoman had actually dropped off to sleep! 'Senor Doctor,' Viola whispers\nto me, 'it looks as if her oppression was going to get better.' 'Yes,'\nI said, very much surprised; 'your wife is a wonderful woman, Giorgio.'\nJust then a shot was fired in the kitchen, which made us jump and cower\nas if at a thunder-clap. It seems that the party of soldiers had stolen\nquite close up, and one of them had crept up to the door. He looked in,\nthought there was no one there, and, holding his rifle ready, entered\nquietly. The chief told me that he had just closed his eyes for a\nmoment. When he opened them, he saw the man already in the middle of\nthe room peering into the dark corners. The chief was so startled that,\nwithout thinking, he made one leap from the recess right out in front\nof the fireplace. The soldier, no less startled, up with his rifle\nand pulls the trigger, deafening and singeing the engineer, but in his\nflurry missing him completely. But, look what happens! At the noise of\nthe report the sleeping woman sat up, as if moved by a spring, with a\nshriek, 'The children, Gian' Battista! Save the children!' I have it in\nmy ears now. It was the truest cry of distress I ever heard. I stood as\nif paralyzed, but the old husband ran across to the bedside, stretching\nout his hands. She clung to them! I could see her eyes go glazed; the\nold fellow lowered her down on the pillows and then looked round at me.\nShe was dead! All this took less than five minutes, and then I ran down\nto see what was the matter. It was no use thinking of any resistance.\nNothing we two could say availed with the officer, so I volunteered to\ngo up with a couple of soldiers and fetch down old Viola. He was sitting\nat the foot of the bed, looking at his wife's face, and did not seem to\nhear what I said; but after I had pulled the sheet over her head, he got\nup and followed us downstairs quietly, in a sort of thoughtful way.\nThey marched us off along the road, leaving the door open and the candle\nburning. The chief engineer strode on without a word, but I looked back\nonce or twice at the feeble gleam. After we had gone some considerable\ndistance, the Garibaldino, who was walking by my side, suddenly said, 'I\nhave buried many men on battlefields on this continent. The priests talk\nof consecrated ground! Bah! All the earth made by God is holy; but\nthe sea, which knows nothing of kings and priests and tyrants, is\nthe holiest of all. Doctor! I should like to bury her in the sea. No\nmummeries, candles, incense, no holy water mumbled over by priests. The\nspirit of liberty is upon the waters.' . . . Amazing old man. He was\nsaying all this in an undertone as if talking to himself.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" interrupted Captain Mitchell, impatiently. \"Poor old chap!\nBut have you any idea how that ruffian Sotillo obtained his information?\nHe did not get hold of any of our Cargadores who helped with the truck,\ndid he? But no, it is impossible! These were picked men we've had in\nour boats for these five years, and I paid them myself specially for the\njob, with instructions to keep out of the way for twenty-four hours at\nleast. I saw them with my own eyes march on with the Italians to the\nrailway yards. The chief promised to give them rations as long as they\nwanted to remain there.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, slowly, \"I can tell you that you may\nsay good-bye for ever to your best lighter, and to the Capataz of\nCargadores.\"\n\nAt this, Captain Mitchell scrambled up to his feet in the excess of\nhis excitement. The doctor, without giving him time to exclaim, stated\nbriefly the part played by Hirsch during the night.\n\nCaptain Mitchell was overcome. \"Drowned!\" he muttered, in a bewildered\nand appalled whisper. \"Drowned!\" Afterwards he kept still, apparently\nlistening, but too absorbed in the news of the catastrophe to follow the\ndoctor's narrative with attention.\n\nThe doctor had taken up an attitude of perfect ignorance, till at last\nSotillo was induced to have Hirsch brought in to repeat the whole story,\nwhich was got out of him again with the greatest difficulty, because\nevery moment he would break out into lamentations. At last, Hirsch\nwas led away, looking more dead than alive, and shut up in one of the\nupstairs rooms to be close at hand. Then the doctor, keeping up his\ncharacter of a man not admitted to the inner councils of the San Tome\nAdministration, remarked that the story sounded incredible. Of course,\nhe said, he couldn't tell what had been the action of the Europeans, as\nhe had been exclusively occupied with his own work in looking after the\nwounded, and also in attending Don Jose Avellanos. He had succeeded in\nassuming so well a tone of impartial indifference, that Sotillo seemed\nto be completely deceived. Till then a show of regular inquiry had\nbeen kept up; one of the officers sitting at the table wrote down the\nquestions and the answers, the others, lounging about the room, listened\nattentively, puffing at their long cigars and keeping their eyes on the\ndoctor. But at that point Sotillo ordered everybody out.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nDirectly they were alone, the colonel's severe official manner changed.\nHe rose and approached the doctor. His eyes shone with rapacity and\nhope; he became confidential. \"The silver might have been indeed put on\nboard the lighter, but it was not conceivable that it should have been\ntaken out to sea.\" The doctor, watching every word, nodded slightly,\nsmoking with apparent relish the cigar which Sotillo had offered him\nas a sign of his friendly intentions. The doctor's manner of cold\ndetachment from the rest of the Europeans led Sotillo on, till, from\nconjecture to conjecture, he arrived at hinting that in his opinion this\nwas a putup job on the part of Charles Gould, in order to get hold\nof that immense treasure all to himself. The doctor, observant and\nself-possessed, muttered, \"He is very capable of that.\"\n\nHere Captain Mitchell exclaimed with amazement, amusement, and\nindignation, \"You said that of Charles Gould!\" Disgust, and even some\nsuspicion, crept into his tone, for to him, too, as to other Europeans,\nthere appeared to be something dubious about the doctor's personality.\n\n\"What on earth made you say that to this watch-stealing scoundrel?\"\nhe asked. \"What's the object of an infernal lie of that sort? That\nconfounded pick-pocket was quite capable of believing you.\"\n\nHe snorted. For a time the doctor remained silent in the dark.\n\n\"Yes, that is exactly what I did say,\" he uttered at last, in a tone\nwhich would have made it clear enough to a third party that the pause\nwas not of a reluctant but of a reflective character. Captain Mitchell\nthought that he had never heard anything so brazenly impudent in his\nlife.\n\n\"Well, well!\" he muttered to himself, but he had not the heart to voice\nhis thoughts. They were swept away by others full of astonishment and\nregret. A heavy sense of discomfiture crushed him: the loss of the\nsilver, the death of Nostromo, which was really quite a blow to his\nsensibilities, because he had become attached to his Capataz as people\nget attached to their inferiors from love of ease and almost unconscious\ngratitude. And when he thought of Decoud being drowned, too, his\nsensibility was almost overcome by this miserable end. What a heavy\nblow for that poor young woman! Captain Mitchell did not belong to the\nspecies of crabbed old bachelors; on the contrary, he liked to see young\nmen paying attentions to young women. It seemed to him a natural and\nproper thing. Proper especially. As to sailors, it was different; it was\nnot their place to marry, he maintained, but it was on moral grounds as\na matter of self-denial, for, he explained, life on board ship is not\nfit for a woman even at best, and if you leave her on shore, first of\nall it is not fair, and next she either suffers from it or doesn't care\na bit, which, in both cases, is bad. He couldn't have told what upset\nhim most--Charles Gould's immense material loss, the death of Nostromo,\nwhich was a heavy loss to himself, or the idea of that beautiful and\naccomplished young woman being plunged into mourning.\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor, who had been apparently reflecting, began again, \"he\nbelieved me right enough. I thought he would have hugged me. 'Si, si,'\nhe said, 'he will write to that partner of his, the rich Americano in\nSan Francisco, that it is all lost. Why not? There is enough to share\nwith many people.'\"\n\n\"But this is perfectly imbecile!\" cried Captain Mitchell.\n\nThe doctor remarked that Sotillo was imbecile, and that his imbecility\nwas ingenious enough to lead him completely astray. He had helped him\nonly but a little way.\n\n\"I mentioned,\" the doctor said, \"in a sort of casual way, that treasure\nis generally buried in the earth rather than set afloat upon the sea.\nAt this my Sotillo slapped his forehead. 'Por Dios, yes,' he said; 'they\nmust have buried it on the shores of this harbour somewhere before they\nsailed out.'\"\n\n\"Heavens and earth!\" muttered Captain Mitchell, \"I should not have\nbelieved that anybody could be ass enough--\" He paused, then went on\nmournfully: \"But what's the good of all this? It would have been a\nclever enough lie if the lighter had been still afloat. It would have\nkept that inconceivable idiot perhaps from sending out the steamer to\ncruise in the gulf. That was the danger that worried me no end.\" Captain\nMitchell sighed profoundly.\n\n\"I had an object,\" the doctor pronounced, slowly.\n\n\"Had you?\" muttered Captain Mitchell. \"Well, that's lucky, or else\nI would have thought that you went on fooling him for the fun of the\nthing. And perhaps that was your object. Well, I must say I personally\nwouldn't condescend to that sort of thing. It is not to my taste. No,\nno. Blackening a friend's character is not my idea of fun, if it were to\nfool the greatest blackguard on earth.\"\n\nHad it not been for Captain Mitchell's depression, caused by the fatal\nnews, his disgust of Dr. Monygham would have taken a more outspoken\nshape; but he thought to himself that now it really did not matter what\nthat man, whom he had never liked, would say and do.\n\n\"I wonder,\" he grumbled, \"why they have shut us up together, or why\nSotillo should have shut you up at all, since it seems to me you have\nbeen fairly chummy up there?\"\n\n\"Yes, I wonder,\" said the doctor grimly.\n\nCaptain Mitchell's heart was so heavy that he would have preferred\nfor the time being a complete solitude to the best of company. But\nany company would have been preferable to the doctor's, at whom he had\nalways looked askance as a sort of beachcomber of superior intelligence\npartly reclaimed from his abased state. That feeling led him to ask--\n\n\"What has that ruffian done with the other two?\"\n\n\"The chief engineer he would have let go in any case,\" said the doctor.\n\"He wouldn't like to have a quarrel with the railway upon his hands.\nNot just yet, at any rate. I don't think, Captain Mitchell, that you\nunderstand exactly what Sotillo's position is--\"\n\n\"I don't see why I should bother my head about it,\" snarled Captain\nMitchell.\n\n\"No,\" assented the doctor, with the same grim composure. \"I don't see\nwhy you should. It wouldn't help a single human being in the world if\nyou thought ever so hard upon any subject whatever.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Captain Mitchell, simply, and with evident depression. \"A man\nlocked up in a confounded dark hole is not much use to anybody.\"\n\n\"As to old Viola,\" the doctor continued, as though he had not heard,\n\"Sotillo released him for the same reason he is presently going to\nrelease you.\"\n\n\"Eh? What?\" exclaimed Captain Mitchell, staring like an owl in the\ndarkness. \"What is there in common between me and old Viola? More likely\nbecause the old chap has no watch and chain for the pickpocket to steal.\nAnd I tell you what, Dr. Monygham,\" he went on with rising choler, \"he\nwill find it more difficult than he thinks to get rid of me. He will\nburn his fingers over that job yet, I can tell you. To begin with, I\nwon't go without my watch, and as to the rest--we shall see. I dare say\nit is no great matter for you to be locked up. But Joe Mitchell is a\ndifferent kind of man, sir. I don't mean to submit tamely to insult and\nrobbery. I am a public character, sir.\"\n\nAnd then Captain Mitchell became aware that the bars of the opening had\nbecome visible, a black grating upon a square of grey. The coming of the\nday silenced Captain Mitchell as if by the reflection that now in all\nthe future days he would be deprived of the invaluable services of his\nCapataz. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded on his breast,\nand the doctor walked up and down the whole length of the place with his\npeculiar hobbling gait, as if slinking about on damaged feet. At the end\nfurthest from the grating he would be lost altogether in the darkness.\nOnly the slight limping shuffle could be heard. There was an air of\nmoody detachment in that painful prowl kept up without a pause. When the\ndoor of the prison was suddenly flung open and his name shouted out he\nshowed no surprise. He swerved sharply in his walk, and passed out\nat once, as though much depended upon his speed; but Captain Mitchell\nremained for some time with his shoulders against the wall, quite\nundecided in the bitterness of his spirit whether it wouldn't be better\nto refuse to stir a limb in the way of protest. He had half a mind to\nget himself carried out, but after the officer at the door had\nshouted three or four times in tones of remonstrance and surprise he\ncondescended to walk out.\n\nSotillo's manner had changed. The colonel's off-hand civility was\nslightly irresolute, as though he were in doubt if civility were the\nproper course in this case. He observed Captain Mitchell attentively\nbefore he spoke from the big armchair behind the table in a\ncondescending voice--\n\n\"I have concluded not to detain you, Senor Mitchell. I am of a forgiving\ndisposition. I make allowances. Let this be a lesson to you, however.\"\n\nThe peculiar dawn of Sulaco, which seems to break far away to the\nwestward and creep back into the shade of the mountains, mingled with\nthe reddish light of the candles. Captain Mitchell, in sign of contempt\nand indifference, let his eyes roam all over the room, and he gave a\nhard stare to the doctor, perched already on the casement of one of the\nwindows, with his eyelids lowered, careless and thoughtful--or perhaps\nashamed.\n\nSotillo, ensconced in the vast armchair, remarked, \"I should have\nthought that the feelings of a caballero would have dictated to you an\nappropriate reply.\"\n\nHe waited for it, but Captain Mitchell remaining mute, more from extreme\nresentment than from reasoned intention, Sotillo hesitated, glanced\ntowards the doctor, who looked up and nodded, then went on with a slight\neffort--\n\n\"Here, Senor Mitchell, is your watch. Learn how hasty and unjust has\nbeen your judgment of my patriotic soldiers.\"\n\nLying back in his seat, he extended his arm over the table and pushed\nthe watch away slightly. Captain Mitchell walked up with undisguised\neagerness, put it to his ear, then slipped it into his pocket coolly.\n\nSotillo seemed to overcome an immense reluctance. Again he looked aside\nat the doctor, who stared at him unwinkingly.\n\nBut as Captain Mitchell was turning away, without as much as a nod or a\nglance, he hastened to say--\n\n\"You may go and wait downstairs for the senor doctor, whom I am going to\nliberate, too. You foreigners are insignificant, to my mind.\"\n\nHe forced a slight, discordant laugh out of himself, while Captain\nMitchell, for the first time, looked at him with some interest.\n\n\"The law shall take note later on of your transgressions,\" Sotillo\nhurried on. \"But as for me, you can live free, unguarded, unobserved.\nDo you hear, Senor Mitchell? You may depart to your affairs. You are\nbeneath my notice. My attention is claimed by matters of the very\nhighest importance.\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell was very nearly provoked to an answer. It displeased\nhim to be liberated insultingly; but want of sleep, prolonged anxieties,\na profound disappointment with the fatal ending of the silver-saving\nbusiness weighed upon his spirits. It was as much as he could do to\nconceal his uneasiness, not about himself perhaps, but about things\nin general. It occurred to him distinctly that something underhand was\ngoing on. As he went out he ignored the doctor pointedly.\n\n\"A brute!\" said Sotillo, as the door shut.\n\nDr. Monygham slipped off the window-sill, and, thrusting his hands into\nthe pockets of the long, grey dust coat he was wearing, made a few steps\ninto the room.\n\nSotillo got up, too, and, putting himself in the way, examined him from\nhead to foot.\n\n\"So your countrymen do not confide in you very much, senor doctor. They\ndo not love you, eh? Why is that, I wonder?\"\n\nThe doctor, lifting his head, answered by a long, lifeless stare and the\nwords, \"Perhaps because I have lived too long in Costaguana.\"\n\nSotillo had a gleam of white teeth under the black moustache.\n\n\"Aha! But you love yourself,\" he said, encouragingly.\n\n\"If you leave them alone,\" the doctor said, looking with the same\nlifeless stare at Sotillo's handsome face, \"they will betray themselves\nvery soon. Meantime, I may try to make Don Carlos speak?\"\n\n\"Ah! senor doctor,\" said Sotillo, wagging his head, \"you are a man of\nquick intelligence. We were made to understand each other.\" He turned\naway. He could bear no longer that expressionless and motionless stare,\nwhich seemed to have a sort of impenetrable emptiness like the black\ndepth of an abyss.\n\nEven in a man utterly devoid of moral sense there remains an\nappreciation of rascality which, being conventional, is perfectly clear.\nSotillo thought that Dr. Monygham, so different from all Europeans, was\nready to sell his countrymen and Charles Gould, his employer, for some\nshare of the San Tome silver. Sotillo did not despise him for that. The\ncolonel's want of moral sense was of a profound and innocent character.\nIt bordered upon stupidity, moral stupidity. Nothing that served his\nends could appear to him really reprehensible. Nevertheless, he despised\nDr. Monygham. He had for him an immense and satisfactory contempt.\nHe despised him with all his heart because he did not mean to let the\ndoctor have any reward at all. He despised him, not as a man without\nfaith and honour, but as a fool. Dr. Monygham's insight into his\ncharacter had deceived Sotillo completely. Therefore he thought the\ndoctor a fool.\n\nSince his arrival in Sulaco the colonel's ideas had undergone some\nmodification.\n\nHe no longer wished for a political career in Montero's administration.\nHe had always doubted the safety of that course. Since he had learned\nfrom the chief engineer that at daylight most likely he would\nbe confronted by Pedro Montero his misgivings on that point had\nconsiderably increased. The guerrillero brother of the general--the\nPedrito of popular speech--had a reputation of his own. He wasn't safe\nto deal with. Sotillo had vaguely planned seizing not only the treasure\nbut the town itself, and then negotiating at leisure. But in the face of\nfacts learned from the chief engineer (who had frankly disclosed to him\nthe whole situation) his audacity, never of a very dashing kind, had\nbeen replaced by a most cautious hesitation.\n\n\"An army--an army crossed the mountains under Pedrito already,\" he had\nrepeated, unable to hide his consternation. \"If it had not been that I\nam given the news by a man of your position I would never have believed\nit. Astonishing!\"\n\n\"An armed force,\" corrected the engineer, suavely. His aim was attained.\nIt was to keep Sulaco clear of any armed occupation for a few hours\nlonger, to let those whom fear impelled leave the town. In the general\ndismay there were families hopeful enough to fly upon the road towards\nLos Hatos, which was left open by the withdrawal of the armed rabble\nunder Senores Fuentes and Gamacho, to Rincon, with their enthusiastic\nwelcome for Pedro Montero. It was a hasty and risky exodus, and it was\nsaid that Hernandez, occupying with his band the woods about Los Hatos,\nwas receiving the fugitives. That a good many people he knew were\ncontemplating such a flight had been well known to the chief engineer.\n\nFather Corbelan's efforts in the cause of that most pious robber had not\nbeen altogether fruitless. The political chief of Sulaco had yielded\nat the last moment to the urgent entreaties of the priest, had signed a\nprovisional nomination appointing Hernandez a general, and calling upon\nhim officially in this new capacity to preserve order in the town. The\nfact is that the political chief, seeing the situation desperate, did\nnot care what he signed. It was the last official document he signed\nbefore he left the palace of the Intendencia for the refuge of the\nO.S.N. Company's office. But even had he meant his act to be effective\nit was already too late. The riot which he feared and expected broke out\nin less than an hour after Father Corbelan had left him. Indeed, Father\nCorbelan, who had appointed a meeting with Nostromo in the Dominican\nConvent, where he had his residence in one of the cells, never managed\nto reach the place. From the Intendencia he had gone straight on to the\nAvellanos's house to tell his brother-in-law, and though he stayed there\nno more than half an hour he had found himself cut off from his ascetic\nabode. Nostromo, after waiting there for some time, watching uneasily\nthe increasing uproar in the street, had made his way to the offices of\nthe Porvenir, and stayed there till daylight, as Decoud had mentioned\nin the letter to his sister. Thus the Capataz, instead of riding towards\nthe Los Hatos woods as bearer of Hernandez's nomination, had remained in\ntown to save the life of the President Dictator, to assist in repressing\nthe outbreak of the mob, and at last to sail out with the silver of the\nmine.\n\nBut Father Corbelan, escaping to Hernandez, had the document in his\npocket, a piece of official writing turning a bandit into a general in\na memorable last official act of the Ribierist party, whose watchwords\nwere honesty, peace, and progress. Probably neither the priest nor the\nbandit saw the irony of it. Father Corbelan must have found messengers\nto send into the town, for early on the second day of the disturbances\nthere were rumours of Hernandez being on the road to Los Hatos ready\nto receive those who would put themselves under his protection. A\nstrange-looking horseman, elderly and audacious, had appeared in the\ntown, riding slowly while his eyes examined the fronts of the houses,\nas though he had never seen such high buildings before. Before the\ncathedral he had dismounted, and, kneeling in the middle of the Plaza,\nhis bridle over his arm and his hat lying in front of him on the ground,\nhad bowed his head, crossing himself and beating his breast for some\nlittle time. Remounting his horse, with a fearless but not unfriendly\nlook round the little gathering formed about his public devotions, he\nhad asked for the Casa Avellanos. A score of hands were extended in\nanswer, with fingers pointing up the Calle de la Constitucion.\n\nThe horseman had gone on with only a glance of casual curiosity upwards\nto the windows of the Amarilla Club at the corner. His stentorian voice\nshouted periodically in the empty street, \"Which is the Casa Avellanos?\"\ntill an answer came from the scared porter, and he disappeared under\nthe gate. The letter he was bringing, written by Father Corbelan with\na pencil by the camp-fire of Hernandez, was addressed to Don Jose, of\nwhose critical state the priest was not aware. Antonia read it, and,\nafter consulting Charles Gould, sent it on for the information of the\ngentlemen garrisoning the Amarilla Club. For herself, her mind was made\nup; she would rejoin her uncle; she would entrust the last day--the last\nhours perhaps--of her father's life to the keeping of the bandit, whose\nexistence was a protest against the irresponsible tyranny of all parties\nalike, against the moral darkness of the land. The gloom of Los Hatos\nwoods was preferable; a life of hardships in the train of a robber band\nless debasing. Antonia embraced with all her soul her uncle's obstinate\ndefiance of misfortune. It was grounded in the belief in the man whom\nshe loved.\n\nIn his message the Vicar-General answered upon his head for Hernandez's\nfidelity. As to his power, he pointed out that he had remained unsubdued\nfor so many years. In that letter Decoud's idea of the new Occidental\nState (whose flourishing and stable condition is a matter of common\nknowledge now) was for the first time made public and used as an\nargument. Hernandez, ex-bandit and the last general of Ribierist\ncreation, was confident of being able to hold the tract of country\nbetween the woods of Los Hatos and the coast range till that devoted\npatriot, Don Martin Decoud, could bring General Barrios back to Sulaco\nfor the reconquest of the town.\n\n\"Heaven itself wills it. Providence is on our side,\" wrote Father\nCorbelan; there was no time to reflect upon or to controvert his\nstatement; and if the discussion started upon the reading of that letter\nin the Amarilla Club was violent, it was also shortlived. In the\ngeneral bewilderment of the collapse some jumped at the idea with joyful\nastonishment as upon the amazing discovery of a new hope. Others became\nfascinated by the prospect of immediate personal safety for their women\nand children. The majority caught at it as a drowning man catches at\na straw. Father Corbelan was unexpectedly offering them a refuge from\nPedrito Montero with his llaneros allied to Senores Fuentes and Gamacho\nwith their armed rabble.\n\nAll the latter part of the afternoon an animated discussion went on in\nthe big rooms of the Amarilla Club. Even those members posted at the\nwindows with rifles and carbines to guard the end of the street in\ncase of an offensive return of the populace shouted their opinions and\narguments over their shoulders. As dusk fell Don Juste Lopez, inviting\nthose caballeros who were of his way of thinking to follow him, withdrew\ninto the corredor, where at a little table in the light of two\ncandles he busied himself in composing an address, or rather a solemn\ndeclaration to be presented to Pedrito Montero by a deputation of such\nmembers of Assembly as had elected to remain in town. His idea was\nto propitiate him in order to save the form at least of parliamentary\ninstitutions. Seated before a blank sheet of paper, a goose-quill pen in\nhis hand and surged upon from all sides, he turned to the right and to\nthe left, repeating with solemn insistence--\n\n\"Caballeros, a moment of silence! A moment of silence! We ought to make\nit clear that we bow in all good faith to the accomplished facts.\"\n\nThe utterance of that phrase seemed to give him a melancholy\nsatisfaction. The hubbub of voices round him was growing strained and\nhoarse. In the sudden pauses the excited grimacing of the faces would\nsink all at once into the stillness of profound dejection.\n\nMeantime, the exodus had begun. Carretas full of ladies and children\nrolled swaying across the Plaza, with men walking or riding by their\nside; mounted parties followed on mules and horses; the poorest were\nsetting out on foot, men and women carrying bundles, clasping babies in\ntheir arms, leading old people, dragging along the bigger children. When\nCharles Gould, after leaving the doctor and the engineer at the Casa\nViola, entered the town by the harbour gate, all those that had meant to\ngo were gone, and the others had barricaded themselves in their houses.\nIn the whole dark street there was only one spot of flickering lights\nand moving figures, where the Senor Administrador recognized his wife's\ncarriage waiting at the door of the Avellanos's house. He rode up,\nalmost unnoticed, and looked on without a word while some of his own\nservants came out of the gate carrying Don Jose Avellanos, who, with\nclosed eyes and motionless features, appeared perfectly lifeless. His\nwife and Antonia walked on each side of the improvised stretcher, which\nwas put at once into the carriage. The two women embraced; while from\nthe other side of the landau Father Corbelan's emissary, with his ragged\nbeard all streaked with grey, and high, bronzed cheek-bones, stared,\nsitting upright in the saddle. Then Antonia, dry-eyed, got in by the\nside of the stretcher, and, after making the sign of the cross rapidly,\nlowered a thick veil upon her face. The servants and the three or four\nneighbours who had come to assist, stood back, uncovering their heads.\nOn the box, Ignacio, resigned now to driving all night (and to having\nperhaps his throat cut before daylight) looked back surlily over his\nshoulder.\n\n\"Drive carefully,\" cried Mrs. Gould in a tremulous voice.\n\n\"Si, carefully; si nina,\" he mumbled, chewing his lips, his round\nleathery cheeks quivering. And the landau rolled slowly out of the\nlight.\n\n\"I will see them as far as the ford,\" said Charles Gould to his wife.\nShe stood on the edge of the sidewalk with her hands clasped lightly,\nand nodded to him as he followed after the carriage. And now the windows\nof the Amarilla Club were dark. The last spark of resistance had died\nout. Turning his head at the corner, Charles Gould saw his wife crossing\nover to their own gate in the lighted patch of the street. One of\ntheir neighbours, a well-known merchant and landowner of the province,\nfollowed at her elbow, talking with great gestures. As she passed in all\nthe lights went out in the street, which remained dark and empty from\nend to end.\n\nThe houses of the vast Plaza were lost in the night. High up, like a\nstar, there was a small gleam in one of the towers of the cathedral;\nand the equestrian statue gleamed pale against the black trees of the\nAlameda, like a ghost of royalty haunting the scenes of revolution. The\nrare prowlers they met ranged themselves against the wall. Beyond the\nlast houses the carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft cushion of dust,\nand with a greater obscurity a feeling of freshness seemed to fall from\nthe foliage of the trees bordering the country road. The emissary from\nHernandez's camp pushed his horse close to Charles Gould.\n\n\"Caballero,\" he said in an interested voice, \"you are he whom they call\nthe King of Sulaco, the master of the mine? Is it not so?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am the master of the mine,\" answered Charles Gould.\n\nThe man cantered for a time in silence, then said, \"I have a brother, a\nsereno in your service in the San Tome valley. You have proved yourself\na just man. There has been no wrong done to any one since you called\nupon the people to work in the mountains. My brother says that no\nofficial of the Government, no oppressor of the Campo, has been seen on\nyour side of the stream. Your own officials do not oppress the people\nin the gorge. Doubtless they are afraid of your severity. You are a just\nman and a powerful one,\" he added.\n\nHe spoke in an abrupt, independent tone, but evidently he was\ncommunicative with a purpose. He told Charles Gould that he had been\na ranchero in one of the lower valleys, far south, a neighbour of\nHernandez in the old days, and godfather to his eldest boy; one of those\nwho joined him in his resistance to the recruiting raid which was the\nbeginning of all their misfortunes. It was he that, when his compadre\nhad been carried off, had buried his wife and children, murdered by the\nsoldiers.\n\n\"Si, senor,\" he muttered, hoarsely, \"I and two or three others, the\nlucky ones left at liberty, buried them all in one grave near the ashes\nof their ranch, under the tree that had shaded its roof.\"\n\nIt was to him, too, that Hernandez came after he had deserted, three\nyears afterwards. He had still his uniform on with the sergeant's\nstripes on the sleeve, and the blood of his colonel upon his hands and\nbreast. Three troopers followed him, of those who had started in pursuit\nbut had ridden on for liberty. And he told Charles Gould how he and\na few friends, seeing those soldiers, lay in ambush behind some rocks\nready to pull the trigger on them, when he recognized his compadre and\njumped up from cover, shouting his name, because he knew that\nHernandez could not have been coming back on an errand of injustice and\noppression. Those three soldiers, together with the party who lay\nbehind the rocks, had formed the nucleus of the famous band, and he, the\nnarrator, had been the favourite lieutenant of Hernandez for many, many\nyears. He mentioned proudly that the officials had put a price upon his\nhead, too; but it did not prevent it getting sprinkled with grey upon\nhis shoulders. And now he had lived long enough to see his compadre made\na general.\n\nHe had a burst of muffled laughter. \"And now from robbers we have become\nsoldiers. But look, Caballero, at those who made us soldiers and him a\ngeneral! Look at these people!\"\n\nIgnacio shouted. The light of the carriage lamps, running along the\nnopal hedges that crowned the bank on each side, flashed upon the scared\nfaces of people standing aside in the road, sunk deep, like an English\ncountry lane, into the soft soil of the Campo. They cowered; their eyes\nglistened very big for a second; and then the light, running on, fell\nupon the half-denuded roots of a big tree, on another stretch of nopal\nhedge, caught up another bunch of faces glaring back apprehensively.\nThree women--of whom one was carrying a child--and a couple of men in\ncivilian dress--one armed with a sabre and another with a gun--were\ngrouped about a donkey carrying two bundles tied up in blankets. Further\non Ignacio shouted again to pass a carreta, a long wooden box on two\nhigh wheels, with the door at the back swinging open. Some ladies in it\nmust have recognized the white mules, because they screamed out, \"Is it\nyou, Dona Emilia?\"\n\nAt the turn of the road the glare of a big fire filled the short stretch\nvaulted over by the branches meeting overhead. Near the ford of a\nshallow stream a roadside rancho of woven rushes and a roof of grass had\nbeen set on fire by accident, and the flames, roaring viciously, lit\nup an open space blocked with horses, mules, and a distracted, shouting\ncrowd of people. When Ignacio pulled up, several ladies on foot assailed\nthe carriage, begging Antonia for a seat. To their clamour she answered\nby pointing silently to her father.\n\n\"I must leave you here,\" said Charles Gould, in the uproar. The flames\nleaped up sky-high, and in the recoil from the scorching heat across the\nroad the stream of fugitives pressed against the carriage. A middle-aged\nlady dressed in black silk, but with a coarse manta over her head and a\nrough branch for a stick in her hand, staggered against the front wheel.\nTwo young girls, frightened and silent, were clinging to her arms.\nCharles Gould knew her very well.\n\n\"Misericordia! We are getting terribly bruised in this crowd!\" she\nexclaimed, smiling up courageously to him. \"We have started on foot. All\nour servants ran away yesterday to join the democrats. We are going to\nput ourselves under the protection of Father Corbelan, of your sainted\nuncle, Antonia. He has wrought a miracle in the heart of a most\nmerciless robber. A miracle!\"\n\nShe raised her voice gradually up to a scream as she was borne along by\nthe pressure of people getting out of the way of some carts coming up\nout of the ford at a gallop, with loud yells and cracking of whips.\nGreat masses of sparks mingled with black smoke flew over the road;\nthe bamboos of the walls detonated in the fire with the sound of an\nirregular fusillade. And then the bright blaze sank suddenly, leaving\nonly a red dusk crowded with aimless dark shadows drifting in contrary\ndirections; the noise of voices seemed to die away with the flame;\nand the tumult of heads, arms, quarrelling, and imprecations passed on\nfleeing into the darkness.\n\n\"I must leave you now,\" repeated Charles Gould to Antonia. She turned\nher head slowly and uncovered her face. The emissary and compadre of\nHernandez spurred his horse close up.\n\n\"Has not the master of the mine any message to send to Hernandez, the\nmaster of the Campo?\"\n\nThe truth of the comparison struck Charles Gould heavily. In his\ndetermined purpose he held the mine, and the indomitable bandit held\nthe Campo by the same precarious tenure. They were equals before the\nlawlessness of the land. It was impossible to disentangle one's activity\nfrom its debasing contacts. A close-meshed net of crime and corruption\nlay upon the whole country. An immense and weary discouragement sealed\nhis lips for a time.\n\n\"You are a just man,\" urged the emissary of Hernandez. \"Look at those\npeople who made my compadre a general and have turned us all into\nsoldiers. Look at those oligarchs fleeing for life, with only the\nclothes on their backs. My compadre does not think of that, but our\nfollowers may be wondering greatly, and I would speak for them to you.\nListen, senor! For many months now the Campo has been our own. We\nneed ask no man for anything; but soldiers must have their pay to live\nhonestly when the wars are over. It is believed that your soul is so\njust that a prayer from you would cure the sickness of every beast, like\nthe orison of the upright judge. Let me have some words from your lips\nthat would act like a charm upon the doubts of our partida, where all\nare men.\"\n\n\"Do you hear what he says?\" Charles Gould said in English to Antonia.\n\n\"Forgive us our misery!\" she exclaimed, hurriedly. \"It is your character\nthat is the inexhaustible treasure which may save us all yet; your\ncharacter, Carlos, not your wealth. I entreat you to give this man your\nword that you will accept any arrangement my uncle may make with their\nchief. One word. He will want no more.\"\n\nOn the site of the roadside hut there remained nothing but an enormous\nheap of embers, throwing afar a darkening red glow, in which Antonia's\nface appeared deeply flushed with excitement. Charles Gould, with only a\nshort hesitation, pronounced the required pledge. He was like a man who\nhad ventured on a precipitous path with no room to turn, where the only\nchance of safety is to press forward. At that moment he understood\nit thoroughly as he looked down at Don Jose stretched out, hardly\nbreathing, by the side of the erect Antonia, vanquished in a lifelong\nstruggle with the powers of moral darkness, whose stagnant depths breed\nmonstrous crimes and monstrous illusions. In a few words the emissary\nfrom Hernandez expressed his complete satisfaction. Stoically Antonia\nlowered her veil, resisting the longing to inquire about Decoud's\nescape. But Ignacio leered morosely over his shoulder.\n\n\"Take a good look at the mules, mi amo,\" he grumbled. \"You shall never\nsee them again!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nCharles Gould turned towards the town. Before him the jagged peaks\nof the Sierra came out all black in the clear dawn. Here and there a\nmuffled lepero whisked round the corner of a grass-grown street before\nthe ringing hoofs of his horse. Dogs barked behind the walls of the\ngardens; and with the colourless light the chill of the snows seemed to\nfall from the mountains upon the disjointed pavements and the shuttered\nhouses with broken cornices and the plaster peeling in patches between\nthe flat pilasters of the fronts. The daybreak struggled with the\ngloom under the arcades on the Plaza, with no signs of country people\ndisposing their goods for the day's market, piles of fruit, bundles of\nvegetables ornamented with flowers, on low benches under enormous mat\numbrellas; with no cheery early morning bustle of villagers,\nwomen, children, and loaded donkeys. Only a few scattered knots of\nrevolutionists stood in the vast space, all looking one way from under\ntheir slouched hats for some sign of news from Rincon. The largest of\nthose groups turned about like one man as Charles Gould passed, and\nshouted, \"Viva la libertad!\" after him in a menacing tone.\n\nCharles Gould rode on, and turned into the archway of his house. In the\npatio littered with straw, a practicante, one of Dr. Monygham's native\nassistants, sat on the ground with his back against the rim of the\nfountain, fingering a guitar discreetly, while two girls of the lower\nclass, standing up before him, shuffled their feet a little and waved\ntheir arms, humming a popular dance tune.\n\nMost of the wounded during the two days of rioting had been taken away\nalready by their friends and relations, but several figures could be\nseen sitting up balancing their bandaged heads in time to the music.\nCharles Gould dismounted. A sleepy mozo coming out of the bakery door\ntook hold of the horse's bridle; the practicante endeavoured to conceal\nhis guitar hastily; the girls, unabashed, stepped back smiling; and\nCharles Gould, on his way to the staircase, glanced into a dark corner\nof the patio at another group, a mortally wounded Cargador with a woman\nkneeling by his side; she mumbled prayers rapidly, trying at the same\ntime to force a piece of orange between the stiffening lips of the dying\nman.\n\nThe cruel futility of things stood unveiled in the levity and sufferings\nof that incorrigible people; the cruel futility of lives and of deaths\nthrown away in the vain endeavour to attain an enduring solution of the\nproblem. Unlike Decoud, Charles Gould could not play lightly a part in\na tragic farce. It was tragic enough for him in all conscience, but he\ncould see no farcical element. He suffered too much under a conviction\nof irremediable folly. He was too severely practical and too idealistic\nto look upon its terrible humours with amusement, as Martin Decoud,\nthe imaginative materialist, was able to do in the dry light of his\nscepticism. To him, as to all of us, the compromises with his conscience\nappeared uglier than ever in the light of failure. His taciturnity,\nassumed with a purpose, had prevented him from tampering openly with\nhis thoughts; but the Gould Concession had insidiously corrupted his\njudgment. He might have known, he said to himself, leaning over the\nbalustrade of the corredor, that Ribierism could never come to anything.\nThe mine had corrupted his judgment by making him sick of bribing and\nintriguing merely to have his work left alone from day to day. Like\nhis father, he did not like to be robbed. It exasperated him. He had\npersuaded himself that, apart from higher considerations, the backing up\nof Don Jose's hopes of reform was good business. He had gone forth into\nthe senseless fray as his poor uncle, whose sword hung on the wall of\nhis study, had gone forth--in the defence of the commonest decencies\nof organized society. Only his weapon was the wealth of the mine, more\nfar-reaching and subtle than an honest blade of steel fitted into a\nsimple brass guard.\n\nMore dangerous to the wielder, too, this weapon of wealth, double-edged\nwith the cupidity and misery of mankind, steeped in all the vices of\nself-indulgence as in a concoction of poisonous roots, tainting the very\ncause for which it is drawn, always ready to turn awkwardly in the hand.\nThere was nothing for it now but to go on using it. But he promised\nhimself to see it shattered into small bits before he let it be wrenched\nfrom his grasp.\n\nAfter all, with his English parentage and English upbringing, he\nperceived that he was an adventurer in Costaguana, the descendant of\nadventurers enlisted in a foreign legion, of men who had sought fortune\nin a revolutionary war, who had planned revolutions, who had believed in\nrevolutions. For all the uprightness of his character, he had something\nof an adventurer's easy morality which takes count of personal risk in\nthe ethical appraising of his action. He was prepared, if need be, to\nblow up the whole San Tome mountain sky high out of the territory of the\nRepublic. This resolution expressed the tenacity of his character, the\nremorse of that subtle conjugal infidelity through which his wife was\nno longer the sole mistress of his thoughts, something of his father's\nimaginative weakness, and something, too, of the spirit of a buccaneer\nthrowing a lighted match into the magazine rather than surrender his\nship.\n\nDown below in the patio the wounded Cargador had breathed his last. The\nwoman cried out once, and her cry, unexpected and shrill, made all the\nwounded sit up. The practicante scrambled to his feet, and, guitar in\nhand, gazed steadily in her direction with elevated eyebrows. The two\ngirls--sitting now one on each side of their wounded relative, with\ntheir knees drawn up and long cigars between their lips--nodded at each\nother significantly.\n\nCharles Gould, looking down over the balustrade, saw three men dressed\nceremoniously in black frock-coats with white shirts, and wearing\nEuropean round hats, enter the patio from the street. One of them, head\nand shoulders taller than the two others, advanced with marked gravity,\nleading the way. This was Don Juste Lopez, accompanied by two of his\nfriends, members of Assembly, coming to call upon the Administrador of\nthe San Tome mine at this early hour. They saw him, too, waved their\nhands to him urgently, walking up the stairs as if in procession.\n\nDon Juste, astonishingly changed by having shaved off altogether his\ndamaged beard, had lost with it nine-tenths of his outward dignity. Even\nat that time of serious pre-occupation Charles Gould could not help\nnoting the revealed ineptitude in the aspect of the man. His companions\nlooked crestfallen and sleepy. One kept on passing the tip of his tongue\nover his parched lips; the other's eyes strayed dully over the tiled\nfloor of the corredor, while Don Juste, standing a little in advance,\nharangued the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. It was his firm\nopinion that forms had to be observed. A new governor is always visited\nby deputations from the Cabildo, which is the Municipal Council,\nfrom the Consulado, the commercial Board, and it was proper that the\nProvincial Assembly should send a deputation, too, if only to assert\nthe existence of parliamentary institutions. Don Juste proposed that Don\nCarlos Gould, as the most prominent citizen of the province, should join\nthe Assembly's deputation. His position was exceptional, his personality\nknown through the length and breadth of the whole Republic. Official\ncourtesies must not be neglected, if they are gone through with a\nbleeding heart. The acceptance of accomplished facts may save yet the\nprecious vestiges of parliamentary institutions. Don Juste's eyes glowed\ndully; he believed in parliamentary institutions--and the convinced\ndrone of his voice lost itself in the stillness of the house like the\ndeep buzzing of some ponderous insect.\n\nCharles Gould had turned round to listen patiently, leaning his elbow on\nthe balustrade. He shook his head a little, refusing, almost touched by\nthe anxious gaze of the President of the Provincial Assembly. It was not\nCharles Gould's policy to make the San Tome mine a party to any formal\nproceedings.\n\n\"My advice, senores, is that you should wait for your fate in your\nhouses. There is no necessity for you to give yourselves up formally\ninto Montero's hands. Submission to the inevitable, as Don Juste calls\nit, is all very well, but when the inevitable is called Pedrito\nMontero there is no need to exhibit pointedly the whole extent of your\nsurrender. The fault of this country is the want of measure in\npolitical life. Flat acquiescence in illegality, followed by sanguinary\nreaction--that, senores, is not the way to a stable and prosperous\nfuture.\"\n\nCharles Gould stopped before the sad bewilderment of the faces, the\nwondering, anxious glances of the eyes. The feeling of pity for those\nmen, putting all their trust into words of some sort, while murder and\nrapine stalked over the land, had betrayed him into what seemed empty\nloquacity. Don Juste murmured--\n\n\"You are abandoning us, Don Carlos. . . . And yet, parliamentary\ninstitutions--\"\n\nHe could not finish from grief. For a moment he put his hand over his\neyes. Charles Gould, in his fear of empty loquacity, made no answer\nto the charge. He returned in silence their ceremonious bows. His\ntaciturnity was his refuge. He understood that what they sought was to\nget the influence of the San Tome mine on their side. They wanted to\ngo on a conciliating errand to the victor under the wing of the Gould\nConcession. Other public bodies--the Cabildo, the Consulado--would be\ncoming, too, presently, seeking the support of the most stable, the most\neffective force they had ever known to exist in their province.\n\nThe doctor, arriving with his sharp, jerky walk, found that the master\nhad retired into his own room with orders not to be disturbed on any\naccount. But Dr. Monygham was not anxious to see Charles Gould at once.\nHe spent some time in a rapid examination of his wounded. He gazed down\nupon each in turn, rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger;\nhis steady stare met without expression their silently inquisitive look.\nAll these cases were doing well; but when he came to the dead Cargador\nhe stopped a little longer, surveying not the man who had ceased to\nsuffer, but the woman kneeling in silent contemplation of the rigid\nface, with its pinched nostrils and a white gleam in the imperfectly\nclosed eyes. She lifted her head slowly, and said in a dull voice--\n\n\"It is not long since he had become a Cargador--only a few weeks. His\nworship the Capataz had accepted him after many entreaties.\"\n\n\"I am not responsible for the great Capataz,\" muttered the doctor,\nmoving off.\n\nDirecting his course upstairs towards the door of Charles Gould's room,\nthe doctor at the last moment hesitated; then, turning away from the\nhandle with a shrug of his uneven shoulders, slunk off hastily along the\ncorredor in search of Mrs. Gould's camerista.\n\nLeonarda told him that the senora had not risen yet. The senora had\ngiven into her charge the girls belonging to that Italian posadero. She,\nLeonarda, had put them to bed in her own room. The fair girl had cried\nherself to sleep, but the dark one--the bigger--had not closed her eyes\nyet. She sat up in bed clutching the sheets right up under her chin and\nstaring before her like a little witch. Leonarda did not approve of the\nViola children being admitted to the house. She made this feeling clear\nby the indifferent tone in which she inquired whether their mother was\ndead yet. As to the senora, she must be asleep. Ever since she had gone\ninto her room after seeing the departure of Dona Antonia with her dying\nfather, there had been no sound behind her door.\n\nThe doctor, rousing himself out of profound reflection, told her\nabruptly to call her mistress at once. He hobbled off to wait for Mrs.\nGould in the sala. He was very tired, but too excited to sit down. In\nthis great drawing-room, now empty, in which his withered soul had been\nrefreshed after many arid years and his outcast spirit had accepted\nsilently the toleration of many side-glances, he wandered haphazard\namongst the chairs and tables till Mrs. Gould, enveloped in a morning\nwrapper, came in rapidly.\n\n\"You know that I never approved of the silver being sent away,\" the\ndoctor began at once, as a preliminary to the narrative of his night's\nadventures in association with Captain Mitchell, the engineer-in-chief,\nand old Viola, at Sotillo's headquarters. To the doctor, with his\nspecial conception of this political crisis, the removal of the silver\nhad seemed an irrational and ill-omened measure. It was as if a general\nwere sending the best part of his troops away on the eve of battle\nupon some recondite pretext. The whole lot of ingots might have been\nconcealed somewhere where they could have been got at for the purpose\nof staving off the dangers which were menacing the security of the Gould\nConcession. The Administrador had acted as if the immense and powerful\nprosperity of the mine had been founded on methods of probity, on the\nsense of usefulness. And it was nothing of the kind. The method followed\nhad been the only one possible. The Gould Concession had ransomed\nits way through all those years. It was a nauseous process. He quite\nunderstood that Charles Gould had got sick of it and had left the old\npath to back up that hopeless attempt at reform. The doctor did not\nbelieve in the reform of Costaguana. And now the mine was back again in\nits old path, with the disadvantage that henceforth it had to deal not\nonly with the greed provoked by its wealth, but with the resentment\nawakened by the attempt to free itself from its bondage to moral\ncorruption. That was the penalty of failure. What made him uneasy was\nthat Charles Gould seemed to him to have weakened at the decisive moment\nwhen a frank return to the old methods was the only chance. Listening to\nDecoud's wild scheme had been a weakness.\n\nThe doctor flung up his arms, exclaiming, \"Decoud! Decoud!\" He hobbled\nabout the room with slight, angry laughs. Many years ago both his ankles\nhad been seriously damaged in the course of a certain investigation\nconducted in the castle of Sta. Marta by a commission composed of\nmilitary men. Their nomination had been signified to them unexpectedly\nat the dead of night, with scowling brow, flashing eyes, and in a\ntempestuous voice, by Guzman Bento. The old tyrant, maddened by one of\nhis sudden accesses of suspicion, mingled spluttering appeals to their\nfidelity with imprecations and horrible menaces. The cells and casements\nof the castle on the hill had been already filled with prisoners. The\ncommission was charged now with the task of discovering the iniquitous\nconspiracy against the Citizen-Saviour of his country.\n\nTheir dread of the raving tyrant translated itself into a hasty\nferocity of procedure. The Citizen-Saviour was not accustomed to wait. A\nconspiracy had to be discovered. The courtyards of the castle resounded\nwith the clanking of leg-irons, sounds of blows, yells of pain; and\nthe commission of high officers laboured feverishly, concealing their\ndistress and apprehensions from each other, and especially from their\nsecretary, Father Beron, an army chaplain, at that time very much in\nthe confidence of the Citizen-Saviour. That priest was a big\nround-shouldered man, with an unclean-looking, overgrown tonsure on the\ntop of his flat head, of a dingy, yellow complexion, softly fat, with\ngreasy stains all down the front of his lieutenant's uniform, and a\nsmall cross embroidered in white cotton on his left breast. He had a\nheavy nose and a pendant lip. Dr. Monygham remembered him still. He\nremembered him against all the force of his will striving its utmost to\nforget. Father Beron had been adjoined to the commission by Guzman Bento\nexpressly for the purpose that his enlightened zeal should assist them\nin their labours. Dr. Monygham could by no manner of means forget the\nzeal of Father Beron, or his face, or the pitiless, monotonous voice in\nwhich he pronounced the words, \"Will you confess now?\"\n\nThis memory did not make him shudder, but it had made of him what he was\nin the eyes of respectable people, a man careless of common decencies,\nsomething between a clever vagabond and a disreputable doctor. But\nnot all respectable people would have had the necessary delicacy of\nsentiment to understand with what trouble of mind and accuracy of vision\nDr. Monygham, medical officer of the San Tome mine, remembered Father\nBeron, army chaplain, and once a secretary of a military commission.\nAfter all these years Dr. Monygham, in his rooms at the end of the\nhospital building in the San Tome gorge, remembered Father Beron as\ndistinctly as ever. He remembered that priest at night, sometimes, in\nhis sleep. On such nights the doctor waited for daylight with a candle\nlighted, and walking the whole length of his rooms to and fro, staring\ndown at his bare feet, his arms hugging his sides tightly. He would\ndream of Father Beron sitting at the end of a long black table, behind\nwhich, in a row, appeared the heads, shoulders, and epaulettes of the\nmilitary members, nibbling the feather of a quill pen, and listening\nwith weary and impatient scorn to the protestations of some prisoner\ncalling heaven to witness of his innocence, till he burst out, \"What's\nthe use of wasting time over that miserable nonsense! Let me take\nhim outside for a while.\" And Father Beron would go outside after\nthe clanking prisoner, led away between two soldiers. Such interludes\nhappened on many days, many times, with many prisoners. When the\nprisoner returned he was ready to make a full confession, Father Beron\nwould declare, leaning forward with that dull, surfeited look which can\nbe seen in the eyes of gluttonous persons after a heavy meal.\n\nThe priest's inquisitorial instincts suffered but little from the want\nof classical apparatus of the Inquisition. At no time of the world's\nhistory have men been at a loss how to inflict mental and bodily anguish\nupon their fellow-creatures. This aptitude came to them in the\ngrowing complexity of their passions and the early refinement of their\ningenuity. But it may safely be said that primeval man did not go to\nthe trouble of inventing tortures. He was indolent and pure of heart.\nHe brained his neighbour ferociously with a stone axe from necessity and\nwithout malice. The stupidest mind may invent a rankling phrase or brand\nthe innocent with a cruel aspersion. A piece of string and a ramrod; a\nfew muskets in combination with a length of hide rope; or even a simple\nmallet of heavy, hard wood applied with a swing to human fingers or\nto the joints of a human body is enough for the infliction of the most\nexquisite torture. The doctor had been a very stubborn prisoner, and, as\na natural consequence of that \"bad disposition\" (so Father Beron called\nit), his subjugation had been very crushing and very complete. That is\nwhy the limp in his walk, the twist of his shoulders, the scars on his\ncheeks were so pronounced. His confessions, when they came at last, were\nvery complete, too. Sometimes on the nights when he walked the floor,\nhe wondered, grinding his teeth with shame and rage, at the fertility\nof his imagination when stimulated by a sort of pain which makes truth,\nhonour, selfrespect, and life itself matters of little moment.\n\nAnd he could not forget Father Beron with his monotonous phrase, \"Will\nyou confess now?\" reaching him in an awful iteration and lucidity of\nmeaning through the delirious incoherence of unbearable pain. He could\nnot forget. But that was not the worst. Had he met Father Beron in the\nstreet after all these years Dr. Monygham was sure he would have quailed\nbefore him. This contingency was not to be feared now. Father Beron was\ndead; but the sickening certitude prevented Dr. Monygham from looking\nanybody in the face.\n\nDr. Monygham had become, in a manner, the slave of a ghost. It was\nobviously impossible to take his knowledge of Father Beron home to\nEurope. When making his extorted confessions to the Military Board,\nDr. Monygham was not seeking to avoid death. He longed for it. Sitting\nhalf-naked for hours on the wet earth of his prison, and so motionless\nthat the spiders, his companions, attached their webs to his matted\nhair, he consoled the misery of his soul with acute reasonings that he\nhad confessed to crimes enough for a sentence of death--that they had\ngone too far with him to let him live to tell the tale.\n\nBut, as if by a refinement of cruelty, Dr. Monygham was left for months\nto decay slowly in the darkness of his grave-like prison. It was no\ndoubt hoped that it would finish him off without the trouble of an\nexecution; but Dr. Monygham had an iron constitution. It was Guzman\nBento who died, not by the knife thrust of a conspirator, but from a\nstroke of apoplexy, and Dr. Monygham was liberated hastily. His fetters\nwere struck off by the light of a candle, which, after months of gloom,\nhurt his eyes so much that he had to cover his face with his hands. He\nwas raised up. His heart was beating violently with the fear of this\nliberty. When he tried to walk the extraordinary lightness of his feet\nmade him giddy, and he fell down. Two sticks were thrust into his hands,\nand he was pushed out of the passage. It was dusk; candles glimmered\nalready in the windows of the officers' quarters round the courtyard;\nbut the twilight sky dazed him by its enormous and overwhelming\nbrilliance. A thin poncho hung over his naked, bony shoulders; the rags\nof his trousers came down no lower than his knees; an eighteen months'\ngrowth of hair fell in dirty grey locks on each side of his sharp\ncheek-bones. As he dragged himself past the guard-room door, one of the\nsoldiers, lolling outside, moved by some obscure impulse, leaped forward\nwith a strange laugh and rammed a broken old straw hat on his head. And\nDr. Monygham, after having tottered, continued on his way. He advanced\none stick, then one maimed foot, then the other stick; the other foot\nfollowed only a very short distance along the ground, toilfully, as\nthough it were almost too heavy to be moved at all; and yet his legs\nunder the hanging angles of the poncho appeared no thicker than the two\nsticks in his hands. A ceaseless trembling agitated his bent body,\nall his wasted limbs, his bony head, the conical, ragged crown of the\nsombrero, whose ample flat rim rested on his shoulders.\n\nIn such conditions of manner and attire did Dr. Monygham go forth to\ntake possession of his liberty. And these conditions seemed to bind\nhim indissolubly to the land of Costaguana like an awful procedure of\nnaturalization, involving him deep in the national life, far deeper than\nany amount of success and honour could have done. They did away with his\nEuropeanism; for Dr. Monygham had made himself an ideal conception\nof his disgrace. It was a conception eminently fit and proper for an\nofficer and a gentleman. Dr. Monygham, before he went out to Costaguana,\nhad been surgeon in one of Her Majesty's regiments of foot. It was a\nconception which took no account of physiological facts or reasonable\narguments; but it was not stupid for all that. It was simple. A rule of\nconduct resting mainly on severe rejections is necessarily simple. Dr.\nMonygham's view of what it behoved him to do was severe; it was an ideal\nview, in so much that it was the imaginative exaggeration of a correct\nfeeling. It was also, in its force, influence, and persistency, the view\nof an eminently loyal nature.\n\nThere was a great fund of loyalty in Dr. Monygham's nature. He had\nsettled it all on Mrs. Gould's head. He believed her worthy of every\ndevotion. At the bottom of his heart he felt an angry uneasiness before\nthe prosperity of the San Tome mine, because its growth was robbing her\nof all peace of mind. Costaguana was no place for a woman of that kind.\nWhat could Charles Gould have been thinking of when he brought her\nout there! It was outrageous! And the doctor had watched the course\nof events with a grim and distant reserve which, he imagined, his\nlamentable history imposed upon him.\n\nLoyalty to Mrs. Gould could not, however, leave out of account the\nsafety of her husband. The doctor had contrived to be in town at the\ncritical time because he mistrusted Charles Gould. He considered him\nhopelessly infected with the madness of revolutions. That is why he\nhobbled in distress in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould on that\nmorning, exclaiming, \"Decoud, Decoud!\" in a tone of mournful irritation.\n\nMrs. Gould, her colour heightened, and with glistening eyes, looked\nstraight before her at the sudden enormity of that disaster. The\nfinger-tips on one hand rested lightly on a low little table by her\nside, and the arm trembled right up to the shoulder. The sun, which\nlooks late upon Sulaco, issuing in all the fulness of its power high\nup on the sky from behind the dazzling snow-edge of Higuerota, had\nprecipitated the delicate, smooth, pearly greyness of light, in which\nthe town lies steeped during the early hours, into sharp-cut masses of\nblack shade and spaces of hot, blinding glare. Three long rectangles\nof sunshine fell through the windows of the sala; while just across the\nstreet the front of the Avellanos's house appeared very sombre in its\nown shadow seen through the flood of light.\n\nA voice said at the door, \"What of Decoud?\"\n\nIt was Charles Gould. They had not heard him coming along the corredor.\nHis glance just glided over his wife and struck full at the doctor.\n\n\"You have brought some news, doctor?\"\n\nDr. Monygham blurted it all out at once, in the rough. For some time\nafter he had done, the Administrador of the San Tome mine remained\nlooking at him without a word. Mrs. Gould sank into a low chair with her\nhands lying on her lap. A silence reigned between those three motionless\npersons. Then Charles Gould spoke--\n\n\"You must want some breakfast.\"\n\nHe stood aside to let his wife pass first. She caught up her husband's\nhand and pressed it as she went out, raising her handkerchief to her\neyes. The sight of her husband had brought Antonia's position to her\nmind, and she could not contain her tears at the thought of the poor\ngirl. When she rejoined the two men in the diningroom after having\nbathed her face, Charles Gould was saying to the doctor across the\ntable--\n\n\"No, there does not seem any room for doubt.\"\n\nAnd the doctor assented.\n\n\"No, I don't see myself how we could question that wretched Hirsch's\ntale. It's only too true, I fear.\"\n\nShe sat down desolately at the head of the table and looked from one\nto the other. The two men, without absolutely turning their heads away,\ntried to avoid her glance. The doctor even made a show of being hungry;\nhe seized his knife and fork, and began to eat with emphasis, as if on\nthe stage. Charles Gould made no pretence of the sort; with his elbows\nraised squarely, he twisted both ends of his flaming moustaches--they\nwere so long that his hands were quite away from his face.\n\n\"I am not surprised,\" he muttered, abandoning his moustaches and\nthrowing one arm over the back of his chair. His face was calm with\nthat immobility of expression which betrays the intensity of a mental\nstruggle. He felt that this accident had brought to a point all the\nconsequences involved in his line of conduct, with its conscious\nand subconscious intentions. There must be an end now of this silent\nreserve, of that air of impenetrability behind which he had been\nsafeguarding his dignity. It was the least ignoble form of dissembling\nforced upon him by that parody of civilized institutions which offended\nhis intelligence, his uprightness, and his sense of right. He was like\nhis father. He had no ironic eye. He was not amused at the absurdities\nthat prevail in this world. They hurt him in his innate gravity. He\nfelt that the miserable death of that poor Decoud took from him his\ninaccessible position of a force in the background. It committed him\nopenly unless he wished to throw up the game--and that was impossible.\nThe material interests required from him the sacrifice of his\naloofness--perhaps his own safety too. And he reflected that Decoud's\nseparationist plan had not gone to the bottom with the lost silver.\n\nThe only thing that was not changed was his position towards Mr.\nHolroyd. The head of silver and steel interests had entered into\nCostaguana affairs with a sort of passion. Costaguana had become\nnecessary to his existence; in the San Tome mine he had found the\nimaginative satisfaction which other minds would get from drama, from\nart, or from a risky and fascinating sport. It was a special form of the\ngreat man's extravagance, sanctioned by a moral intention, big enough to\nflatter his vanity. Even in this aberration of his genius he served the\nprogress of the world. Charles Gould felt sure of being understood\nwith precision and judged with the indulgence of their common passion.\nNothing now could surprise or startle this great man. And Charles Gould\nimagined himself writing a letter to San Francisco in some such words:\n\". . . . The men at the head of the movement are dead or have fled; the\ncivil organization of the province is at an end for the present;\nthe Blanco party in Sulaco has collapsed inexcusably, but in the\ncharacteristic manner of this country. But Barrios, untouched in Cayta,\nremains still available. I am forced to take up openly the plan of a\nprovincial revolution as the only way of placing the enormous material\ninterests involved in the prosperity and peace of Sulaco in a position\nof permanent safety. . . .\" That was clear. He saw these words as\nif written in letters of fire upon the wall at which he was gazing\nabstractedly.\n\nMrs Gould watched his abstraction with dread. It was a domestic and\nfrightful phenomenon that darkened and chilled the house for her like a\nthundercloud passing over the sun. Charles Gould's fits of abstraction\ndepicted the energetic concentration of a will haunted by a fixed idea.\nA man haunted by a fixed idea is insane. He is dangerous even if\nthat idea is an idea of justice; for may he not bring the heaven down\npitilessly upon a loved head? The eyes of Mrs. Gould, watching her\nhusband's profile, filled with tears again. And again she seemed to see\nthe despair of the unfortunate Antonia.\n\n\"What would I have done if Charley had been drowned while we were\nengaged?\" she exclaimed, mentally, with horror. Her heart turned to ice,\nwhile her cheeks flamed up as if scorched by the blaze of a funeral pyre\nconsuming all her earthly affections. The tears burst out of her eyes.\n\n\"Antonia will kill herself!\" she cried out.\n\nThis cry fell into the silence of the room with strangely little effect.\nOnly the doctor, crumbling up a piece of bread, with his head inclined\non one side, raised his face, and the few long hairs sticking out of his\nshaggy eyebrows stirred in a slight frown. Dr. Monygham thought quite\nsincerely that Decoud was a singularly unworthy object for any woman's\naffection. Then he lowered his head again, with a curl of his lip, and\nhis heart full of tender admiration for Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"She thinks of that girl,\" he said to himself; \"she thinks of the Viola\nchildren; she thinks of me; of the wounded; of the miners; she always\nthinks of everybody who is poor and miserable! But what will she do if\nCharles gets the worst of it in this infernal scrimmage those confounded\nAvellanos have drawn him into? No one seems to be thinking of her.\"\n\nCharles Gould, staring at the wall, pursued his reflections subtly.\n\n\"I shall write to Holroyd that the San Tome mine is big enough to take\nin hand the making of a new State. It'll please him. It'll reconcile him\nto the risk.\"\n\nBut was Barrios really available? Perhaps. But he was inaccessible.\nTo send off a boat to Cayta was no longer possible, since Sotillo was\nmaster of the harbour, and had a steamer at his disposal. And now, with\nall the democrats in the province up, and every Campo township in a\nstate of disturbance, where could he find a man who would make his\nway successfully overland to Cayta with a message, a ten days' ride\nat least; a man of courage and resolution, who would avoid arrest or\nmurder, and if arrested would faithfully eat the paper? The Capataz\nde Cargadores would have been just such a man. But the Capataz of the\nCargadores was no more.\n\nAnd Charles Gould, withdrawing his eyes from the wall, said gently,\n\"That Hirsch! What an extraordinary thing! Saved himself by clinging to\nthe anchor, did he? I had no idea that he was still in Sulaco. I thought\nhe had gone back overland to Esmeralda more than a week ago. He came\nhere once to talk to me about his hide business and some other things. I\nmade it clear to him that nothing could be done.\"\n\n\"He was afraid to start back on account of Hernandez being about,\"\nremarked the doctor.\n\n\"And but for him we might not have known anything of what has happened,\"\nmarvelled Charles Gould.\n\nMrs. Gould cried out--\n\n\"Antonia must not know! She must not be told. Not now.\"\n\n\"Nobody's likely to carry the news,\" remarked the doctor. \"It's no one's\ninterest. Moreover, the people here are afraid of Hernandez as if he\nwere the devil.\" He turned to Charles Gould. \"It's even awkward,\nbecause if you wanted to communicate with the refugees you could find no\nmessenger. When Hernandez was ranging hundreds of miles away from here\nthe Sulaco populace used to shudder at the tales of him roasting his\nprisoners alive.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" murmured Charles Gould; \"Captain Mitchell's Capataz was the\nonly man in the town who had seen Hernandez eye to eye. Father Corbelan\nemployed him. He opened the communications first. It is a pity that--\"\n\nHis voice was covered by the booming of the great bell of the cathedral.\nThree single strokes, one after another, burst out explosively, dying\naway in deep and mellow vibrations. And then all the bells in the\ntower of every church, convent, or chapel in town, even those that had\nremained shut up for years, pealed out together with a crash. In this\nfurious flood of metallic uproar there was a power of suggesting images\nof strife and violence which blanched Mrs. Gould's cheek. Basilio,\nwho had been waiting at table, shrinking within himself, clung to the\nsideboard with chattering teeth. It was impossible to hear yourself\nspeak.\n\n\"Shut these windows!\" Charles Gould yelled at him, angrily. All the\nother servants, terrified at what they took for the signal of a general\nmassacre, had rushed upstairs, tumbling over each other, men and women,\nthe obscure and generally invisible population of the ground floor on\nthe four sides of the patio. The women, screaming \"Misericordia!\" ran\nright into the room, and, falling on their knees against the walls,\nbegan to cross themselves convulsively. The staring heads of men blocked\nthe doorway in an instant--mozos from the stable, gardeners, nondescript\nhelpers living on the crumbs of the munificent house--and Charles\nGould beheld all the extent of his domestic establishment, even to the\ngatekeeper. This was a half-paralyzed old man, whose long white locks\nfell down to his shoulders: an heirloom taken up by Charles Gould's\nfamilial piety. He could remember Henry Gould, an Englishman and a\nCostaguanero of the second generation, chief of the Sulaco province;\nhe had been his personal mozo years and years ago in peace and war; had\nbeen allowed to attend his master in prison; had, on the fatal morning,\nfollowed the firing squad; and, peeping from behind one of the cypresses\ngrowing along the wall of the Franciscan Convent, had seen, with his\neyes starting out of his head, Don Enrique throw up his hands and fall\nwith his face in the dust. Charles Gould noted particularly the big\npatriarchal head of that witness in the rear of the other servants. But\nhe was surprised to see a shrivelled old hag or two, of whose existence\nwithin the walls of his house he had not been aware. They must have been\nthe mothers, or even the grandmothers of some of his people. There were\na few children, too, more or less naked, crying and clinging to the legs\nof their elders. He had never before noticed any sign of a child in his\npatio. Even Leonarda, the camerista, came in a fright, pushing through,\nwith her spoiled, pouting face of a favourite maid, leading the Viola\ngirls by the hand. The crockery rattled on table and sideboard, and the\nwhole house seemed to sway in the deafening wave of sound.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nDuring the night the expectant populace had taken possession of all the\nbelfries in the town in order to welcome Pedrito Montero, who was\nmaking his entry after having slept the night in Rincon. And first\ncame straggling in through the land gate the armed mob of all colours,\ncomplexions, types, and states of raggedness, calling themselves the\nSulaco National Guard, and commanded by Senor Gamacho. Through the\nmiddle of the street streamed, like a torrent of rubbish, a mass of\nstraw hats, ponchos, gun-barrels, with an enormous green and yellow flag\nflapping in their midst, in a cloud of dust, to the furious beating of\ndrums. The spectators recoiled against the walls of the houses shouting\ntheir Vivas! Behind the rabble could be seen the lances of the cavalry,\nthe \"army\" of Pedro Montero. He advanced between Senores Fuentes and\nGamacho at the head of his llaneros, who had accomplished the feat of\ncrossing the Paramos of the Higuerota in a snow-storm. They rode four\nabreast, mounted on confiscated Campo horses, clad in the heterogeneous\nstock of roadside stores they had looted hurriedly in their rapid ride\nthrough the northern part of the province; for Pedro Montero had been in\na great hurry to occupy Sulaco. The handkerchiefs knotted loosely around\ntheir bare throats were glaringly new, and all the right sleeves of\ntheir cotton shirts had been cut off close to the shoulder for greater\nfreedom in throwing the lazo. Emaciated greybeards rode by the side\nof lean dark youths, marked by all the hardships of campaigning, with\nstrips of raw beef twined round the crowns of their hats, and huge iron\nspurs fastened to their naked heels. Those that in the passes of the\nmountain had lost their lances had provided themselves with the goads\nused by the Campo cattlemen: slender shafts of palm fully ten feet long,\nwith a lot of loose rings jingling under the ironshod point. They were\narmed with knives and revolvers. A haggard fearlessness characterized\nthe expression of all these sun-blacked countenances; they glared down\nhaughtily with their scorched eyes at the crowd, or, blinking upwards\ninsolently, pointed out to each other some particular head amongst the\nwomen at the windows. When they had ridden into the Plaza and caught\nsight of the equestrian statue of the King dazzlingly white in the\nsunshine, towering enormous and motionless above the surges of the\ncrowd, with its eternal gesture of saluting, a murmur of surprise ran\nthrough their ranks. \"What is that saint in the big hat?\" they asked\neach other.\n\nThey were a good sample of the cavalry of the plains with which Pedro\nMontero had helped so much the victorious career of his brother the\ngeneral. The influence which that man, brought up in coast towns,\nacquired in a short time over the plainsmen of the Republic can be\nascribed only to a genius for treachery of so effective a kind that it\nmust have appeared to those violent men but little removed from a state\nof utter savagery, as the perfection of sagacity and virtue. The popular\nlore of all nations testifies that duplicity and cunning, together with\nbodily strength, were looked upon, even more than courage, as heroic\nvirtues by primitive mankind. To overcome your adversary was the\ngreat affair of life. Courage was taken for granted. But the use of\nintelligence awakened wonder and respect. Stratagems, providing they did\nnot fail, were honourable; the easy massacre of an unsuspecting enemy\nevoked no feelings but those of gladness, pride, and admiration. Not\nperhaps that primitive men were more faithless than their descendants\nof to-day, but that they went straighter to their aim, and were\nmore artless in their recognition of success as the only standard of\nmorality.\n\nWe have changed since. The use of intelligence awakens little wonder and\nless respect. But the ignorant and barbarous plainsmen engaging in civil\nstrife followed willingly a leader who often managed to deliver their\nenemies bound, as it were, into their hands. Pedro Montero had a talent\nfor lulling his adversaries into a sense of security. And as men learn\nwisdom with extreme slowness, and are always ready to believe promises\nthat flatter their secret hopes, Pedro Montero was successful time after\ntime. Whether only a servant or some inferior official in the Costaguana\nLegation in Paris, he had rushed back to his country directly he\nheard that his brother had emerged from the obscurity of his frontier\ncommandancia. He had managed to deceive by his gift of plausibility\nthe chiefs of the Ribierist movement in the capital, and even the acute\nagent of the San Tome mine had failed to understand him thoroughly. At\nonce he had obtained an enormous influence over his brother. They were\nvery much alike in appearance, both bald, with bunches of crisp hair\nabove their ears, arguing the presence of some negro blood. Only Pedro\nwas smaller than the general, more delicate altogether, with an\nape-like faculty for imitating all the outward signs of refinement and\ndistinction, and with a parrot-like talent for languages. Both brothers\nhad received some elementary instruction by the munificence of a great\nEuropean traveller, to whom their father had been a body-servant during\nhis journeys in the interior of the country. In General Montero's\ncase it enabled him to rise from the ranks. Pedrito, the younger,\nincorrigibly lazy and slovenly, had drifted aimlessly from one coast\ntown to another, hanging about counting-houses, attaching himself\nto strangers as a sort of valet-de-place, picking up an easy and\ndisreputable living. His ability to read did nothing for him but fill\nhis head with absurd visions. His actions were usually determined by\nmotives so improbable in themselves as to escape the penetration of a\nrational person.\n\nThus at first sight the agent of the Gould Concession in Sta. Marta\nhad credited him with the possession of sane views, and even with a\nrestraining power over the general's everlastingly discontented vanity.\nIt could never have entered his head that Pedrito Montero, lackey or\ninferior scribe, lodged in the garrets of the various Parisian hotels\nwhere the Costaguana Legation used to shelter its diplomatic dignity,\nhad been devouring the lighter sort of historical works in the French\nlanguage, such, for instance as the books of Imbert de Saint Amand upon\nthe Second Empire. But Pedrito had been struck by the splendour of a\nbrilliant court, and had conceived the idea of an existence for himself\nwhere, like the Duc de Morny, he would associate the command of every\npleasure with the conduct of political affairs and enjoy power supremely\nin every way. Nobody could have guessed that. And yet this was one of\nthe immediate causes of the Monterist Revolution. This will appear less\nincredible by the reflection that the fundamental causes were the\nsame as ever, rooted in the political immaturity of the people, in the\nindolence of the upper classes and the mental darkness of the lower.\n\nPedrito Montero saw in the elevation of his brother the road wide\nopen to his wildest imaginings. This was what made the Monterist\npronunciamiento so unpreventable. The general himself probably could\nhave been bought off, pacified with flatteries, despatched on a\ndiplomatic mission to Europe. It was his brother who had egged him on\nfrom first to last. He wanted to become the most brilliant statesman\nof South America. He did not desire supreme power. He would have been\nafraid of its labour and risk, in fact. Before all, Pedrito Montero,\ntaught by his European experience, meant to acquire a serious fortune\nfor himself. With this object in view he obtained from his brother, on\nthe very morrow of the successful battle, the permission to push on\nover the mountains and take possession of Sulaco. Sulaco was the land\nof future prosperity, the chosen land of material progress, the only\nprovince in the Republic of interest to European capitalists. Pedrito\nMontero, following the example of the Duc de Morny, meant to have his\nshare of this prosperity. This is what he meant literally. Now his\nbrother was master of the country, whether as President, Dictator, or\neven as Emperor--why not as an Emperor?--he meant to demand a share in\nevery enterprise--in railways, in mines, in sugar estates, in cotton\nmills, in land companies, in each and every undertaking--as the price of\nhis protection. The desire to be on the spot early was the real cause of\nthe celebrated ride over the mountains with some two hundred llaneros,\nan enterprise of which the dangers had not appeared at first clearly to\nhis impatience. Coming from a series of victories, it seemed to him\nthat a Montero had only to appear to be master of the situation. This\nillusion had betrayed him into a rashness of which he was becoming\naware. As he rode at the head of his llaneros he regretted that there\nwere so few of them. The enthusiasm of the populace reassured him. They\nyelled \"Viva Montero! Viva Pedrito!\" In order to make them still more\nenthusiastic, and from the natural pleasure he had in dissembling, he\ndropped the reins on his horse's neck, and with a tremendous effect of\nfamiliarity and confidence slipped his hands under the arms of Senores\nFuentes and Gamacho. In that posture, with a ragged town mozo holding\nhis horse by the bridle, he rode triumphantly across the Plaza to the\ndoor of the Intendencia. Its old gloomy walls seemed to shake in the\nacclamations that rent the air and covered the crashing peals of the\ncathedral bells.\n\nPedro Montero, the brother of the general, dismounted into a shouting\nand perspiring throng of enthusiasts whom the ragged Nationals were\npushing back fiercely. Ascending a few steps he surveyed the large crowd\ngaping at him and the bullet-speckled walls of the houses opposite\nlightly veiled by a sunny haze of dust. The word \"_Pourvenir_\" in\nimmense black capitals, alternating with broken windows, stared at\nhim across the vast space; and he thought with delight of the hour of\nvengeance, because he was very sure of laying his hands upon Decoud.\nOn his left hand, Gamacho, big and hot, wiping his hairy wet face,\nuncovered a set of yellow fangs in a grin of stupid hilarity. On his\nright, Senor Fuentes, small and lean, looked on with compressed lips.\nThe crowd stared literally open-mouthed, lost in eager stillness, as\nthough they had expected the great guerrillero, the famous Pedrito, to\nbegin scattering at once some sort of visible largesse. What he began\nwas a speech. He began it with the shouted word \"Citizens!\" which\nreached even those in the middle of the Plaza. Afterwards the greater\npart of the citizens remained fascinated by the orator's action alone,\nhis tip-toeing, the arms flung above his head with the fists clenched,\na hand laid flat upon the heart, the silver gleam of rolling eyes,\nthe sweeping, pointing, embracing gestures, a hand laid familiarly\non Gamacho's shoulder; a hand waved formally towards the little\nblack-coated person of Senor Fuentes, advocate and politician and a true\nfriend of the people. The vivas of those nearest to the orator bursting\nout suddenly propagated themselves irregularly to the confines of the\ncrowd, like flames running over dry grass, and expired in the opening of\nthe streets. In the intervals, over the swarming Plaza brooded a heavy\nsilence, in which the mouth of the orator went on opening and shutting,\nand detached phrases--\"The happiness of the people,\" \"Sons of the\ncountry,\" \"The entire world, el mundo entiero\"--reached even the packed\nsteps of the cathedral with a feeble clear ring, thin as the buzzing\nof a mosquito. But the orator struck his breast; he seemed to prance\nbetween his two supporters. It was the supreme effort of his peroration.\nThen the two smaller figures disappeared from the public gaze and the\nenormous Gamacho, left alone, advanced, raising his hat high above his\nhead. Then he covered himself proudly and yelled out, \"Ciudadanos!\" A\ndull roar greeted Senor Gamacho, ex-pedlar of the Campo, Commandante of\nthe National Guards.\n\nUpstairs Pedrito Montero walked about rapidly from one wrecked room of\nthe Intendencia to another, snarling incessantly--\n\n\"What stupidity! What destruction!\"\n\nSenor Fuentes, following, would relax his taciturn disposition to\nmurmur--\n\n\"It is all the work of Gamacho and his Nationals;\" and then, inclining\nhis head on his left shoulder, would press together his lips so firmly\nthat a little hollow would appear at each corner. He had his nomination\nfor Political Chief of the town in his pocket, and was all impatience to\nenter upon his functions.\n\nIn the long audience room, with its tall mirrors all starred by stones,\nthe hangings torn down and the canopy over the platform at the upper end\npulled to pieces, the vast, deep muttering of the crowd and the howling\nvoice of Gamacho speaking just below reached them through the shutters\nas they stood idly in dimness and desolation.\n\n\"The brute!\" observed his Excellency Don Pedro Montero through clenched\nteeth. \"We must contrive as quickly as possible to send him and his\nNationals out there to fight Hernandez.\"\n\nThe new Gefe Politico only jerked his head sideways, and took a puff at\nhis cigarette in sign of his agreement with this method for ridding the\ntown of Gamacho and his inconvenient rabble.\n\nPedrito Montero looked with disgust at the absolutely bare floor, and\nat the belt of heavy gilt picture-frames running round the room, out\nof which the remnants of torn and slashed canvases fluttered like dingy\nrags.\n\n\"We are not barbarians,\" he said.\n\nThis was what said his Excellency, the popular Pedrito, the guerrillero\nskilled in the art of laying ambushes, charged by his brother at his\nown demand with the organization of Sulaco on democratic principles. The\nnight before, during the consultation with his partisans, who had\ncome out to meet him in Rincon, he had opened his intentions to Senor\nFuentes--\n\n\"We shall organize a popular vote, by yes or no, confiding the destinies\nof our beloved country to the wisdom and valiance of my heroic brother,\nthe invincible general. A plebiscite. Do you understand?\"\n\nAnd Senor Fuentes, puffing out his leathery cheeks, had inclined his\nhead slightly to the left, letting a thin, bluish jet of smoke escape\nthrough his pursed lips. He had understood.\n\nHis Excellency was exasperated at the devastation. Not a single chair,\ntable, sofa, etagere or console had been left in the state rooms of the\nIntendencia. His Excellency, though twitching all over with rage, was\nrestrained from bursting into violence by a sense of his remoteness and\nisolation. His heroic brother was very far away. Meantime, how was he\ngoing to take his siesta? He had expected to find comfort and luxury\nin the Intendencia after a year of hard camp life, ending with the\nhardships and privations of the daring dash upon Sulaco--upon the\nprovince which was worth more in wealth and influence than all the rest\nof the Republic's territory. He would get even with Gamacho by-and-by.\nAnd Senor Gamacho's oration, delectable to popular ears, went on in the\nheat and glare of the Plaza like the uncouth howlings of an inferior\nsort of devil cast into a white-hot furnace. Every moment he had to wipe\nhis streaming face with his bare fore-arm; he had flung off his coat,\nand had turned up the sleeves of his shirt high above the elbows; but\nhe kept on his head the large cocked hat with white plumes. His\ningenuousness cherished this sign of his rank as Commandante of the\nNational Guards. Approving and grave murmurs greeted his periods. His\nopinion was that war should be declared at once against France, England,\nGermany, and the United States, who, by introducing railways, mining\nenterprises, colonization, and under such other shallow pretences, aimed\nat robbing poor people of their lands, and with the help of these Goths\nand paralytics, the aristocrats would convert them into toiling and\nmiserable slaves. And the leperos, flinging about the corners of their\ndirty white mantas, yelled their approbation. General Montero, Gamacho\nhowled with conviction, was the only man equal to the patriotic task.\nThey assented to that, too.\n\nThe morning was wearing on; there were already signs of disruption,\ncurrents and eddies in the crowd. Some were seeking the shade of the\nwalls and under the trees of the Alameda. Horsemen spurred through,\nshouting; groups of sombreros set level on heads against the vertical\nsun were drifting away into the streets, where the open doors of\npulperias revealed an enticing gloom resounding with the gentle tinkling\nof guitars. The National Guards were thinking of siesta, and the\neloquence of Gamacho, their chief, was exhausted. Later on, when, in the\ncooler hours of the afternoon, they tried to assemble again for further\nconsideration of public affairs, detachments of Montero's cavalry camped\non the Alameda charged them without parley, at speed, with long lances\nlevelled at their flying backs as far as the ends of the streets. The\nNational Guards of Sulaco were surprised by this proceeding. But they\nwere not indignant. No Costaguanero had ever learned to question the\neccentricities of a military force. They were part of the natural order\nof things. This must be, they concluded, some kind of administrative\nmeasure, no doubt. But the motive of it escaped their unaided\nintelligence, and their chief and orator, Gamacho, Commandante of the\nNational Guard, was lying drunk and asleep in the bosom of his family.\nHis bare feet were upturned in the shadows repulsively, in the manner\nof a corpse. His eloquent mouth had dropped open. His youngest daughter,\nscratching her head with one hand, with the other waved a green bough\nover his scorched and peeling face.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nThe declining sun had shifted the shadows from west to east amongst the\nhouses of the town. It had shifted them upon the whole extent of the\nimmense Campo, with the white walls of its haciendas on the knolls\ndominating the green distances; with its grass-thatched ranches\ncrouching in the folds of ground by the banks of streams; with the dark\nislands of clustered trees on a clear sea of grass, and the precipitous\nrange of the Cordillera, immense and motionless, emerging from the\nbillows of the lower forests like the barren coast of a land of giants.\nThe sunset rays striking the snow-slope of Higuerota from afar gave it\nan air of rosy youth, while the serrated mass of distant peaks remained\nblack, as if calcined in the fiery radiance. The undulating surface of\nthe forests seemed powdered with pale gold dust; and away there, beyond\nRincon, hidden from the town by two wooded spurs, the rocks of the\nSan Tome gorge, with the flat wall of the mountain itself crowned by\ngigantic ferns, took on warm tones of brown and yellow, with red rusty\nstreaks, and the dark green clumps of bushes rooted in crevices. From\nthe plain the stamp sheds and the houses of the mine appeared dark and\nsmall, high up, like the nests of birds clustered on the ledges of a\ncliff. The zigzag paths resembled faint tracings scratched on the wall\nof a cyclopean blockhouse. To the two serenos of the mine on patrol\nduty, strolling, carbine in hand, and watchful eyes, in the shade of the\ntrees lining the stream near the bridge, Don Pepe, descending the path\nfrom the upper plateau, appeared no bigger than a large beetle.\n\nWith his air of aimless, insect-like going to and fro upon the face of\nthe rock, Don Pepe's figure kept on descending steadily, and, when near\nthe bottom, sank at last behind the roofs of store-houses, forges, and\nworkshops. For a time the pair of serenos strolled back and forth before\nthe bridge, on which they had stopped a horseman holding a large white\nenvelope in his hand. Then Don Pepe, emerging in the village street\nfrom amongst the houses, not a stone's throw from the frontier bridge,\napproached, striding in wide dark trousers tucked into boots, a white\nlinen jacket, sabre at his side, and revolver at his belt. In this\ndisturbed time nothing could find the Senor Gobernador with his boots\noff, as the saying is.\n\nAt a slight nod from one of the serenos, the man, a messenger from\nthe town, dismounted, and crossed the bridge, leading his horse by the\nbridle.\n\nDon Pepe received the letter from his other hand, slapped his left\nside and his hips in succession, feeling for his spectacle case. After\nsettling the heavy silvermounted affair astride his nose, and adjusting\nit carefully behind his ears, he opened the envelope, holding it up at\nabout a foot in front of his eyes. The paper he pulled out contained\nsome three lines of writing. He looked at them for a long time. His grey\nmoustache moved slightly up and down, and the wrinkles, radiating at the\ncorners of his eyes, ran together. He nodded serenely. \"Bueno,\" he said.\n\"There is no answer.\"\n\nThen, in his quiet, kindly way, he engaged in a cautious conversation\nwith the man, who was willing to talk cheerily, as if something lucky\nhad happened to him recently. He had seen from a distance Sotillo's\ninfantry camped along the shore of the harbour on each side of the\nCustom House. They had done no damage to the buildings. The foreigners\nof the railway remained shut up within the yards. They were no longer\nanxious to shoot poor people. He cursed the foreigners; then he reported\nMontero's entry and the rumours of the town. The poor were going to be\nmade rich now. That was very good. More he did not know, and, breaking\ninto propitiatory smiles, he intimated that he was hungry and thirsty.\nThe old major directed him to go to the alcalde of the first village.\nThe man rode off, and Don Pepe, striding slowly in the direction of a\nlittle wooden belfry, looked over a hedge into a little garden, and saw\nFather Roman sitting in a white hammock slung between two orange trees\nin front of the presbytery.\n\nAn enormous tamarind shaded with its dark foliage the whole white\nframehouse. A young Indian girl with long hair, big eyes, and small\nhands and feet, carried out a wooden chair, while a thin old woman,\ncrabbed and vigilant, watched her all the time from the verandah.\n\nDon Pepe sat down in the chair and lighted a cigar; the priest drew\nin an immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm. On his\nreddish-brown face, worn, hollowed as if crumbled, the eyes, fresh and\ncandid, sparkled like two black diamonds.\n\nDon Pepe, in a mild and humorous voice, informed Father Roman that\nPedrito Montero, by the hand of Senor Fuentes, had asked him on what\nterms he would surrender the mine in proper working order to a legally\nconstituted commission of patriotic citizens, escorted by a small\nmilitary force. The priest cast his eyes up to heaven. However, Don Pepe\ncontinued, the mozo who brought the letter said that Don Carlos Gould\nwas alive, and so far unmolested.\n\nFather Roman expressed in a few words his thankfulness at hearing of the\nSenor Administrador's safety.\n\nThe hour of oration had gone by in the silvery ringing of a bell in the\nlittle belfry. The belt of forest closing the entrance of the valley\nstood like a screen between the low sun and the street of the village.\nAt the other end of the rocky gorge, between the walls of basalt and\ngranite, a forest-clad mountain, hiding all the range from the San Tome\ndwellers, rose steeply, lighted up and leafy to the very top. Three\nsmall rosy clouds hung motionless overhead in the great depth of blue.\nKnots of people sat in the street between the wattled huts. Before the\ncasa of the alcalde, the foremen of the night-shift, already assembled\nto lead their men, squatted on the ground in a circle of leather\nskull-caps, and, bowing their bronze backs, were passing round the gourd\nof mate. The mozo from the town, having fastened his horse to a wooden\npost before the door, was telling them the news of Sulaco as the\nblackened gourd of the decoction passed from hand to hand. The grave\nalcalde himself, in a white waistcloth and a flowered chintz gown with\nsleeves, open wide upon his naked stout person with an effect of a gaudy\nbathing robe, stood by, wearing a rough beaver hat at the back of his\nhead, and grasping a tall staff with a silver knob in his hand.\nThese insignia of his dignity had been conferred upon him by the\nAdministration of the mine, the fountain of honour, of prosperity, and\npeace. He had been one of the first immigrants into this valley; his\nsons and sons-in-law worked within the mountain which seemed with its\ntreasures to pour down the thundering ore shoots of the upper mesa, the\ngifts of well-being, security, and justice upon the toilers. He listened\nto the news from the town with curiosity and indifference, as if\nconcerning another world than his own. And it was true that they\nappeared to him so. In a very few years the sense of belonging to a\npowerful organization had been developed in these harassed, half-wild\nIndians. They were proud of, and attached to, the mine. It had secured\ntheir confidence and belief. They invested it with a protecting and\ninvincible virtue as though it were a fetish made by their own hands,\nfor they were ignorant, and in other respects did not differ appreciably\nfrom the rest of mankind which puts infinite trust in its own creations.\nIt never entered the alcalde's head that the mine could fail in its\nprotection and force. Politics were good enough for the people of the\ntown and the Campo. His yellow, round face, with wide nostrils, and\nmotionless in expression, resembled a fierce full moon. He listened to\nthe excited vapourings of the mozo without misgivings, without surprise,\nwithout any active sentiment whatever.\n\nPadre Roman sat dejectedly balancing himself, his feet just touching\nthe ground, his hands gripping the edge of the hammock. With less\nconfidence, but as ignorant as his flock, he asked the major what did he\nthink was going to happen now.\n\nDon Pepe, bolt upright in the chair, folded his hands peacefully on\nthe hilt of his sword, standing perpendicular between his thighs, and\nanswered that he did not know. The mine could be defended against any\nforce likely to be sent to take possession. On the other hand, from the\narid character of the valley, when the regular supplies from the Campo\nhad been cut off, the population of the three villages could be starved\ninto submission. Don Pepe exposed these contingencies with serenity\nto Father Roman, who, as an old campaigner, was able to understand the\nreasoning of a military man. They talked with simplicity and directness.\nFather Roman was saddened at the idea of his flock being scattered\nor else enslaved. He had no illusions as to their fate, not from\npenetration, but from long experience of political atrocities, which\nseemed to him fatal and unavoidable in the life of a State. The working\nof the usual public institutions presented itself to him most distinctly\nas a series of calamities overtaking private individuals and flowing\nlogically from each other through hate, revenge, folly, and rapacity,\nas though they had been part of a divine dispensation. Father Roman's\nclear-sightedness was served by an uninformed intelligence; but his\nheart, preserving its tenderness amongst scenes of carnage, spoliation,\nand violence, abhorred these calamities the more as his association with\nthe victims was closer. He entertained towards the Indians of the valley\nfeelings of paternal scorn. He had been marrying, baptizing, confessing,\nabsolving, and burying the workers of the San Tome mine with dignity\nand unction for five years or more; and he believed in the sacredness of\nthese ministrations, which made them his own in a spiritual sense. They\nwere dear to his sacerdotal supremacy. Mrs. Gould's earnest interest in\nthe concerns of these people enhanced their importance in the priest's\neyes, because it really augmented his own. When talking over with her\nthe innumerable Marias and Brigidas of the villages, he felt his own\nhumanity expand. Padre Roman was incapable of fanaticism to an almost\nreprehensible degree. The English senora was evidently a heretic; but\nat the same time she seemed to him wonderful and angelic. Whenever that\nconfused state of his feelings occurred to him, while strolling, for\ninstance, his breviary under his arm, in the wide shade of the tamarind,\nhe would stop short to inhale with a strong snuffling noise a large\nquantity of snuff, and shake his head profoundly. At the thought of\nwhat might befall the illustrious senora presently, he became gradually\novercome with dismay. He voiced it in an agitated murmur. Even Don Pepe\nlost his serenity for a moment. He leaned forward stiffly.\n\n\"Listen, Padre. The very fact that those thieving macaques in Sulaco are\ntrying to find out the price of my honour proves that Senor Don Carlos\nand all in the Casa Gould are safe. As to my honour, that also is safe,\nas every man, woman, and child knows. But the negro Liberals who have\nsnatched the town by surprise do not know that. Bueno. Let them sit and\nwait. While they wait they can do no harm.\"\n\nAnd he regained his composure. He regained it easily, because whatever\nhappened his honour of an old officer of Paez was safe. He had promised\nCharles Gould that at the approach of an armed force he would defend the\ngorge just long enough to give himself time to destroy scientifically\nthe whole plant, buildings, and workshops of the mine with heavy charges\nof dynamite; block with ruins the main tunnel, break down the pathways,\nblow up the dam of the water-power, shatter the famous Gould Concession\ninto fragments, flying sky high out of a horrified world. The mine had\ngot hold of Charles Gould with a grip as deadly as ever it had laid upon\nhis father. But this extreme resolution had seemed to Don Pepe the most\nnatural thing in the world. His measures had been taken with judgment.\nEverything was prepared with a careful completeness. And Don Pepe folded\nhis hands pacifically on his sword hilt, and nodded at the priest. In\nhis excitement, Father Roman had flung snuff in handfuls at his face,\nand, all besmeared with tobacco, round-eyed, and beside himself, had got\nout of the hammock to walk about, uttering exclamations.\n\nDon Pepe stroked his grey and pendant moustache, whose fine ends hung\nfar below the clean-cut line of his jaw, and spoke with a conscious\npride in his reputation.\n\n\"So, Padre, I don't know what will happen. But I know that as long as\nI am here Don Carlos can speak to that macaque, Pedrito Montero, and\nthreaten the destruction of the mine with perfect assurance that he will\nbe taken seriously. For people know me.\"\n\nHe began to turn the cigar in his lips a little nervously, and went on--\n\n\"But that is talk--good for the politicos. I am a military man. I do not\nknow what may happen. But I know what ought to be done--the mine should\nmarch upon the town with guns, axes, knives tied up to sticks--por Dios.\nThat is what should be done. Only--\"\n\nHis folded hands twitched on the hilt. The cigar turned faster in the\ncorner of his lips.\n\n\"And who should lead but I? Unfortunately--observe--I have given my word\nof honour to Don Carlos not to let the mine fall into the hands of these\nthieves. In war--you know this, Padre--the fate of battles is uncertain,\nand whom could I leave here to act for me in case of defeat? The\nexplosives are ready. But it would require a man of high honour,\nof intelligence, of judgment, of courage, to carry out the prepared\ndestruction. Somebody I can trust with my honour as I can trust myself.\nAnother old officer of Paez, for instance. Or--or--perhaps one of Paez's\nold chaplains would do.\"\n\nHe got up, long, lank, upright, hard, with his martial moustache and\nthe bony structure of his face, from which the glance of the sunken\neyes seemed to transfix the priest, who stood still, an empty wooden\nsnuff-box held upside down in his hand, and glared back, speechless, at\nthe governor of the mine.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nAt about that time, in the Intendencia of Sulaco, Charles Gould was\nassuring Pedrito Montero, who had sent a request for his presence there,\nthat he would never let the mine pass out of his hands for the profit of\na Government who had robbed him of it. The Gould Concession could not\nbe resumed. His father had not desired it. The son would never surrender\nit. He would never surrender it alive. And once dead, where was the\npower capable of resuscitating such an enterprise in all its vigour and\nwealth out of the ashes and ruin of destruction? There was no such power\nin the country. And where was the skill and capital abroad that would\ncondescend to touch such an ill-omened corpse? Charles Gould talked in\nthe impassive tone which had for many years served to conceal his anger\nand contempt. He suffered. He was disgusted with what he had to say. It\nwas too much like heroics. In him the strictly practical instinct was in\nprofound discord with the almost mystic view he took of his right. The\nGould Concession was symbolic of abstract justice. Let the heavens\nfall. But since the San Tome mine had developed into world-wide fame\nhis threat had enough force and effectiveness to reach the rudimentary\nintelligence of Pedro Montero, wrapped up as it was in the futilities\nof historical anecdotes. The Gould Concession was a serious asset in the\ncountry's finance, and, what was more, in the private budgets of many\nofficials as well. It was traditional. It was known. It was said. It\nwas credible. Every Minister of Interior drew a salary from the San\nTome mine. It was natural. And Pedrito intended to be Minister of the\nInterior and President of the Council in his brother's Government. The\nDuc de Morny had occupied those high posts during the Second French\nEmpire with conspicuous advantage to himself.\n\nA table, a chair, a wooden bedstead had been procured for His\nExcellency, who, after a short siesta, rendered absolutely necessary\nby the labours and the pomps of his entry into Sulaco, had been getting\nhold of the administrative machine by making appointments, giving\norders, and signing proclamations. Alone with Charles Gould in the\naudience room, His Excellency managed with his well-known skill to\nconceal his annoyance and consternation. He had begun at first to talk\nloftily of confiscation, but the want of all proper feeling and mobility\nin the Senor Administrador's features ended by affecting adversely\nhis power of masterful expression. Charles Gould had repeated: \"The\nGovernment can certainly bring about the destruction of the San Tome\nmine if it likes; but without me it can do nothing else.\" It was an\nalarming pronouncement, and well calculated to hurt the sensibilities of\na politician whose mind is bent upon the spoils of victory. And Charles\nGould said also that the destruction of the San Tome mine would cause\nthe ruin of other undertakings, the withdrawal of European capital, the\nwithholding, most probably, of the last instalment of the foreign loan.\nThat stony fiend of a man said all these things (which were accessible\nto His Excellency's intelligence) in a coldblooded manner which made one\nshudder.\n\nA long course of reading historical works, light and gossipy in tone,\ncarried out in garrets of Parisian hotels, sprawling on an untidy bed,\nto the neglect of his duties, menial or otherwise, had affected the\nmanners of Pedro Montero. Had he seen around him the splendour of the\nold Intendencia, the magnificent hangings, the gilt furniture ranged\nalong the walls; had he stood upon a dais on a noble square of red\ncarpet, he would have probably been very dangerous from a sense of\nsuccess and elevation. But in this sacked and devastated residence, with\nthe three pieces of common furniture huddled up in the middle of the\nvast apartment, Pedrito's imagination was subdued by a feeling of\ninsecurity and impermanence. That feeling and the firm attitude\nof Charles Gould who had not once, so far, pronounced the word\n\"Excellency,\" diminished him in his own eyes. He assumed the tone of an\nenlightened man of the world, and begged Charles Gould to dismiss from\nhis mind every cause for alarm. He was now conversing, he reminded\nhim, with the brother of the master of the country, charged with a\nreorganizing mission. The trusted brother of the master of the country,\nhe repeated. Nothing was further from the thoughts of that wise and\npatriotic hero than ideas of destruction. \"I entreat you, Don Carlos,\nnot to give way to your anti-democratic prejudices,\" he cried, in a\nburst of condescending effusion.\n\nPedrito Montero surprised one at first sight by the vast development of\nhis bald forehead, a shiny yellow expanse between the crinkly coal-black\ntufts of hair without any lustre, the engaging form of his mouth, and\nan unexpectedly cultivated voice. But his eyes, very glistening as if\nfreshly painted on each side of his hooked nose, had a round, hopeless,\nbirdlike stare when opened fully. Now, however, he narrowed them\nagreeably, throwing his square chin up and speaking with closed teeth\nslightly through the nose, with what he imagined to be the manner of a\ngrand seigneur.\n\nIn that attitude, he declared suddenly that the highest expression of\ndemocracy was Caesarism: the imperial rule based upon the direct popular\nvote. Caesarism was conservative. It was strong. It recognized the\nlegitimate needs of democracy which requires orders, titles, and\ndistinctions. They would be showered upon deserving men. Caesarism\nwas peace. It was progressive. It secured the prosperity of a country.\nPedrito Montero was carried away. Look at what the Second Empire had\ndone for France. It was a regime which delighted to honour men of Don\nCarlos's stamp. The Second Empire fell, but that was because its chief\nwas devoid of that military genius which had raised General Montero to\nthe pinnacle of fame and glory. Pedrito elevated his hand jerkily to\nhelp the idea of pinnacle, of fame. \"We shall have many talks yet. We\nshall understand each other thoroughly, Don Carlos!\" he cried in a tone\nof fellowship. Republicanism had done its work. Imperial democracy was\nthe power of the future. Pedrito, the guerrillero, showing his hand,\nlowered his voice forcibly. A man singled out by his fellow-citizens for\nthe honourable nickname of El Rey de Sulaco could not but receive a full\nrecognition from an imperial democracy as a great captain of industry\nand a person of weighty counsel, whose popular designation would be soon\nreplaced by a more solid title. \"Eh, Don Carlos? No! What do you say?\nConde de Sulaco--Eh?--or marquis . . .\"\n\nHe ceased. The air was cool on the Plaza, where a patrol of cavalry rode\nround and round without penetrating into the streets, which resounded\nwith shouts and the strumming of guitars issuing from the open doors of\npulperias. The orders were not to interfere with the enjoyments of the\npeople. And above the roofs, next to the perpendicular lines of the\ncathedral towers the snowy curve of Higuerota blocked a large space of\ndarkening blue sky before the windows of the Intendencia. After a time\nPedrito Montero, thrusting his hand in the bosom of his coat, bowed his\nhead with slow dignity. The audience was over.\n\nCharles Gould on going out passed his hand over his forehead as if to\ndisperse the mists of an oppressive dream, whose grotesque extravagance\nleaves behind a subtle sense of bodily danger and intellectual decay. In\nthe passages and on the staircases of the old palace Montero's troopers\nlounged about insolently, smoking and making way for no one; the\nclanking of sabres and spurs resounded all over the building. Three\nsilent groups of civilians in severe black waited in the main gallery,\nformal and helpless, a little huddled up, each keeping apart from the\nothers, as if in the exercise of a public duty they had been overcome\nby a desire to shun the notice of every eye. These were the deputations\nwaiting for their audience. The one from the Provincial Assembly, more\nrestless and uneasy in its corporate expression, was overtopped by the\nbig face of Don Juste Lopez, soft and white, with prominent eyelids and\nwreathed in impenetrable solemnity as if in a dense cloud. The President\nof the Provincial Assembly, coming bravely to save the last shred of\nparliamentary institutions (on the English model), averted his eyes\nfrom the Administrador of the San Tome mine as a dignified rebuke of his\nlittle faith in that only saving principle.\n\nThe mournful severity of that reproof did not affect Charles Gould, but\nhe was sensible to the glances of the others directed upon him without\nreproach, as if only to read their own fate upon his face. All of them\nhad talked, shouted, and declaimed in the great sala of the Casa Gould.\nThe feeling of compassion for those men, struck with a strange impotence\nin the toils of moral degradation, did not induce him to make a sign. He\nsuffered from his fellowship in evil with them too much. He crossed the\nPlaza unmolested. The Amarilla Club was full of festive ragamuffins.\nTheir frowsy heads protruded from every window, and from within came\ndrunken shouts, the thumping of feet, and the twanging of harps. Broken\nbottles strewed the pavement below. Charles Gould found the doctor still\nin his house.\n\nDr. Monygham came away from the crack in the shutter through which he\nhad been watching the street.\n\n\"Ah! You are back at last!\" he said in a tone of relief. \"I have been\ntelling Mrs. Gould that you were perfectly safe, but I was not by any\nmeans certain that the fellow would have let you go.\"\n\n\"Neither was I,\" confessed Charles Gould, laying his hat on the table.\n\n\"You will have to take action.\"\n\nThe silence of Charles Gould seemed to admit that this was the only\ncourse. This was as far as Charles Gould was accustomed to go towards\nexpressing his intentions.\n\n\"I hope you did not warn Montero of what you mean to do,\" the doctor\nsaid, anxiously.\n\n\"I tried to make him see that the existence of the mine was bound up\nwith my personal safety,\" continued Charles Gould, looking away from the\ndoctor, and fixing his eyes upon the water-colour sketch upon the wall.\n\n\"He believed you?\" the doctor asked, eagerly.\n\n\"God knows!\" said Charles Gould. \"I owed it to my wife to say that much.\nHe is well enough informed. He knows that I have Don Pepe there. Fuentes\nmust have told him. They know that the old major is perfectly capable of\nblowing up the San Tome mine without hesitation or compunction. Had it\nnot been for that I don't think I'd have left the Intendencia a free\nman. He would blow everything up from loyalty and from hate--from hate\nof these Liberals, as they call themselves. Liberals! The words one\nknows so well have a nightmarish meaning in this country. Liberty,\ndemocracy, patriotism, government--all of them have a flavour of folly\nand murder. Haven't they, doctor? . . . I alone can restrain Don Pepe.\nIf they were to--to do away with me, nothing could prevent him.\"\n\n\"They will try to tamper with him,\" the doctor suggested, thoughtfully.\n\n\"It is very possible,\" Charles Gould said very low, as if speaking to\nhimself, and still gazing at the sketch of the San Tome gorge upon the\nwall. \"Yes, I expect they will try that.\" Charles Gould looked for the\nfirst time at the doctor. \"It would give me time,\" he added.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Dr. Monygham, suppressing his excitement. \"Especially if\nDon Pepe behaves diplomatically. Why shouldn't he give them some hope\nof success? Eh? Otherwise you wouldn't gain so much time. Couldn't he be\ninstructed to--\"\n\nCharles Gould, looking at the doctor steadily, shook his head, but the\ndoctor continued with a certain amount of fire--\n\n\"Yes, to enter into negotiations for the surrender of the mine. It is a\ngood notion. You would mature your plan. Of course, I don't ask what it\nis. I don't want to know. I would refuse to listen to you if you tried\nto tell me. I am not fit for confidences.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" muttered Charles Gould, with displeasure.\n\nHe disapproved of the doctor's sensitiveness about that far-off\nepisode of his life. So much memory shocked Charles Gould. It was like\nmorbidness. And again he shook his head. He refused to tamper with the\nopen rectitude of Don Pepe's conduct, both from taste and from policy.\nInstructions would have to be either verbal or in writing. In either\ncase they ran the risk of being intercepted. It was by no means certain\nthat a messenger could reach the mine; and, besides, there was no one\nto send. It was on the tip of Charles's tongue to say that only the\nlate Capataz de Cargadores could have been employed with some chance\nof success and the certitude of discretion. But he did not say that. He\npointed out to the doctor that it would have been bad policy.\nDirectly Don Pepe let it be supposed that he could be bought over, the\nAdministrador's personal safety and the safety of his friends would\nbecome endangered. For there would be then no reason for moderation. The\nincorruptibility of Don Pepe was the essential and restraining fact. The\ndoctor hung his head and admitted that in a way it was so.\n\nHe couldn't deny to himself that the reasoning was sound enough. Don\nPepe's usefulness consisted in his unstained character. As to his own\nusefulness, he reflected bitterly it was also his own character. He\ndeclared to Charles Gould that he had the means of keeping Sotillo from\njoining his forces with Montero, at least for the present.\n\n\"If you had had all this silver here,\" the doctor said, \"or even if it\nhad been known to be at the mine, you could have bribed Sotillo to throw\noff his recent Monterism. You could have induced him either to go away\nin his steamer or even to join you.\"\n\n\"Certainly not that last,\" Charles Gould declared, firmly. \"What could\none do with a man like that, afterwards--tell me, doctor? The silver is\ngone, and I am glad of it. It would have been an immediate and\nstrong temptation. The scramble for that visible plunder would have\nprecipitated a disastrous ending. I would have had to defend it, too.\nI am glad we've removed it--even if it is lost. It would have been a\ndanger and a curse.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he is right,\" the doctor, an hour later, said hurriedly to Mrs.\nGould, whom he met in the corridor. \"The thing is done, and the shadow\nof the treasure may do just as well as the substance. Let me try to\nserve you to the whole extent of my evil reputation. I am off now to\nplay my game of betrayal with Sotillo, and keep him off the town.\"\n\nShe put out both her hands impulsively. \"Dr. Monygham, you are running a\nterrible risk,\" she whispered, averting from his face her eyes, full of\ntears, for a short glance at the door of her husband's room. She pressed\nboth his hands, and the doctor stood as if rooted to the spot, looking\ndown at her, and trying to twist his lips into a smile.\n\n\"Oh, I know you will defend my memory,\" he uttered at last, and ran\ntottering down the stairs across the patio, and out of the house. In the\nstreet he kept up a great pace with his smart hobbling walk, a case\nof instruments under his arm. He was known for being loco. Nobody\ninterfered with him. From under the seaward gate, across the dusty, arid\nplain, interspersed with low bushes, he saw, more than a mile away, the\nugly enormity of the Custom House, and the two or three other buildings\nwhich at that time constituted the seaport of Sulaco. Far away to the\nsouth groves of palm trees edged the curve of the harbour shore. The\ndistant peaks of the Cordillera had lost their identity of clearcut\nshapes in the steadily deepening blue of the eastern sky. The doctor\nwalked briskly. A darkling shadow seemed to fall upon him from the\nzenith. The sun had set. For a time the snows of Higuerota continued\nto glow with the reflected glory of the west. The doctor, holding a\nstraight course for the Custom House, appeared lonely, hopping amongst\nthe dark bushes like a tall bird with a broken wing.\n\nTints of purple, gold, and crimson were mirrored in the clear water\nof the harbour. A long tongue of land, straight as a wall, with the\ngrass-grown ruins of the fort making a sort of rounded green mound,\nplainly visible from the inner shore, closed its circuit; while beyond\nthe Placid Gulf repeated those splendours of colouring on a greater\nscale and with a more sombre magnificence. The great mass of cloud\nfilling the head of the gulf had long red smears amongst its convoluted\nfolds of grey and black, as of a floating mantle stained with blood.\nThe three Isabels, overshadowed and clear cut in a great smoothness\nconfounding the sea and sky, appeared suspended, purple-black, in the\nair. The little wavelets seemed to be tossing tiny red sparks upon the\nsandy beaches. The glassy bands of water along the horizon gave out a\nfiery red glow, as if fire and water had been mingled together in the\nvast bed of the ocean.\n\nAt last the conflagration of sea and sky, lying embraced and still in a\nflaming contact upon the edge of the world, went out. The red sparks in\nthe water vanished together with the stains of blood in the black mantle\ndraping the sombre head of the Placid Gulf; a sudden breeze sprang up\nand died out after rustling heavily the growth of bushes on the ruined\nearthwork of the fort. Nostromo woke up from a fourteen hours' sleep,\nand arose full length from his lair in the long grass. He stood knee\ndeep amongst the whispering undulations of the green blades with the\nlost air of a man just born into the world. Handsome, robust, and\nsupple, he threw back his head, flung his arms open, and stretched\nhimself with a slow twist of the waist and a leisurely growling yawn of\nwhite teeth, as natural and free from evil in the moment of waking as a\nmagnificent and unconscious wild beast. Then, in the suddenly steadied\nglance fixed upon nothing from under a thoughtful frown, appeared the\nman.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nAfter landing from his swim Nostromo had scrambled up, all dripping,\ninto the main quadrangle of the old fort; and there, amongst ruined bits\nof walls and rotting remnants of roofs and sheds, he had slept the day\nthrough. He had slept in the shadow of the mountains, in the white blaze\nof noon, in the stillness and solitude of that overgrown piece of land\nbetween the oval of the harbour and the spacious semi-circle of the\ngulf. He lay as if dead. A rey-zamuro, appearing like a tiny black speck\nin the blue, stooped, circling prudently with a stealthiness of flight\nstartling in a bird of that great size. The shadow of his pearly-white\nbody, of his black-tipped wings, fell on the grass no more silently than\nhe alighted himself on a hillock of rubbish within three yards of that\nman, lying as still as a corpse. The bird stretched his bare neck,\ncraned his bald head, loathsome in the brilliance of varied colouring,\nwith an air of voracious anxiety towards the promising stillness of that\nprostrate body. Then, sinking his head deeply into his soft plumage, he\nsettled himself to wait. The first thing upon which Nostromo's eyes\nfell on waking was this patient watcher for the signs of death and\ncorruption. When the man got up the vulture hopped away in great,\nside-long, fluttering jumps. He lingered for a while, morose and\nreluctant, before he rose, circling noiselessly with a sinister droop of\nbeak and claws.\n\nLong after he had vanished, Nostromo, lifting his eyes up to the sky,\nmuttered, \"I am not dead yet.\"\n\nThe Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores had lived in splendour and\npublicity up to the very moment, as it were, when he took charge of the\nlighter containing the treasure of silver ingots.\n\nThe last act he had performed in Sulaco was in complete harmony with his\nvanity, and as such perfectly genuine. He had given his last dollar to\nan old woman moaning with the grief and fatigue of a dismal search\nunder the arch of the ancient gate. Performed in obscurity and without\nwitnesses, it had still the characteristics of splendour and publicity,\nand was in strict keeping with his reputation. But this awakening in\nsolitude, except for the watchful vulture, amongst the ruins of the\nfort, had no such characteristics. His first confused feeling was\nexactly this--that it was not in keeping. It was more like the end of\nthings. The necessity of living concealed somehow, for God knows how\nlong, which assailed him on his return to consciousness, made everything\nthat had gone before for years appear vain and foolish, like a\nflattering dream come suddenly to an end.\n\nHe climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart, and, putting aside the\nbushes, looked upon the harbour. He saw a couple of ships at anchor upon\nthe sheet of water reflecting the last gleams of light, and Sotillo's\nsteamer moored to the jetty. And behind the pale long front of the\nCustom House, there appeared the extent of the town like a grove of\nthick timber on the plain with a gateway in front, and the cupolas,\ntowers, and miradors rising above the trees, all dark, as if surrendered\nalready to the night. The thought that it was no longer open to him to\nride through the streets, recognized by everyone, great and little, as\nhe used to do every evening on his way to play monte in the posada of\nthe Mexican Domingo; or to sit in the place of honour, listening to\nsongs and looking at dances, made it appear to him as a town that had no\nexistence.\n\nFor a long time he gazed on, then let the parted bushes spring back,\nand, crossing over to the other side of the fort, surveyed the vaster\nemptiness of the great gulf. The Isabels stood out heavily upon the\nnarrowing long band of red in the west, which gleamed low between their\nblack shapes, and the Capataz thought of Decoud alone there with the\ntreasure. That man was the only one who cared whether he fell into the\nhands of the Monterists or not, the Capataz reflected bitterly. And\nthat merely would be an anxiety for his own sake. As to the rest, they\nneither knew nor cared. What he had heard Giorgio Viola say once was\nvery true. Kings, ministers, aristocrats, the rich in general, kept the\npeople in poverty and subjection; they kept them as they kept dogs, to\nfight and hunt for their service.\n\nThe darkness of the sky had descended to the line of the horizon,\nenveloping the whole gulf, the islets, and the lover of Antonia alone\nwith the treasure on the Great Isabel. The Capataz, turning his back on\nthese things invisible and existing, sat down and took his face between\nhis fists. He felt the pinch of poverty for the first time in his life.\nTo find himself without money after a run of bad luck at monte in the\nlow, smoky room of Domingo's posada, where the fraternity of Cargadores\ngambled, sang, and danced of an evening; to remain with empty pockets\nafter a burst of public generosity to some peyne d'oro girl or other\n(for whom he did not care), had none of the humiliation of destitution.\nHe remained rich in glory and reputation. But since it was no longer\npossible for him to parade the streets of the town, and be hailed with\nrespect in the usual haunts of his leisure, this sailor felt himself\ndestitute indeed.\n\nHis mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sleep and extremely anxious\nthinking, as it had never been dry before. It may be said that Nostromo\ntasted the dust and ashes of the fruit of life into which he had bitten\ndeeply in his hunger for praise. Without removing his head from between\nhis fists, he tried to spit before him--\"Tfui\"--and muttered a curse\nupon the selfishness of all the rich people.\n\nSince everything seemed lost in Sulaco (and that was the feeling of his\nwaking), the idea of leaving the country altogether had presented itself\nto Nostromo. At that thought he had seen, like the beginning of another\ndream, a vision of steep and tideless shores, with dark pines on the\nheights and white houses low down near a very blue sea. He saw the quays\nof a big port, where the coasting feluccas, with their lateen sails\noutspread like motionless wings, enter gliding silently between the\nend of long moles of squared blocks that project angularly towards\neach other, hugging a cluster of shipping to the superb bosom of a hill\ncovered with palaces. He remembered these sights not without some filial\nemotion, though he had been habitually and severely beaten as a boy\non one of these feluccas by a short-necked, shaven Genoese, with a\ndeliberate and distrustful manner, who (he firmly believed) had cheated\nhim out of his orphan's inheritance. But it is mercifully decreed that\nthe evils of the past should appear but faintly in retrospect. Under\nthe sense of loneliness, abandonment, and failure, the idea of return to\nthese things appeared tolerable. But, what? Return? With bare feet\nand head, with one check shirt and a pair of cotton calzoneros for all\nworldly possessions?\n\nThe renowned Capataz, his elbows on his knees and a fist dug into each\ncheek, laughed with self-derision, as he had spat with disgust, straight\nout before him into the night. The confused and intimate impressions\nof universal dissolution which beset a subjective nature at any strong\ncheck to its ruling passion had a bitterness approaching that of death\nitself. He was simple. He was as ready to become the prey of any belief,\nsuperstition, or desire as a child.\n\nThe facts of his situation he could appreciate like a man with a\ndistinct experience of the country. He saw them clearly. He was as if\nsobered after a long bout of intoxication. His fidelity had been taken\nadvantage of. He had persuaded the body of Cargadores to side with the\nBlancos against the rest of the people; he had had interviews with Don\nJose; he had been made use of by Father Corbelan for negotiating with\nHernandez; it was known that Don Martin Decoud had admitted him to\na sort of intimacy, so that he had been free of the offices of the\nPorvenir. All these things had flattered him in the usual way. What\ndid he care about their politics? Nothing at all. And at the end of it\nall--Nostromo here and Nostromo there--where is Nostromo? Nostromo can\ndo this and that--work all day and ride all night--behold! he found\nhimself a marked Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for\ninstance, would choose to take, now the Montero party, had, after all,\nmastered the town. The Europeans had given up; the Caballeros had given\nup. Don Martin had indeed explained it was only temporary--that he\nwas going to bring Barrios to the rescue. Where was that now--with Don\nMartin (whose ironic manner of talk had always made the Capataz feel\nvaguely uneasy) stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody had given up.\nEven Don Carlos had given up. The hurried removal of the treasure out\nto sea meant nothing else than that. The Capataz de Cargadores, on a\nrevulsion of subjectiveness, exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all\nhis world without faith and courage. He had been betrayed!\n\nWith the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of his silence and\nimmobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowded around\nthe white, misty sheen of Higuerota, Nostromo laughed aloud again,\nsprang abruptly to his feet, and stood still. He must go. But where?\n\n\"There is no mistake. They keep us and encourage us as if we were dogs\nborn to fight and hunt for them. The vecchio is right,\" he said, slowly\nand scathingly. He remembered old Giorgio taking his pipe out of his\nmouth to throw these words over his shoulder at the cafe, full of\nengine-drivers and fitters from the railway workshops. This image fixed\nhis wavering purpose. He would try to find old Giorgio if he could. God\nknows what might have happened to him! He made a few steps, then stopped\nagain and shook his head. To the left and right, in front and behind\nhim, the scrubby bush rustled mysteriously in the darkness.\n\n\"Teresa was right, too,\" he added in a low tone touched with awe. He\nwondered whether she was dead in her anger with him or still alive. As\nif in answer to this thought, half of remorse and half of hope, with\na soft flutter and oblique flight, a big owl, whose appalling cry:\n\"Ya-acabo! Ya-acabo!--it is finished; it is finished\"--announces\ncalamity and death in the popular belief, drifted vaguely like a large\ndark ball across his path. In the downfall of all the realities that\nmade his force, he was affected by the superstition, and shuddered\nslightly. Signora Teresa must have died, then. It could mean nothing\nelse. The cry of the ill-omened bird, the first sound he was to hear on\nhis return, was a fitting welcome for his betrayed individuality. The\nunseen powers which he had offended by refusing to bring a priest to a\ndying woman were lifting up their voice against him. She was dead. With\nadmirable and human consistency he referred everything to himself. She\nhad been a woman of good counsel always. And the bereaved old Giorgio\nremained stunned by his loss just as he was likely to require the advice\nof his sagacity. The blow would render the dreamy old man quite stupid\nfor a time.\n\nAs to Captain Mitchell, Nostromo, after the manner of trusted\nsubordinates, considered him as a person fitted by education perhaps\nto sign papers in an office and to give orders, but otherwise of no use\nwhatever, and something of a fool. The necessity of winding round his\nlittle finger, almost daily, the pompous and testy self-importance of\nthe old seaman had grown irksome with use to Nostromo. At first it had\ngiven him an inward satisfaction. But the necessity of overcoming small\nobstacles becomes wearisome to a self-confident personality as much by\nthe certitude of success as by the monotony of effort. He mistrusted\nhis superior's proneness to fussy action. That old Englishman had no\njudgment, he said to himself. It was useless to suppose that, acquainted\nwith the true state of the case, he would keep it to himself. He would\ntalk of doing impracticable things. Nostromo feared him as one\nwould fear saddling one's self with some persistent worry. He had no\ndiscretion. He would betray the treasure. And Nostromo had made up his\nmind that the treasure should not be betrayed.\n\nThe word had fixed itself tenaciously in his intelligence. His\nimagination had seized upon the clear and simple notion of betrayal to\naccount for the dazed feeling of enlightenment as to being done for, of\nhaving inadvertently gone out of his existence on an issue in which his\npersonality had not been taken into account. A man betrayed is a man\ndestroyed. Signora Teresa (may God have her soul!) had been right. He\nhad never been taken into account. Destroyed! Her white form sitting\nup bowed in bed, the falling black hair, the wide-browed suffering\nface raised to him, the anger of her denunciations appeared to him now\nmajestic with the awfulness of inspiration and of death. For it was not\nfor nothing that the evil bird had uttered its lamentable shriek over\nhis head. She was dead--may God have her soul!\n\nSharing in the anti-priestly freethought of the masses, his mind used\nthe pious formula from the superficial force of habit, but with a\ndeep-seated sincerity. The popular mind is incapable of scepticism;\nand that incapacity delivers their helpless strength to the wiles of\nswindlers and to the pitiless enthusiasms of leaders inspired by visions\nof a high destiny. She was dead. But would God consent to receive her\nsoul? She had died without confession or absolution, because he had\nnot been willing to spare her another moment of his time. His scorn of\npriests as priests remained; but after all, it was impossible to know\nwhether what they affirmed was not true. Power, punishment, pardon,\nare simple and credible notions. The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores,\ndeprived of certain simple realities, such as the admiration of women,\nthe adulation of men, the admired publicity of his life, was ready to\nfeel the burden of sacrilegious guilt descend upon his shoulders.\n\nBareheaded, in a thin shirt and drawers, he felt the lingering warmth of\nthe fine sand under the soles of his feet. The narrow strand gleamed\nfar ahead in a long curve, defining the outline of this wild side of the\nharbour. He flitted along the shore like a pursued shadow between the\nsombre palm-groves and the sheet of water lying as still as death on his\nright hand. He strode with headlong haste in the silence and solitude\nas though he had forgotten all prudence and caution. But he knew that on\nthis side of the water he ran no risk of discovery. The only inhabitant\nwas a lonely, silent, apathetic Indian in charge of the palmarias, who\nbrought sometimes a load of cocoanuts to the town for sale. He lived\nwithout a woman in an open shed, with a perpetual fire of dry sticks\nsmouldering near an old canoe lying bottom up on the beach. He could be\neasily avoided.\n\nThe barking of the dogs about that man's ranche was the first thing that\nchecked his speed. He had forgotten the dogs. He swerved sharply, and\nplunged into the palm-grove, as into a wilderness of columns in an\nimmense hall, whose dense obscurity seemed to whisper and rustle faintly\nhigh above his head. He traversed it, entered a ravine, and climbed to\nthe top of a steep ridge free of trees and bushes.\n\nFrom there, open and vague in the starlight, he saw the plain between\nthe town and the harbour. In the woods above some night-bird made a\nstrange drumming noise. Below beyond the palmaria on the beach, the\nIndian's dogs continued to bark uproariously. He wondered what had upset\nthem so much, and, peering down from his elevation, was surprised to\ndetect unaccountable movements of the ground below, as if several oblong\npieces of the plain had been in motion. Those dark, shifting patches,\nalternately catching and eluding the eye, altered their place always\naway from the harbour, with a suggestion of consecutive order and\npurpose. A light dawned upon him. It was a column of infantry on a night\nmarch towards the higher broken country at the foot of the hills. But he\nwas too much in the dark about everything for wonder and speculation.\n\nThe plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the ridge and\nfound himself in the open solitude, between the harbour and the town.\nIts spaciousness, extended indefinitely by an effect of obscurity,\nrendered more sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower.\nNo one waited for him; no one thought of him; no one expected or wished\nhis return. \"Betrayed! Betrayed!\" he muttered to himself. No one\ncared. He might have been drowned by this time. No one would have\ncared--unless, perhaps, the children, he thought to himself. But they\nwere with the English signora, and not thinking of him at all.\n\nHe wavered in his purpose of making straight for the Casa Viola. To what\nend? What could he expect there? His life seemed to fail him in all\nits details, even to the scornful reproaches of Teresa. He was\naware painfully of his reluctance. Was it that remorse which she had\nprophesied with, what he saw now, was her last breath?\n\nMeantime, he had deviated from the straight course, inclining by a sort\nof instinct to the right, towards the jetty and the harbour, the scene\nof his daily labours. The great length of the Custom House loomed up all\nat once like the wall of a factory. Not a soul challenged his approach,\nand his curiosity became excited as he passed cautiously towards the\nfront by the unexpected sight of two lighted windows.\n\nThey had the fascination of a lonely vigil kept by some mysterious\nwatcher up there, those two windows shining dimly upon the harbour in\nthe whole vast extent of the abandoned building. The solitude could\nalmost be felt. A strong smell of wood smoke hung about in a thin haze,\nwhich was faintly perceptible to his raised eyes against the glitter\nof the stars. As he advanced in the profound silence, the shrilling of\ninnumerable cicalas in the dry grass seemed positively deafening to his\nstrained ears. Slowly, step by step, he found himself in the great hall,\nsombre and full of acrid smoke.\n\nA fire built against the staircase had burnt down impotently to a low\nheap of embers. The hard wood had failed to catch; only a few steps at\nthe bottom smouldered, with a creeping glow of sparks defining their\ncharred edges. At the top he saw a streak of light from an open door. It\nfell upon the vast landing, all foggy with a slow drift of smoke. That\nwas the room. He climbed the stairs, then checked himself, because he\nhad seen within the shadow of a man cast upon one of the walls. It was\na shapeless, high-shouldered shadow of somebody standing still, with\nlowered head, out of his line of sight. The Capataz, remembering that he\nwas totally unarmed, stepped aside, and, effacing himself upright in a\ndark corner, waited with his eyes fixed on the door.\n\nThe whole enormous ruined barrack of a place, unfinished, without\nceilings under its lofty roof, was pervaded by the smoke swaying to and\nfro in the faint cross draughts playing in the obscurity of many lofty\nrooms and barnlike passages. Once one of the swinging shutters came\nagainst the wall with a single sharp crack, as if pushed by an impatient\nhand. A piece of paper scurried out from somewhere, rustling along the\nlanding. The man, whoever he was, did not darken the lighted doorway.\nTwice the Capataz, advancing a couple of steps out of his corner,\ncraned his neck in the hope of catching sight of what he could be at,\nso quietly, in there. But every time he saw only the distorted shadow\nof broad shoulders and bowed head. He was doing apparently nothing, and\nstirred not from the spot, as though he were meditating--or, perhaps,\nreading a paper. And not a sound issued from the room.\n\nOnce more the Capataz stepped back. He wondered who it was--some\nMonterist? But he dreaded to show himself. To discover his presence\non shore, unless after many days, would, he believed, endanger the\ntreasure. With his own knowledge possessing his whole soul, it seemed\nimpossible that anybody in Sulaco should fail to jump at the right\nsurmise. After a couple of weeks or so it would be different. Who could\ntell he had not returned overland from some port beyond the limits of\nthe Republic? The existence of the treasure confused his thoughts with\na peculiar sort of anxiety, as though his life had become bound up with\nit. It rendered him timorous for a moment before that enigmatic, lighted\ndoor. Devil take the fellow! He did not want to see him. There would be\nnothing to learn from his face, known or unknown. He was a fool to waste\nhis time there in waiting.\n\nLess than five minutes after entering the place the Capataz began his\nretreat. He got away down the stairs with perfect success, gave one\nupward look over his shoulder at the light on the landing, and ran\nstealthily across the hall. But at the very moment he was turning out of\nthe great door, with his mind fixed upon escaping the notice of the man\nupstairs, somebody he had not heard coming briskly along the front ran\nfull into him. Both muttered a stifled exclamation of surprise, and\nleaped back and stood still, each indistinct to the other. Nostromo was\nsilent. The other man spoke first, in an amazed and deadened tone.\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\nAlready Nostromo had seemed to recognize Dr. Monygham. He had no doubt\nnow. He hesitated the space of a second. The idea of bolting without a\nword presented itself to his mind. No use! An inexplicable repugnance\nto pronounce the name by which he was known kept him silent a little\nlonger. At last he said in a low voice--\n\n\"A Cargador.\"\n\nHe walked up to the other. Dr. Monygham had received a shock. He flung\nhis arms up and cried out his wonder aloud, forgetting himself before\nthe marvel of this meeting. Nostromo angrily warned him to moderate\nhis voice. The Custom House was not so deserted as it looked. There was\nsomebody in the lighted room above.\n\nThere is no more evanescent quality in an accomplished fact than its\nwonderfulness. Solicited incessantly by the considerations affecting\nits fears and desires, the human mind turns naturally away from the\nmarvellous side of events. And it was in the most natural way possible\nthat the doctor asked this man whom only two minutes before he believed\nto have been drowned in the gulf--\n\n\"You have seen somebody up there? Have you?\"\n\n\"No, I have not seen him.\"\n\n\"Then how do you know?\"\n\n\"I was running away from his shadow when we met.\"\n\n\"His shadow?\"\n\n\"Yes. His shadow in the lighted room,\" said Nostromo, in a contemptuous\ntone. Leaning back with folded arms at the foot of the immense building,\nhe dropped his head, biting his lips slightly, and not looking at the\ndoctor. \"Now,\" he thought to himself, \"he will begin asking me about the\ntreasure.\"\n\nBut the doctor's thoughts were concerned with an event not as marvellous\nas Nostromo's appearance, but in itself much less clear. Why had Sotillo\ntaken himself off with his whole command with this suddenness and\nsecrecy? What did this move portend? However, it dawned upon the\ndoctor that the man upstairs was one of the officers left behind by the\ndisappointed colonel to communicate with him.\n\n\"I believe he is waiting for me,\" he said.\n\n\"It is possible.\"\n\n\"I must see. Do not go away yet, Capataz.\"\n\n\"Go away where?\" muttered Nostromo.\n\nAlready the doctor had left him. He remained leaning against the wall,\nstaring at the dark water of the harbour; the shrilling of cicalas\nfilled his ears. An invincible vagueness coming over his thoughts took\nfrom them all power to determine his will.\n\n\"Capataz! Capataz!\" the doctor's voice called urgently from above.\n\nThe sense of betrayal and ruin floated upon his sombre indifference as\nupon a sluggish sea of pitch. But he stepped out from under the wall,\nand, looking up, saw Dr. Monygham leaning out of a lighted window.\n\n\"Come up and see what Sotillo has done. You need not fear the man up\nhere.\"\n\nHe answered by a slight, bitter laugh. Fear a man! The Capataz of the\nSulaco Cargadores fear a man! It angered him that anybody should suggest\nsuch a thing. It angered him to be disarmed and skulking and in danger\nbecause of the accursed treasure, which was of so little account to the\npeople who had tied it round his neck. He could not shake off the worry\nof it. To Nostromo the doctor represented all these people. . . . And\nhe had never even asked after it. Not a word of inquiry about the most\ndesperate undertaking of his life.\n\nThinking these thoughts, Nostromo passed again through the cavernous\nhall, where the smoke was considerably thinned, and went up the stairs,\nnot so warm to his feet now, towards the streak of light at the top. The\ndoctor appeared in it for a moment, agitated and impatient.\n\n\"Come up! Come up!\"\n\nAt the moment of crossing the doorway the Capataz experienced a shock of\nsurprise. The man had not moved. He saw his shadow in the same place.\nHe started, then stepped in with a feeling of being about to solve a\nmystery.\n\nIt was very simple. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, against\nthe light of two flaring and guttering candles, through a blue, pungent,\nthin haze which made his eyes smart, he saw the man standing, as he\nhad imagined him, with his back to the door, casting an enormous and\ndistorted shadow upon the wall. Swifter than a flash of lightning\nfollowed the impression of his constrained, toppling attitude--the\nshoulders projecting forward, the head sunk low upon the breast. Then\nhe distinguished the arms behind his back, and wrenched so terribly that\nthe two clenched fists, lashed together, had been forced up higher than\nthe shoulder-blades. From there his eyes traced in one instantaneous\nglance the hide rope going upwards from the tied wrists over a heavy\nbeam and down to a staple in the wall. He did not want to look at the\nrigid legs, at the feet hanging down nervelessly, with their bare toes\nsome six inches above the floor, to know that the man had been given the\nestrapade till he had swooned. His first impulse was to dash forward and\nsever the rope at one blow. He felt for his knife. He had no knife--not\neven a knife. He stood quivering, and the doctor, perched on the edge of\nthe table, facing thoughtfully the cruel and lamentable sight, his chin\nin his hand, uttered, without stirring--\n\n\"Tortured--and shot dead through the breast--getting cold.\"\n\nThis information calmed the Capataz. One of the candles flickering in\nthe socket went out. \"Who did this?\" he asked.\n\n\"Sotillo, I tell you. Who else? Tortured--of course. But why shot?\" The\ndoctor looked fixedly at Nostromo, who shrugged his shoulders slightly.\n\"And mark, shot suddenly, on impulse. It is evident. I wish I had his\nsecret.\"\n\nNostromo had advanced, and stooped slightly to look. \"I seem to have\nseen that face somewhere,\" he muttered. \"Who is he?\"\n\nThe doctor turned his eyes upon him again. \"I may yet come to envying\nhis fate. What do you think of that, Capataz, eh?\"\n\nBut Nostromo did not even hear these words. Seizing the remaining light,\nhe thrust it under the drooping head. The doctor sat oblivious, with\na lost gaze. Then the heavy iron candlestick, as if struck out of\nNostromo's hand, clattered on the floor.\n\n\"Hullo!\" exclaimed the doctor, looking up with a start. He could hear\nthe Capataz stagger against the table and gasp. In the sudden extinction\nof the light within, the dead blackness sealing the window-frames became\nalive with stars to his sight.\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" the doctor muttered to himself in English.\n\"Enough to make him jump out of his skin.\"\n\nNostromo's heart seemed to force itself into his throat. His head swam.\nHirsch! The man was Hirsch! He held on tight to the edge of the table.\n\n\"But he was hiding in the lighter,\" he almost shouted His voice fell.\n\"In the lighter, and--and--\"\n\n\"And Sotillo brought him in,\" said the doctor. \"He is no more startling\nto you than you were to me. What I want to know is how he induced some\ncompassionate soul to shoot him.\"\n\n\"So Sotillo knows--\" began Nostromo, in a more equable voice.\n\n\"Everything!\" interrupted the doctor.\n\nThe Capataz was heard striking the table with his fist. \"Everything?\nWhat are you saying, there? Everything? Know everything? It is\nimpossible! Everything?\"\n\n\"Of course. What do you mean by impossible? I tell you I have heard\nthis Hirsch questioned last night, here, in this very room. He knew your\nname, Decoud's name, and all about the loading of the silver. . . .\nThe lighter was cut in two. He was grovelling in abject terror before\nSotillo, but he remembered that much. What do you want more? He knew\nleast about himself. They found him clinging to their anchor. He must\nhave caught at it just as the lighter went to the bottom.\"\n\n\"Went to the bottom?\" repeated Nostromo, slowly. \"Sotillo believes that?\nBueno!\"\n\nThe doctor, a little impatiently, was unable to imagine what else could\nanybody believe. Yes, Sotillo believed that the lighter was sunk, and\nthe Capataz de Cargadores, together with Martin Decoud and perhaps one\nor two other political fugitives, had been drowned.\n\n\"I told you well, senor doctor,\" remarked Nostromo at that point, \"that\nSotillo did not know everything.\"\n\n\"Eh? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"He did not know I was not dead.\"\n\n\"Neither did we.\"\n\n\"And you did not care--none of you caballeros on the wharf--once you got\noff a man of flesh and blood like yourselves on a fool's business that\ncould not end well.\"\n\n\"You forget, Capataz, I was not on the wharf. And I did not think well\nof the business. So you need not taunt me. I tell you what, man, we had\nbut little leisure to think of the dead. Death stands near behind us\nall. You were gone.\"\n\n\"I went, indeed!\" broke in Nostromo. \"And for the sake of what--tell\nme?\"\n\n\"Ah! that is your own affair,\" the doctor said, roughly. \"Do not ask\nme.\"\n\nTheir flowing murmurs paused in the dark. Perched on the edge of the\ntable with slightly averted faces, they felt their shoulders touch, and\ntheir eyes remained directed towards an upright shape nearly lost in the\nobscurity of the inner part of the room, that with projecting head and\nshoulders, in ghastly immobility, seemed intent on catching every word.\n\n\"Muy bien!\" Nostromo muttered at last. \"So be it. Teresa was right. It\nis my own affair.\"\n\n\"Teresa is dead,\" remarked the doctor, absently, while his mind\nfollowed a new line of thought suggested by what might have been called\nNostromo's return to life. \"She died, the poor woman.\"\n\n\"Without a priest?\" the Capataz asked, anxiously.\n\n\"What a question! Who could have got a priest for her last night?\"\n\n\"May God keep her soul!\" ejaculated Nostromo, with a gloomy and hopeless\nfervour which had no time to surprise Dr. Monygham, before, reverting to\ntheir previous conversation, he continued in a sinister tone, \"Si,\nsenor doctor. As you were saying, it is my own affair. A very desperate\naffair.\"\n\n\"There are no two men in this part of the world that could have saved\nthemselves by swimming as you have done,\" the doctor said, admiringly.\n\nAnd again there was silence between those two men. They were both\nreflecting, and the diversity of their natures made their thoughts born\nfrom their meeting swing afar from each other. The doctor, impelled to\nrisky action by his loyalty to the Goulds, wondered with thankfulness at\nthe chain of accident which had brought that man back where he would be\nof the greatest use in the work of saving the San Tome mine. The doctor\nwas loyal to the mine. It presented itself to his fifty-years' old eyes\nin the shape of a little woman in a soft dress with a long train, with\na head attractively overweighted by a great mass of fair hair and the\ndelicate preciousness of her inner worth, partaking of a gem and\na flower, revealed in every attitude of her person. As the dangers\nthickened round the San Tome mine this illusion acquired force,\npermanency, and authority. It claimed him at last! This claim, exalted\nby a spiritual detachment from the usual sanctions of hope and reward,\nmade Dr. Monygham's thinking, acting, individuality extremely dangerous\nto himself and to others, all his scruples vanishing in the proud\nfeeling that his devotion was the only thing that stood between an\nadmirable woman and a frightful disaster.\n\nIt was a sort of intoxication which made him utterly indifferent to\nDecoud's fate, but left his wits perfectly clear for the appreciation\nof Decoud's political idea. It was a good idea--and Barrios was the only\ninstrument of its realization. The doctor's soul, withered and shrunk by\nthe shame of a moral disgrace, became implacable in the expansion of its\ntenderness. Nostromo's return was providential. He did not think of him\nhumanely, as of a fellow-creature just escaped from the jaws of death.\nThe Capataz for him was the only possible messenger to Cayta. The very\nman. The doctor's misanthropic mistrust of mankind (the bitterer because\nbased on personal failure) did not lift him sufficiently above common\nweaknesses. He was under the spell of an established reputation.\nTrumpeted by Captain Mitchell, grown in repetition, and fixed in\ngeneral assent, Nostromo's faithfulness had never been questioned by Dr.\nMonygham as a fact. It was not likely to be questioned now he stood in\ndesperate need of it himself. Dr. Monygham was human; he accepted the\npopular conception of the Capataz's incorruptibility simply because no\nword or fact had ever contradicted a mere affirmation. It seemed to be\na part of the man, like his whiskers or his teeth. It was impossible to\nconceive him otherwise. The question was whether he would consent to\ngo on such a dangerous and desperate errand. The doctor was observant\nenough to have become aware from the first of something peculiar in the\nman's temper. He was no doubt sore about the loss of the silver.\n\n\"It will be necessary to take him into my fullest confidence,\" he said\nto himself, with a certain acuteness of insight into the nature he had\nto deal with.\n\nOn Nostromo's side the silence had been full of black irresolution,\nanger, and mistrust. He was the first to break it, however.\n\n\"The swimming was no great matter,\" he said. \"It is what went\nbefore--and what comes after that--\"\n\nHe did not quite finish what he meant to say, breaking off short, as\nthough his thought had butted against a solid obstacle. The doctor's\nmind pursued its own schemes with Machiavellian subtlety. He said as\nsympathetically as he was able--\n\n\"It is unfortunate, Capataz. But no one would think of blaming you. Very\nunfortunate. To begin with, the treasure ought never to have left the\nmountain. But it was Decoud who--however, he is dead. There is no need\nto talk of him.\"\n\n\"No,\" assented Nostromo, as the doctor paused, \"there is no need to talk\nof dead men. But I am not dead yet.\"\n\n\"You are all right. Only a man of your intrepidity could have saved\nhimself.\"\n\nIn this Dr. Monygham was sincere. He esteemed highly the intrepidity of\nthat man, whom he valued but little, being disillusioned as to mankind\nin general, because of the particular instance in which his own manhood\nhad failed. Having had to encounter singlehanded during his period of\neclipse many physical dangers, he was well aware of the most dangerous\nelement common to them all: of the crushing, paralyzing sense of human\nlittleness, which is what really defeats a man struggling with natural\nforces, alone, far from the eyes of his fellows. He was eminently fit\nto appreciate the mental image he made for himself of the Capataz, after\nhours of tension and anxiety, precipitated suddenly into an abyss of\nwaters and darkness, without earth or sky, and confronting it not only\nwith an undismayed mind, but with sensible success. Of course, the man\nwas an incomparable swimmer, that was known, but the doctor judged that\nthis instance testified to a still greater intrepidity of spirit. It was\npleasing to him; he augured well from it for the success of the arduous\nmission with which he meant to entrust the Capataz so marvellously\nrestored to usefulness. And in a tone vaguely gratified, he observed--\n\n\"It must have been terribly dark!\"\n\n\"It was the worst darkness of the Golfo,\" the Capataz assented, briefly.\nHe was mollified by what seemed a sign of some faint interest in such\nthings as had befallen him, and dropped a few descriptive phrases with\nan affected and curt nonchalance. At that moment he felt communicative.\nHe expected the continuance of that interest which, whether accepted\nor rejected, would have restored to him his personality--the only thing\nlost in that desperate affair. But the doctor, engrossed by a desperate\nadventure of his own, was terrible in the pursuit of his idea. He let an\nexclamation of regret escape him.\n\n\"I could almost wish you had shouted and shown a light.\"\n\nThis unexpected utterance astounded the Capataz by its character of\ncold-blooded atrocity. It was as much as to say, \"I wish you had shown\nyourself a coward; I wish you had had your throat cut for your pains.\"\nNaturally he referred it to himself, whereas it related only to the\nsilver, being uttered simply and with many mental reservations. Surprise\nand rage rendered him speechless, and the doctor pursued, practically\nunheard by Nostromo, whose stirred blood was beating violently in his\nears.\n\n\"For I am convinced Sotillo in possession of the silver would have\nturned short round and made for some small port abroad. Economically it\nwould have been wasteful, but still less wasteful than having it sunk.\nIt was the next best thing to having it at hand in some safe place, and\nusing part of it to buy up Sotillo. But I doubt whether Don Carlos would\nhave ever made up his mind to it. He is not fit for Costaguana, and that\nis a fact, Capataz.\"\n\nThe Capataz had mastered the fury that was like a tempest in his ears in\ntime to hear the name of Don Carlos. He seemed to have come out of it a\nchanged man--a man who spoke thoughtfully in a soft and even voice.\n\n\"And would Don Carlos have been content if I had surrendered this\ntreasure?\"\n\n\"I should not wonder if they were all of that way of thinking now,\" the\ndoctor said, grimly. \"I was never consulted. Decoud had it his own way.\nTheir eyes are opened by this time, I should think. I for one know that\nif that silver turned up this moment miraculously ashore I would give it\nto Sotillo. And, as things stand, I would be approved.\"\n\n\"Turned up miraculously,\" repeated the Capataz very low; then raised\nhis voice. \"That, senor, would be a greater miracle than any saint could\nperform.\"\n\n\"I believe you, Capataz,\" said the doctor, drily.\n\nHe went on to develop his view of Sotillo's dangerous influence upon the\nsituation. And the Capataz, listening as if in a dream, felt himself of\nas little account as the indistinct, motionless shape of the dead man\nwhom he saw upright under the beam, with his air of listening also,\ndisregarded, forgotten, like a terrible example of neglect.\n\n\"Was it for an unconsidered and foolish whim that they came to me,\nthen?\" he interrupted suddenly. \"Had I not done enough for them to be\nof some account, por Dios? Is it that the hombres finos--the\ngentlemen--need not think as long as there is a man of the people ready\nto risk his body and soul? Or, perhaps, we have no souls--like dogs?\"\n\n\"There was Decoud, too, with his plan,\" the doctor reminded him again.\n\n\"Si! And the rich man in San Francisco who had something to do with\nthat treasure, too--what do I know? No! I have heard too many things. It\nseems to me that everything is permitted to the rich.\"\n\n\"I understand, Capataz,\" the doctor began.\n\n\"What Capataz?\" broke in Nostromo, in a forcible but even voice. \"The\nCapataz is undone, destroyed. There is no Capataz. Oh, no! You will find\nthe Capataz no more.\"\n\n\"Come, this is childish!\" remonstrated the doctor; and the other calmed\ndown suddenly.\n\n\"I have been indeed like a little child,\" he muttered.\n\nAnd as his eyes met again the shape of the murdered man suspended in\nhis awful immobility, which seemed the uncomplaining immobility of\nattention, he asked, wondering gently--\n\n\"Why did Sotillo give the estrapade to this pitiful wretch? Do you\nknow? No torture could have been worse than his fear. Killing I can\nunderstand. His anguish was intolerable to behold. But why should he\ntorment him like this? He could tell no more.\"\n\n\"No; he could tell nothing more. Any sane man would have seen that. He\nhad told him everything. But I tell you what it is, Capataz. Sotillo\nwould not believe what he was told. Not everything.\"\n\n\"What is it he would not believe? I cannot understand.\"\n\n\"I can, because I have seen the man. He refuses to believe that the\ntreasure is lost.\"\n\n\"What?\" the Capataz cried out in a discomposed tone.\n\n\"That startles you--eh?\"\n\n\"Am I to understand, senor,\" Nostromo went on in a deliberate and, as it\nwere, watchful tone, \"that Sotillo thinks the treasure has been saved by\nsome means?\"\n\n\"No! no! That would be impossible,\" said the doctor, with conviction;\nand Nostromo emitted a grunt in the dark. \"That would be impossible. He\nthinks that the silver was no longer in the lighter when she was sunk.\nHe has convinced himself that the whole show of getting it away to sea\nis a mere sham got up to deceive Gamacho and his Nationals, Pedrito\nMontero, Senor Fuentes, our new Gefe Politico, and himself, too. Only,\nhe says, he is no such fool.\"\n\n\"But he is devoid of sense. He is the greatest imbecile that ever called\nhimself a colonel in this country of evil,\" growled Nostromo.\n\n\"He is no more unreasonable than many sensible men,\" said the doctor.\n\"He has convinced himself that the treasure can be found because he\ndesires passionately to possess himself of it. And he is also afraid of\nhis officers turning upon him and going over to Pedrito, whom he has not\nthe courage either to fight or trust. Do you see that, Capataz? He need\nfear no desertion as long as some hope remains of that enormous plunder\nturning up. I have made it my business to keep this very hope up.\"\n\n\"You have?\" the Capataz de Cargadores repeated cautiously. \"Well, that\nis wonderful. And how long do you think you are going to keep it up?\"\n\n\"As long as I can.\"\n\n\"What does that mean?\"\n\n\"I can tell you exactly. As long as I live,\" the doctor retorted in\na stubborn voice. Then, in a few words, he described the story of his\narrest and the circumstances of his release. \"I was going back to that\nsilly scoundrel when we met,\" he concluded.\n\nNostromo had listened with profound attention. \"You have made up your\nmind, then, to a speedy death,\" he muttered through his clenched teeth.\n\n\"Perhaps, my illustrious Capataz,\" the doctor said, testily. \"You are\nnot the only one here who can look an ugly death in the face.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" mumbled Nostromo, loud enough to be overheard. \"There may be\neven more than two fools in this place. Who knows?\"\n\n\"And that is my affair,\" said the doctor, curtly.\n\n\"As taking out the accursed silver to sea was my affair,\" retorted\nNostromo. \"I see. Bueno! Each of us has his reasons. But you were the\nlast man I conversed with before I started, and you talked to me as if I\nwere a fool.\"\n\nNostromo had a great distaste for the doctor's sardonic treatment of his\ngreat reputation. Decoud's faintly ironic recognition used to make him\nuneasy; but the familiarity of a man like Don Martin was flattering,\nwhereas the doctor was a nobody. He could remember him a penniless\noutcast, slinking about the streets of Sulaco, without a single friend\nor acquaintance, till Don Carlos Gould took him into the service of the\nmine.\n\n\"You may be very wise,\" he went on, thoughtfully, staring into the\nobscurity of the room, pervaded by the gruesome enigma of the tortured\nand murdered Hirsch. \"But I am not such a fool as when I started. I have\nlearned one thing since, and that is that you are a dangerous man.\"\n\nDr. Monygham was too startled to do more than exclaim--\n\n\"What is it you say?\"\n\n\"If he could speak he would say the same thing,\" pursued Nostromo, with\na nod of his shadowy head silhouetted against the starlit window.\n\n\"I do not understand you,\" said Dr. Monygham, faintly.\n\n\"No? Perhaps, if you had not confirmed Sotillo in his madness, he would\nhave been in no haste to give the estrapade to that miserable Hirsch.\"\n\nThe doctor started at the suggestion. But his devotion, absorbing all\nhis sensibilities, had left his heart steeled against remorse and pity.\nStill, for complete relief, he felt the necessity of repelling it loudly\nand contemptuously.\n\n\"Bah! You dare to tell me that, with a man like Sotillo. I confess I\ndid not give a thought to Hirsch. If I had it would have been useless.\nAnybody can see that the luckless wretch was doomed from the moment he\ncaught hold of the anchor. He was doomed, I tell you! Just as I myself\nam doomed--most probably.\"\n\nThis is what Dr. Monygham said in answer to Nostromo's remark, which was\nplausible enough to prick his conscience. He was not a callous man. But\nthe necessity, the magnitude, the importance of the task he had taken\nupon himself dwarfed all merely humane considerations. He had undertaken\nit in a fanatical spirit. He did not like it. To lie, to deceive, to\ncircumvent even the basest of mankind was odious to him. It was odious\nto him by training, instinct, and tradition. To do these things in the\ncharacter of a traitor was abhorrent to his nature and terrible to his\nfeelings. He had made that sacrifice in a spirit of abasement. He had\nsaid to himself bitterly, \"I am the only one fit for that dirty work.\"\nAnd he believed this. He was not subtle. His simplicity was such that,\nthough he had no sort of heroic idea of seeking death, the risk, deadly\nenough, to which he exposed himself, had a sustaining and comforting\neffect. To that spiritual state the fate of Hirsch presented itself\nas part of the general atrocity of things. He considered that episode\npractically. What did it mean? Was it a sign of some dangerous change in\nSotillo's delusion? That the man should have been killed like this was\nwhat the doctor could not understand.\n\n\"Yes. But why shot?\" he murmured to himself.\n\nNostromo kept very still.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nDistracted between doubts and hopes, dismayed by the sound of bells\npealing out the arrival of Pedrito Montero, Sotillo had spent the\nmorning in battling with his thoughts; a contest to which he was\nunequal, from the vacuity of his mind and the violence of his passions.\nDisappointment, greed, anger, and fear made a tumult, in the colonel's\nbreast louder than the din of bells in the town. Nothing he had planned\nhad come to pass. Neither Sulaco nor the silver of the mine had fallen\ninto his hands. He had performed no military exploit to secure his\nposition, and had obtained no enormous booty to make off with. Pedrito\nMontero, either as friend or foe, filled him with dread. The sound of\nbells maddened him.\n\nImagining at first that he might be attacked at once, he had made his\nbattalion stand to arms on the shore. He walked to and fro all the\nlength of the room, stopping sometimes to gnaw the finger-tips of his\nright hand with a lurid sideways glare fixed on the floor; then, with\na sullen, repelling glance all round, he would resume his tramping in\nsavage aloofness. His hat, horsewhip, sword, and revolver were lying on\nthe table. His officers, crowding the window giving the view of the town\ngate, disputed amongst themselves the use of his field-glass bought last\nyear on long credit from Anzani. It passed from hand to hand, and the\npossessor for the time being was besieged by anxious inquiries.\n\n\"There is nothing; there is nothing to see!\" he would repeat\nimpatiently.\n\nThere was nothing. And when the picket in the bushes near the Casa\nViola had been ordered to fall back upon the main body, no stir of life\nappeared on the stretch of dusty and arid land between the town and the\nwaters of the port. But late in the afternoon a horseman issuing from\nthe gate was made out riding up fearlessly. It was an emissary from\nSenor Fuentes. Being all alone he was allowed to come on. Dismounting at\nthe great door he greeted the silent bystanders with cheery impudence,\nand begged to be taken up at once to the \"muy valliente\" colonel.\n\nSenor Fuentes, on entering upon his functions of Gefe Politico, had\nturned his diplomatic abilities to getting hold of the harbour as well\nas of the mine. The man he pitched upon to negotiate with Sotillo was a\nNotary Public, whom the revolution had found languishing in the common\njail on a charge of forging documents. Liberated by the mob along with\nthe other \"victims of Blanco tyranny,\" he had hastened to offer his\nservices to the new Government.\n\nHe set out determined to display much zeal and eloquence in trying to\ninduce Sotillo to come into town alone for a conference with Pedrito\nMontero. Nothing was further from the colonel's intentions. The mere\nfleeting idea of trusting himself into the famous Pedrito's hands had\nmade him feel unwell several times. It was out of the question--it was\nmadness. And to put himself in open hostility was madness, too. It would\nrender impossible a systematic search for that treasure, for that wealth\nof silver which he seemed to feel somewhere about, to scent somewhere\nnear.\n\nBut where? Where? Heavens! Where? Oh! why had he allowed that doctor\nto go! Imbecile that he was. But no! It was the only right course, he\nreflected distractedly, while the messenger waited downstairs chatting\nagreeably to the officers. It was in that scoundrelly doctor's true\ninterest to return with positive information. But what if anything\nstopped him? A general prohibition to leave the town, for instance!\nThere would be patrols!\n\nThe colonel, seizing his head in his hands, turned in his tracks as if\nstruck with vertigo. A flash of craven inspiration suggested to him an\nexpedient not unknown to European statesmen when they wish to delay a\ndifficult negotiation. Booted and spurred, he scrambled into the hammock\nwith undignified haste. His handsome face had turned yellow with the\nstrain of weighty cares. The ridge of his shapely nose had grown sharp;\nthe audacious nostrils appeared mean and pinched. The velvety, caressing\nglance of his fine eyes seemed dead, and even decomposed; for these\nalmond-shaped, languishing orbs had become inappropriately bloodshot\nwith much sinister sleeplessness. He addressed the surprised envoy\nof Senor Fuentes in a deadened, exhausted voice. It came pathetically\nfeeble from under a pile of ponchos, which buried his elegant person\nright up to the black moustaches, uncurled, pendant, in sign of bodily\nprostration and mental incapacity. Fever, fever--a heavy fever\nhad overtaken the \"muy valliente\" colonel. A wavering wildness of\nexpression, caused by the passing spasms of a slight colic which had\ndeclared itself suddenly, and the rattling teeth of repressed panic, had\na genuineness which impressed the envoy. It was a cold fit. The colonel\nexplained that he was unable to think, to listen, to speak. With an\nappearance of superhuman effort the colonel gasped out that he was\nnot in a state to return a suitable reply or to execute any of his\nExcellency's orders. But to-morrow! To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow! Let his\nExcellency Don Pedro be without uneasiness. The brave Esmeralda Regiment\nheld the harbour, held--And closing his eyes, he rolled his aching head\nlike a half-delirious invalid under the inquisitive stare of the envoy,\nwho was obliged to bend down over the hammock in order to catch the\npainful and broken accents. Meantime, Colonel Sotillo trusted that his\nExcellency's humanity would permit the doctor, the English doctor, to\ncome out of town with his case of foreign remedies to attend upon him.\nHe begged anxiously his worship the caballero now present for the grace\nof looking in as he passed the Casa Gould, and informing the English\ndoctor, who was probably there, that his services were immediately\nrequired by Colonel Sotillo, lying ill of fever in the Custom House.\nImmediately. Most urgently required. Awaited with extreme impatience.\nA thousand thanks. He closed his eyes wearily and would not open\nthem again, lying perfectly still, deaf, dumb, insensible, overcome,\nvanquished, crushed, annihilated by the fell disease.\n\nBut as soon as the other had shut after him the door of the landing, the\ncolonel leaped out with a fling of both feet in an avalanche of woollen\ncoverings. His spurs having become entangled in a perfect welter of\nponchos he nearly pitched on his head, and did not recover his balance\ntill the middle of the room. Concealed behind the half-closed jalousies\nhe listened to what went on below.\n\nThe envoy had already mounted, and turning to the morose officers\noccupying the great doorway, took off his hat formally.\n\n\"Caballeros,\" he said, in a very loud tone, \"allow me to recommend\nyou to take great care of your colonel. It has done me much honour and\ngratification to have seen you all, a fine body of men exercising the\nsoldierly virtue of patience in this exposed situation, where there\nis much sun, and no water to speak of, while a town full of wine and\nfeminine charms is ready to embrace you for the brave men you are.\nCaballeros, I have the honour to salute you. There will be much dancing\nto-night in Sulaco. Good-bye!\"\n\nBut he reined in his horse and inclined his head sideways on seeing\nthe old major step out, very tall and meagre, in a straight narrow\ncoat coming down to his ankles as it were the casing of the regimental\ncolours rolled round their staff.\n\nThe intelligent old warrior, after enunciating in a dogmatic tone the\ngeneral proposition that the \"world was full of traitors,\" went on\npronouncing deliberately a panegyric upon Sotillo. He ascribed to him\nwith leisurely emphasis every virtue under heaven, summing it all up in\nan absurd colloquialism current amongst the lower class of Occidentals\n(especially about Esmeralda). \"And,\" he concluded, with a sudden rise in\nthe voice, \"a man of many teeth--'hombre de muchos dientes.' Si, senor.\nAs to us,\" he pursued, portentous and impressive, \"your worship is\nbeholding the finest body of officers in the Republic, men unequalled\nfor valour and sagacity, 'y hombres de muchos dientes.'\"\n\n\"What? All of them?\" inquired the disreputable envoy of Senor Fuentes,\nwith a faint, derisive smile.\n\n\"Todos. Si, senor,\" the major affirmed, gravely, with conviction. \"Men\nof many teeth.\"\n\nThe other wheeled his horse to face the portal resembling the high gate\nof a dismal barn. He raised himself in his stirrups, extended one arm.\nHe was a facetious scoundrel, entertaining for these stupid Occidentals\na feeling of great scorn natural in a native from the central provinces.\nThe folly of Esmeraldians especially aroused his amused contempt. He\nbegan an oration upon Pedro Montero, keeping a solemn countenance. He\nflourished his hand as if introducing him to their notice. And when he\nsaw every face set, all the eyes fixed upon his lips, he began to\nshout a sort of catalogue of perfections: \"Generous, valorous, affable,\nprofound\"--(he snatched off his hat enthusiastically)--\"a statesman, an\ninvincible chief of partisans--\" He dropped his voice startlingly to a\ndeep, hollow note--\"and a dentist.\"\n\nHe was off instantly at a smart walk; the rigid straddle of his legs,\nthe turned-out feet, the stiff back, the rakish slant of the sombrero\nabove the square, motionless set of the shoulders expressing an\ninfinite, awe-inspiring impudence.\n\nUpstairs, behind the jalousies, Sotillo did not move for a long time.\nThe audacity of the fellow appalled him. What were his officers saying\nbelow? They were saying nothing. Complete silence. He quaked. It was not\nthus that he had imagined himself at that stage of the expedition. He\nhad seen himself triumphant, unquestioned, appeased, the idol of the\nsoldiers, weighing in secret complacency the agreeable alternatives of\npower and wealth open to his choice. Alas! How different! Distracted,\nrestless, supine, burning with fury, or frozen with terror, he felt\na dread as fathomless as the sea creep upon him from every side. That\nrogue of a doctor had to come out with his information. That was clear.\nIt would be of no use to him--alone. He could do nothing with it.\nMalediction! The doctor would never come out. He was probably under\narrest already, shut up together with Don Carlos. He laughed aloud\ninsanely. Ha! ha! ha! ha! It was Pedrito Montero who would get the\ninformation. Ha! ha! ha! ha!--and the silver. Ha!\n\nAll at once, in the midst of the laugh, he became motionless and silent\nas if turned into stone. He too, had a prisoner. A prisoner who must,\nmust know the real truth. He would have to be made to speak. And\nSotillo, who all that time had not quite forgotten Hirsch, felt an\ninexplicable reluctance at the notion of proceeding to extremities.\n\nHe felt a reluctance--part of that unfathomable dread that crept on all\nsides upon him. He remembered reluctantly, too, the dilated eyes of the\nhide merchant, his contortions, his loud sobs and protestations. It\nwas not compassion or even mere nervous sensibility. The fact was that\nthough Sotillo did never for a moment believe his story--he could not\nbelieve it; nobody could believe such nonsense--yet those accents of\ndespairing truth impressed him disagreeably. They made him feel sick.\nAnd he suspected also that the man might have gone mad with fear. A\nlunatic is a hopeless subject. Bah! A pretence. Nothing but a pretence.\nHe would know how to deal with that.\n\nHe was working himself up to the right pitch of ferocity. His fine eyes\nsquinted slightly; he clapped his hands; a bare-footed orderly appeared\nnoiselessly, a corporal, with his bayonet hanging on his thigh and a\nstick in his hand.\n\nThe colonel gave his orders, and presently the miserable Hirsch, pushed\nin by several soldiers, found him frowning awfully in a broad armchair,\nhat on head, knees wide apart, arms akimbo, masterful, imposing,\nirresistible, haughty, sublime, terrible.\n\nHirsch, with his arms tied behind his back, had been bundled violently\ninto one of the smaller rooms. For many hours he remained apparently\nforgotten, stretched lifelessly on the floor. From that solitude, full\nof despair and terror, he was torn out brutally, with kicks and blows,\npassive, sunk in hebetude. He listened to threats and admonitions, and\nafterwards made his usual answers to questions, with his chin sunk on\nhis breast, his hands tied behind his back, swaying a little in front of\nSotillo, and never looking up. When he was forced to hold up his head,\nby means of a bayonet-point prodding him under the chin, his eyes had a\nvacant, trance-like stare, and drops of perspiration as big as peas were\nseen hailing down the dirt, bruises, and scratches of his white face.\nThen they stopped suddenly.\n\nSotillo looked at him in silence. \"Will you depart from your obstinacy,\nyou rogue?\" he asked. Already a rope, whose one end was fastened to\nSenor Hirsch's wrists, had been thrown over a beam, and three soldiers\nheld the other end, waiting. He made no answer. His heavy lower lip hung\nstupidly. Sotillo made a sign. Hirsch was jerked up off his feet, and a\nyell of despair and agony burst out in the room, filled the passage of\nthe great buildings, rent the air outside, caused every soldier of the\ncamp along the shore to look up at the windows, started some of the\nofficers in the hall babbling excitedly, with shining eyes; others,\nsetting their lips, looked gloomily at the floor.\n\nSotillo, followed by the soldiers, had left the room. The sentry on the\nlanding presented arms. Hirsch went on screaming all alone behind the\nhalf-closed jalousies while the sunshine, reflected from the water of\nthe harbour, made an ever-running ripple of light high up on the wall.\nHe screamed with uplifted eyebrows and a wide-open mouth--incredibly\nwide, black, enormous, full of teeth--comical.\n\nIn the still burning air of the windless afternoon he made the waves\nof his agony travel as far as the O. S. N. Company's offices. Captain\nMitchell on the balcony, trying to make out what went on generally, had\nheard him faintly but distinctly, and the feeble and appalling sound\nlingered in his ears after he had retreated indoors with blanched\ncheeks. He had been driven off the balcony several times during that\nafternoon.\n\nSotillo, irritable, moody, walked restlessly about, held consultations\nwith his officers, gave contradictory orders in this shrill clamour\npervading the whole empty edifice. Sometimes there would be long and\nawful silences. Several times he had entered the torture-chamber where\nhis sword, horsewhip, revolver, and field-glass were lying on the table,\nto ask with forced calmness, \"Will you speak the truth now? No? I can\nwait.\" But he could not afford to wait much longer. That was just it.\nEvery time he went in and came out with a slam of the door, the sentry\non the landing presented arms, and got in return a black, venomous,\nunsteady glance, which, in reality, saw nothing at all, being merely the\nreflection of the soul within--a soul of gloomy hatred, irresolution,\navarice, and fury.\n\nThe sun had set when he went in once more. A soldier carried in two\nlighted candles and slunk out, shutting the door without noise.\n\n\"Speak, thou Jewish child of the devil! The silver! The silver, I say!\nWhere is it? Where have you foreign rogues hidden it? Confess or--\"\n\nA slight quiver passed up the taut rope from the racked limbs, but the\nbody of Senor Hirsch, enterprising business man from Esmeralda, hung\nunder the heavy beam perpendicular and silent, facing the colonel\nawfully. The inflow of the night air, cooled by the snows of the Sierra,\nspread gradually a delicious freshness through the close heat of the\nroom.\n\n\"Speak--thief--scoundrel--picaro--or--\"\n\nSotillo had seized the riding-whip, and stood with his arm lifted up.\nFor a word, for one little word, he felt he would have knelt, cringed,\ngrovelled on the floor before the drowsy, conscious stare of those fixed\neyeballs starting out of the grimy, dishevelled head that drooped very\nstill with its mouth closed askew. The colonel ground his teeth with\nrage and struck. The rope vibrated leisurely to the blow, like the long\nstring of a pendulum starting from a rest. But no swinging motion was\nimparted to the body of Senor Hirsch, the well-known hide merchant on\nthe coast. With a convulsive effort of the twisted arms it leaped up a\nfew inches, curling upon itself like a fish on the end of a line. Senor\nHirsch's head was flung back on his straining throat; his chin trembled.\nFor a moment the rattle of his chattering teeth pervaded the vast,\nshadowy room, where the candles made a patch of light round the two\nflames burning side by side. And as Sotillo, staying his raised hand,\nwaited for him to speak, with the sudden flash of a grin and a straining\nforward of the wrenched shoulders, he spat violently into his face.\n\nThe uplifted whip fell, and the colonel sprang back with a low cry of\ndismay, as if aspersed by a jet of deadly venom. Quick as thought he\nsnatched up his revolver, and fired twice. The report and the concussion\nof the shots seemed to throw him at once from ungovernable rage into\nidiotic stupor. He stood with drooping jaw and stony eyes. What had he\ndone, Sangre de Dios! What had he done? He was basely appalled at his\nimpulsive act, sealing for ever these lips from which so much was to\nbe extorted. What could he say? How could he explain? Ideas of headlong\nflight somewhere, anywhere, passed through his mind; even the craven and\nabsurd notion of hiding under the table occurred to his cowardice.\nIt was too late; his officers had rushed in tumultuously, in a great\nclatter of scabbards, clamouring, with astonishment and wonder. But\nsince they did not immediately proceed to plunge their swords into his\nbreast, the brazen side of his character asserted itself. Passing the\nsleeve of his uniform over his face he pulled himself together, His\ntruculent glance turned slowly here and there, checked the noise where\nit fell; and the stiff body of the late Senor Hirsch, merchant, after\nswaying imperceptibly, made a half turn, and came to a rest in the midst\nof awed murmurs and uneasy shuffling.\n\nA voice remarked loudly, \"Behold a man who will never speak again.\" And\nanother, from the back row of faces, timid and pressing, cried out--\n\n\"Why did you kill him, mi colonel?\"\n\n\"Because he has confessed everything,\" answered Sotillo, with the\nhardihood of desperation. He felt himself cornered. He brazened it out\non the strength of his reputation with very fair success. His hearers\nthought him very capable of such an act. They were disposed to believe\nhis flattering tale. There is no credulity so eager and blind as the\ncredulity of covetousness, which, in its universal extent, measures the\nmoral misery and the intellectual destitution of mankind. Ah! he had\nconfessed everything, this fractious Jew, this bribon. Good! Then he\nwas no longer wanted. A sudden dense guffaw was heard from the senior\ncaptain--a big-headed man, with little round eyes and monstrously fat\ncheeks which never moved. The old major, tall and fantastically ragged\nlike a scarecrow, walked round the body of the late Senor Hirsch,\nmuttering to himself with ineffable complacency that like this there was\nno need to guard against any future treacheries of that scoundrel. The\nothers stared, shifting from foot to foot, and whispering short remarks\nto each other.\n\nSotillo buckled on his sword and gave curt, peremptory orders to hasten\nthe retirement decided upon in the afternoon. Sinister, impressive, his\nsombrero pulled right down upon his eyebrows, he marched first through\nthe door in such disorder of mind that he forgot utterly to provide for\nDr. Monygham's possible return. As the officers trooped out after him,\none or two looked back hastily at the late Senor Hirsch, merchant from\nEsmeralda, left swinging rigidly at rest, alone with the two burning\ncandles. In the emptiness of the room the burly shadow of head and\nshoulders on the wall had an air of life.\n\nBelow, the troops fell in silently and moved off by companies without\ndrum or trumpet. The old scarecrow major commanded the rearguard; but\nthe party he left behind with orders to fire the Custom House (and \"burn\nthe carcass of the treacherous Jew where it hung\") failed somehow in\ntheir haste to set the staircase properly alight. The body of the\nlate Senor Hirsch dwelt alone for a time in the dismal solitude of the\nunfinished building, resounding weirdly with sudden slams and clicks\nof doors and latches, with rustling scurries of torn papers, and the\ntremulous sighs that at each gust of wind passed under the high roof.\nThe light of the two candles burning before the perpendicular and\nbreathless immobility of the late Senor Hirsch threw a gleam afar over\nland and water, like a signal in the night. He remained to startle\nNostromo by his presence, and to puzzle Dr. Monygham by the mystery of\nhis atrocious end.\n\n\"But why shot?\" the doctor again asked himself, audibly. This time he\nwas answered by a dry laugh from Nostromo.\n\n\"You seem much concerned at a very natural thing, senor doctor. I wonder\nwhy? It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after\nanother, if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito, or Fuentes, or Gamacho.\nAnd we may even get the estrapade, too, or worse--quien sabe?--with your\npretty tale of the silver you put into Sotillo's head.\"\n\n\"It was in his head already,\" the doctor protested. \"I only--\"\n\n\"Yes. And you only nailed it there so that the devil himself--\"\n\n\"That is precisely what I meant to do,\" caught up the doctor.\n\n\"That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as I say. You are a\ndangerous man.\"\n\nTheir voices, which without rising had been growing quarrelsome, ceased\nsuddenly. The late Senor Hirsch, erect and shadowy against the stars,\nseemed to be waiting attentive, in impartial silence.\n\nBut Dr. Monygham had no mind to quarrel with Nostromo. At this supremely\ncritical point of Sulaco's fortunes it was borne upon him at last that\nthis man was really indispensable, more indispensable than ever the\ninfatuation of Captain Mitchell, his proud discoverer, could conceive;\nfar beyond what Decoud's best dry raillery about \"my illustrious friend,\nthe unique Capataz de Cargadores,\" had ever intended. The fellow was\nunique. He was not \"one in a thousand.\" He was absolutely the only\none. The doctor surrendered. There was something in the genius of that\nGenoese seaman which dominated the destinies of great enterprises and\nof many people, the fortunes of Charles Gould, the fate of an admirable\nwoman. At this last thought the doctor had to clear his throat before he\ncould speak.\n\nIn a completely changed tone he pointed out to the Capataz that, to\nbegin with, he personally ran no great risk. As far as everybody knew he\nwas dead. It was an enormous advantage. He had only to keep out of sight\nin the Casa Viola, where the old Garibaldino was known to be alone--with\nhis dead wife. The servants had all run away. No one would think of\nsearching for him there, or anywhere else on earth, for that matter.\n\n\"That would be very true,\" Nostromo spoke up, bitterly, \"if I had not\nmet you.\"\n\nFor a time the doctor kept silent. \"Do you mean to say that you think I\nmay give you away?\" he asked in an unsteady voice. \"Why? Why should I do\nthat?\"\n\n\"What do I know? Why not? To gain a day perhaps. It would take Sotillo a\nday to give me the estrapade, and try some other things perhaps, before\nhe puts a bullet through my heart--as he did to that poor wretch here.\nWhy not?\"\n\nThe doctor swallowed with difficulty. His throat had gone dry in a\nmoment. It was not from indignation. The doctor, pathetically enough,\nbelieved that he had forfeited the right to be indignant with any\none--for anything. It was simple dread. Had the fellow heard his story\nby some chance? If so, there was an end of his usefulness in that\ndirection. The indispensable man escaped his influence, because of\nthat indelible blot which made him fit for dirty work. A feeling as of\nsickness came upon the doctor. He would have given anything to know, but\nhe dared not clear up the point. The fanaticism of his devotion, fed on\nthe sense of his abasement, hardened his heart in sadness and scorn.\n\n\"Why not, indeed?\" he reechoed, sardonically. \"Then the safe thing for\nyou is to kill me on the spot. I would defend myself. But you may just\nas well know I am going about unarmed.\"\n\n\"Por Dios!\" said the Capataz, passionately. \"You fine people are all\nalike. All dangerous. All betrayers of the poor who are your dogs.\"\n\n\"You do not understand,\" began the doctor, slowly.\n\n\"I understand you all!\" cried the other with a violent movement, as\nshadowy to the doctor's eyes as the persistent immobility of the late\nSenor Hirsch. \"A poor man amongst you has got to look after himself. I\nsay that you do not care for those that serve you. Look at me! After all\nthese years, suddenly, here I find myself like one of these curs that\nbark outside the walls--without a kennel or a dry bone for my teeth.\n_Caramba!_\" But he relented with a contemptuous fairness. \"Of course,\" he\nwent on, quietly, \"I do not suppose that you would hasten to give me\nup to Sotillo, for example. It is not that. It is that I am nothing!\nSuddenly--\" He swung his arm downwards. \"Nothing to any one,\" he\nrepeated.\n\nThe doctor breathed freely. \"Listen, Capataz,\" he said, stretching out\nhis arm almost affectionately towards Nostromo's shoulder. \"I am going\nto tell you a very simple thing. You are safe because you are needed. I\nwould not give you away for any conceivable reason, because I want you.\"\n\nIn the dark Nostromo bit his lip. He had heard enough of that. He knew\nwhat that meant. No more of that for him. But he had to look after\nhimself now, he thought. And he thought, too, that it would not be\nprudent to part in anger from his companion. The doctor, admitted to be\na great healer, had, amongst the populace of Sulaco, the reputation\nof being an evil sort of man. It was based solidly on his personal\nappearance, which was strange, and on his rough ironic manner--proofs\nvisible, sensible, and incontrovertible of the doctor's malevolent\ndisposition. And Nostromo was of the people. So he only grunted\nincredulously.\n\n\"You, to speak plainly, are the only man,\" the doctor pursued. \"It is\nin your power to save this town and . . . everybody from the destructive\nrapacity of men who--\"\n\n\"No, senor,\" said Nostromo, sullenly. \"It is not in my power to get the\ntreasure back for you to give up to Sotillo, or Pedrito, or Gamacho.\nWhat do I know?\"\n\n\"Nobody expects the impossible,\" was the answer.\n\n\"You have said it yourself--nobody,\" muttered Nostromo, in a gloomy,\nthreatening tone.\n\nBut Dr. Monygham, full of hope, disregarded the enigmatic words and the\nthreatening tone. To their eyes, accustomed to obscurity, the late\nSenor Hirsch, growing more distinct, seemed to have come nearer. And\nthe doctor lowered his voice in exposing his scheme as though afraid of\nbeing overheard.\n\nHe was taking the indispensable man into his fullest confidence. Its\nimplied flattery and suggestion of great risks came with a familiar\nsound to the Capataz. His mind, floating in irresolution and discontent,\nrecognized it with bitterness. He understood well that the doctor was\nanxious to save the San Tome mine from annihilation. He would be nothing\nwithout it. It was his interest. Just as it had been the interest of\nSenor Decoud, of the Blancos, and of the Europeans to get his Cargadores\non their side. His thought became arrested upon Decoud. What would\nhappen to him?\n\nNostromo's prolonged silence made the doctor uneasy. He pointed out,\nquite unnecessarily, that though for the present he was safe, he could\nnot live concealed for ever. The choice was between accepting the\nmission to Barrios, with all its dangers and difficulties, and leaving\nSulaco by stealth, ingloriously, in poverty.\n\n\"None of your friends could reward you and protect you just now,\nCapataz. Not even Don Carlos himself.\"\n\n\"I would have none of your protection and none of your rewards. I\nonly wish I could trust your courage and your sense. When I return in\ntriumph, as you say, with Barrios, I may find you all destroyed. You\nhave the knife at your throat now.\"\n\nIt was the doctor's turn to remain silent in the contemplation of\nhorrible contingencies.\n\n\"Well, we would trust your courage and your sense. And you, too, have a\nknife at your throat.\"\n\n\"Ah! And whom am I to thank for that? What are your politics and your\nmines to me--your silver and your constitutions--your Don Carlos this,\nand Don Jose that--\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" burst out the exasperated doctor. \"There are innocent\npeople in danger whose little finger is worth more than you or I and all\nthe Ribierists together. I don't know. You should have asked yourself\nbefore you allowed Decoud to lead you into all this. It was your place\nto think like a man; but if you did not think then, try to act like a\nman now. Did you imagine Decoud cared very much for what would happen to\nyou?\"\n\n\"No more than you care for what will happen to me,\" muttered the other.\n\n\"No; I care for what will happen to you as little as I care for what\nwill happen to myself.\"\n\n\"And all this because you are such a devoted Ribierist?\" Nostromo said\nin an incredulous tone.\n\n\"All this because I am such a devoted Ribierist,\" repeated Dr. Monygham,\ngrimly.\n\nAgain Nostromo, gazing abstractedly at the body of the late Senor\nHirsch, remained silent, thinking that the doctor was a dangerous person\nin more than one sense. It was impossible to trust him.\n\n\"Do you speak in the name of Don Carlos?\" he asked at last.\n\n\"Yes. I do,\" the doctor said, loudly, without hesitation. \"He must come\nforward now. He must,\" he added in a mutter, which Nostromo did not\ncatch.\n\n\"What did you say, senor?\"\n\nThe doctor started. \"I say that you must be true to yourself, Capataz.\nIt would be worse than folly to fail now.\"\n\n\"True to myself,\" repeated Nostromo. \"How do you know that I would\nnot be true to myself if I told you to go to the devil with your\npropositions?\"\n\n\"I do not know. Maybe you would,\" the doctor said, with a roughness of\ntone intended to hide the sinking of his heart and the faltering of his\nvoice. \"All I know is, that you had better get away from here. Some of\nSotillo's men may turn up here looking for me.\"\n\nHe slipped off the table, listening intently. The Capataz, too, stood\nup.\n\n\"Suppose I went to Cayta, what would you do meantime?\" he asked.\n\n\"I would go to Sotillo directly you had left--in the way I am thinking\nof.\"\n\n\"A very good way--if only that engineer-in-chief consents. Remind him,\nsenor, that I looked after the old rich Englishman who pays for the\nrailway, and that I saved the lives of some of his people that time when\na gang of thieves came from the south to wreck one of his pay-trains.\nIt was I who discovered it all at the risk of my life, by pretending to\nenter into their plans. Just as you are doing with Sotillo.\"\n\n\"Yes. Yes, of course. But I can offer him better arguments,\" the doctor\nsaid, hastily. \"Leave it to me.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes! True. I am nothing.\"\n\n\"Not at all. You are everything.\"\n\nThey moved a few paces towards the door. Behind them the late Senor\nHirsch preserved the immobility of a disregarded man.\n\n\"That will be all right. I know what to say to the engineer,\" pursued\nthe doctor, in a low tone. \"My difficulty will be with Sotillo.\"\n\nAnd Dr. Monygham stopped short in the doorway as if intimidated by the\ndifficulty. He had made the sacrifice of his life. He considered this\na fitting opportunity. But he did not want to throw his life away too\nsoon. In his quality of betrayer of Don Carlos' confidence, he would\nhave ultimately to indicate the hiding-place of the treasure. That would\nbe the end of his deception, and the end of himself as well, at the\nhands of the infuriated colonel. He wanted to delay him to the very\nlast moment; and he had been racking his brains to invent some place of\nconcealment at once plausible and difficult of access.\n\nHe imparted his trouble to Nostromo, and concluded--\n\n\"Do you know what, Capataz? I think that when the time comes and some\ninformation must be given, I shall indicate the Great Isabel. That is\nthe best place I can think of. What is the matter?\"\n\nA low exclamation had escaped Nostromo. The doctor waited, surprised,\nand after a moment of profound silence, heard a thick voice stammer out,\n\"Utter folly,\" and stop with a gasp.\n\n\"Why folly?\"\n\n\"Ah! You do not see it,\" began Nostromo, scathingly, gathering scorn as\nhe went on. \"Three men in half an hour would see that no ground had been\ndisturbed anywhere on that island. Do you think that such a treasure can\nbe buried without leaving traces of the work--eh! senor doctor? Why! you\nwould not gain half a day more before having your throat cut by Sotillo.\nThe Isabel! What stupidity! What miserable invention! Ah! you are all\nalike, you fine men of intelligence. All you are fit for is to betray\nmen of the people into undertaking deadly risks for objects that you are\nnot even sure about. If it comes off you get the benefit. If not, then\nit does not matter. He is only a dog. Ah! Madre de Dios, I would--\" He\nshook his fists above his head.\n\nThe doctor was overwhelmed at first by this fierce, hissing vehemence.\n\n\"Well! It seems to me on your own showing that the men of the people\nare no mean fools, too,\" he said, sullenly. \"No, but come. You are so\nclever. Have you a better place?\"\n\nNostromo had calmed down as quickly as he had flared up.\n\n\"I am clever enough for that,\" he said, quietly, almost with\nindifference. \"You want to tell him of a hiding-place big enough to take\ndays in ransacking--a place where a treasure of silver ingots can be\nburied without leaving a sign on the surface.\"\n\n\"And close at hand,\" the doctor put in.\n\n\"Just so, senor. Tell him it is sunk.\"\n\n\"This has the merit of being the truth,\" the doctor said,\ncontemptuously. \"He will not believe it.\"\n\n\"You tell him that it is sunk where he may hope to lay his hands on it,\nand he will believe you quick enough. Tell him it has been sunk in the\nharbour in order to be recovered afterwards by divers. Tell him you\nfound out that I had orders from Don Carlos Gould to lower the cases\nquietly overboard somewhere in a line between the end of the jetty and\nthe entrance. The depth is not too great there. He has no divers, but he\nhas a ship, boats, ropes, chains, sailors--of a sort. Let him fish for\nthe silver. Let him set his fools to drag backwards and forwards and\ncrossways while he sits and watches till his eyes drop out of his head.\"\n\n\"Really, this is an admirable idea,\" muttered the doctor.\n\n\"Si. You tell him that, and see whether he will not believe you! He will\nspend days in rage and torment--and still he will believe. He will have\nno thought for anything else. He will not give up till he is driven\noff--why, he may even forget to kill you. He will neither eat nor sleep.\nHe--\"\n\n\"The very thing! The very thing!\" the doctor repeated in an excited\nwhisper. \"Capataz, I begin to believe that you are a great genius in\nyour way.\"\n\nNostromo had paused; then began again in a changed tone, sombre,\nspeaking to himself as though he had forgotten the doctor's existence.\n\n\"There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man's mind. He\nwill pray and blaspheme and still persevere, and will curse the day he\never heard of it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares,\nstill believing that he missed it only by a foot. He will see it every\ntime he closes his eyes. He will never forget it till he is dead--and\neven then----Doctor, did you ever hear of the miserable gringos on\nAzuera, that cannot die? Ha! ha! Sailors like myself. There is no\ngetting away from a treasure that once fastens upon your mind.\"\n\n\"You are a devil of a man, Capataz. It is the most plausible thing.\"\n\nNostromo pressed his arm.\n\n\"It will be worse for him than thirst at sea or hunger in a town full of\npeople. Do you know what that is? He shall suffer greater torments than\nhe inflicted upon that terrified wretch who had no invention. None!\nnone! Not like me. I could have told Sotillo a deadly tale for very\nlittle pain.\"\n\nHe laughed wildly and turned in the doorway towards the body of the late\nSenor Hirsch, an opaque long blotch in the semi-transparent obscurity\nof the room between the two tall parallelograms of the windows full of\nstars.\n\n\"You man of fear!\" he cried. \"You shall be avenged by me--Nostromo. Out\nof my way, doctor! Stand aside--or, by the suffering soul of a woman\ndead without confession, I will strangle you with my two hands.\"\n\nHe bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt of\nastonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the pursuit. At\nthe bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall, pitching forward on his\nface with a force that would have stunned a spirit less intent upon a\ntask of love and devotion. He was up in a moment, jarred, shaken, with a\nqueer impression of the terrestrial globe having been flung at his head\nin the dark. But it wanted more than that to stop Dr. Monygham's body,\npossessed by the exaltation of self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation,\ndetermined not to lose whatever advantage chance put into its way. He\nran with headlong, tottering swiftness, his arms going like a windmill\nin his effort to keep his balance on his crippled feet. He lost his hat;\nthe tails of his open gaberdine flew behind him. He had no mind to lose\nsight of the indispensable man. But it was a long time, and a long way\nfrom the Custom House, before he managed to seize his arm from behind,\nroughly, out of breath.\n\n\"Stop! Are you mad?\"\n\nAlready Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if checked in\nhis pace by the weariness of irresolution.\n\n\"What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want me for something. Always.\nSiempre Nostromo.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by talking of strangling me?\" panted the doctor.\n\n\"What do I mean? I mean that the king of the devils himself has sent you\nout of this town of cowards and talkers to meet me to-night of all the\nnights of my life.\"\n\nUnder the starry sky the Albergo d'ltalia Una emerged, black and low,\nbreaking the dark level of the plain. Nostromo stopped altogether.\n\n\"The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?\" he added, through his\nclenched teeth.\n\n\"My good man, you drivel. The devil has nothing to do with this. Neither\nhas the town, which you may call by what name you please. But Don Carlos\nGould is neither a coward nor an empty talker. You will admit that?\" He\nwaited. \"Well?\"\n\n\"Could I see Don Carlos?\"\n\n\"Great heavens! No! Why? What for?\" exclaimed the doctor in agitation.\n\"I tell you it is madness. I will not let you go into the town for\nanything.\"\n\n\"I must.\"\n\n\"You must not!\" hissed the doctor, fiercely, almost beside himself with\nthe fear of the man doing away with his usefulness for an imbecile whim\nof some sort. \"I tell you you shall not. I would rather----\"\n\nHe stopped at loss for words, feeling fagged out, powerless, holding on\nto Nostromo's sleeve, absolutely for support after his run.\n\n\"I am betrayed!\" muttered the Capataz to himself; and the doctor, who\noverheard the last word, made an effort to speak calmly.\n\n\"That is exactly what would happen to you. You would be betrayed.\"\n\nHe thought with a sickening dread that the man was so well known that he\ncould not escape recognition. The house of the Senor Administrador was\nbeset by spies, no doubt. And even the very servants of the casa were\nnot to be trusted. \"Reflect, Capataz,\" he said, impressively. . . .\n\"What are you laughing at?\"\n\n\"I am laughing to think that if somebody that did not approve of\nmy presence in town, for instance--you understand, senor doctor--if\nsomebody were to give me up to Pedrito, it would not be beyond my power\nto make friends even with him. It is true. What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"You are a man of infinite resource, Capataz,\" said Dr. Monygham,\ndismally. \"I recognize that. But the town is full of talk about you; and\nthose few Cargadores that are not in hiding with the railway people have\nbeen shouting 'Viva Montero' on the Plaza all day.\"\n\n\"My poor Cargadores!\" muttered Nostromo. \"Betrayed! Betrayed!\"\n\n\"I understand that on the wharf you were pretty free in laying about you\nwith a stick amongst your poor Cargadores,\" the doctor said in a grim\ntone, which showed that he was recovering from his exertions. \"Make no\nmistake. Pedrito is furious at Senor Ribiera's rescue, and at having\nlost the pleasure of shooting Decoud. Already there are rumours in the\ntown of the treasure having been spirited away. To have missed that does\nnot please Pedrito either; but let me tell you that if you had all that\nsilver in your hand for ransom it would not save you.\"\n\nTurning swiftly, and catching the doctor by the shoulders, Nostromo\nthrust his face close to his.\n\n\"Maladetta! You follow me speaking of the treasure. You have sworn my\nruin. You were the last man who looked upon me before I went out with\nit. And Sidoni the engine-driver says you have an evil eye.\"\n\n\"He ought to know. I saved his broken leg for him last year,\" the doctor\nsaid, stoically. He felt on his shoulders the weight of these hands\nfamed amongst the populace for snapping thick ropes and bending\nhorseshoes. \"And to you I offer the best means of saving yourself--let\nme go--and of retrieving your great reputation. You boasted of making\nthe Capataz de Cargadores famous from one end of America to the other\nabout this wretched silver. But I bring you a better opportunity--let me\ngo, hombre!\"\n\nNostromo released him abruptly, and the doctor feared that the\nindispensable man would run off again. But he did not. He walked on\nslowly. The doctor hobbled by his side till, within a stone's throw from\nthe Casa Viola, Nostromo stopped again.\n\nSilent in inhospitable darkness, the Casa Viola seemed to have changed\nits nature; his home appeared to repel him with an air of hopeless and\ninimical mystery. The doctor said--\n\n\"You will be safe there. Go in, Capataz.\"\n\n\"How can I go in?\" Nostromo seemed to ask himself in a low, inward tone.\n\"She cannot unsay what she said, and I cannot undo what I have done.\"\n\n\"I tell you it is all right. Viola is all alone in there. I looked in\nas I came out of the town. You will be perfectly safe in that house till\nyou leave it to make your name famous on the Campo. I am going now to\narrange for your departure with the engineer-in-chief, and I shall bring\nyou news here long before daybreak.\"\n\nDr. Monygham, disregarding, or perhaps fearing to penetrate the meaning\nof Nostromo's silence, clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and starting\noff with his smart, lame walk, vanished utterly at the third or fourth\nhop in the direction of the railway track. Arrested between the two\nwooden posts for people to fasten their horses to, Nostromo did not\nmove, as if he, too, had been planted solidly in the ground. At the end\nof half an hour he lifted his head to the deep baying of the dogs at the\nrailway yards, which had burst out suddenly, tumultuous and deadened as\nif coming from under the plain. That lame doctor with the evil eye had\ngot there pretty fast.\n\nStep by step Nostromo approached the Albergo d'Italia Una, which he had\nnever known so lightless, so silent, before. The door, all black in the\npale wall, stood open as he had left it twenty-four hours before,\nwhen he had nothing to hide from the world. He remained before it,\nirresolute, like a fugitive, like a man betrayed. Poverty, misery,\nstarvation! Where had he heard these words? The anger of a dying woman\nhad prophesied that fate for his folly. It looked as if it would come\ntrue very quickly. And the leperos would laugh--she had said. Yes, they\nwould laugh if they knew that the Capataz de Cargadores was at the mercy\nof the mad doctor whom they could remember, only a few years ago, buying\ncooked food from a stall on the Plaza for a copper coin--like one of\nthemselves.\n\nAt that moment the notion of seeking Captain Mitchell passed through his\nmind. He glanced in the direction of the jetty and saw a small gleam of\nlight in the O.S.N. Company's building. The thought of lighted windows\nwas not attractive. Two lighted windows had decoyed him into the empty\nCustom House, only to fall into the clutches of that doctor. No! He\nwould not go near lighted windows again on that night. Captain Mitchell\nwas there. And what could he be told? That doctor would worm it all out\nof him as if he were a child.\n\nOn the threshold he called out \"Giorgio!\" in an undertone. Nobody\nanswered. He stepped in. \"Ola! viejo! Are you there? . . .\" In the\nimpenetrable darkness his head swam with the illusion that the obscurity\nof the kitchen was as vast as the Placid Gulf, and that the floor dipped\nforward like a sinking lighter. \"Ola! viejo!\" he repeated, falteringly,\nswaying where he stood. His hand, extended to steady himself, fell\nupon the table. Moving a step forward, he shifted it, and felt a box\nof matches under his fingers. He fancied he had heard a quiet sigh. He\nlistened for a moment, holding his breath; then, with trembling hands,\ntried to strike a light.\n\nThe tiny piece of wood flamed up quite blindingly at the end of his\nfingers, raised above his blinking eyes. A concentrated glare fell\nupon the leonine white head of old Giorgio against the black\nfire-place--showed him leaning forward in a chair in staring immobility,\nsurrounded, overhung, by great masses of shadow, his legs crossed, his\ncheek in his hand, an empty pipe in the corner of his mouth. It seemed\nhours before he attempted to turn his face; at the very moment the match\nwent out, and he disappeared, overwhelmed by the shadows, as if the\nwalls and roof of the desolate house had collapsed upon his white head\nin ghostly silence.\n\nNostromo heard him stir and utter dispassionately the words--\n\n\"It may have been a vision.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, softly. \"It is no vision, old man.\"\n\nA strong chest voice asked in the dark--\n\n\"Is that you I hear, Giovann' Battista?\"\n\n\"Si, viejo. Steady. Not so loud.\"\n\nAfter his release by Sotillo, Giorgio Viola, attended to the very door\nby the good-natured engineer-in-chief, had reentered his house, which\nhe had been made to leave almost at the very moment of his wife's death.\nAll was still. The lamp above was burning. He nearly called out to her\nby name; and the thought that no call from him would ever again evoke\nthe answer of her voice, made him drop heavily into the chair with\na loud groan, wrung out by the pain as of a keen blade piercing his\nbreast.\n\nThe rest of the night he made no sound. The darkness turned to grey, and\non the colourless, clear, glassy dawn the jagged sierra stood out flat\nand opaque, as if cut out of paper.\n\nThe enthusiastic and severe soul of Giorgio Viola, sailor, champion of\noppressed humanity, enemy of kings, and, by the grace of Mrs. Gould,\nhotel-keeper of the Sulaco harbour, had descended into the open abyss of\ndesolation amongst the shattered vestiges of his past. He remembered\nhis wooing between two campaigns, a single short week in the season of\ngathering olives. Nothing approached the grave passion of that time but\nthe deep, passionate sense of his bereavement. He discovered all the\nextent of his dependence upon the silenced voice of that woman. It\nwas her voice that he missed. Abstracted, busy, lost in inward\ncontemplation, he seldom looked at his wife in those later years. The\nthought of his girls was a matter of concern, not of consolation. It\nwas her voice that he would miss. And he remembered the other child--the\nlittle boy who died at sea. Ah! a man would have been something to lean\nupon. And, alas! even Gian' Battista--he of whom, and of Linda, his\nwife had spoken to him so anxiously before she dropped off into her last\nsleep on earth, he on whom she had called aloud to save the children,\njust before she died--even he was dead!\n\nAnd the old man, bent forward, his head in his hand, sat through the day\nin immobility and solitude. He never heard the brazen roar of the bells\nin town. When it ceased the earthenware filter in the corner of the\nkitchen kept on its swift musical drip, drip into the great porous jar\nbelow.\n\nTowards sunset he got up, and with slow movements disappeared up the\nnarrow staircase. His bulk filled it; and the rubbing of his shoulders\nmade a small noise as of a mouse running behind the plaster of a wall.\nWhile he remained up there the house was as dumb as a grave. Then,\nwith the same faint rubbing noise, he descended. He had to catch at the\nchairs and tables to regain his seat. He seized his pipe off the\nhigh mantel of the fire-place--but made no attempt to reach the\ntobacco--thrust it empty into the corner of his mouth, and sat down\nagain in the same staring pose. The sun of Pedrito's entry into Sulaco,\nthe last sun of Senor Hirsch's life, the first of Decoud's solitude on\nthe Great Isabel, passed over the Albergo d'ltalia Una on its way to\nthe west. The tinkling drip, drip of the filter had ceased, the lamp\nupstairs had burnt itself out, and the night beset Giorgio Viola and his\ndead wife with its obscurity and silence that seemed invincible till the\nCapataz de Cargadores, returning from the dead, put them to flight with\nthe splutter and flare of a match.\n\n\"Si, viejo. It is me. Wait.\"\n\nNostromo, after barricading the door and closing the shutters carefully,\ngroped upon a shelf for a candle, and lit it.\n\nOld Viola had risen. He followed with his eyes in the dark the sounds\nmade by Nostromo. The light disclosed him standing without support, as\nif the mere presence of that man who was loyal, brave, incorruptible,\nwho was all his son would have been, were enough for the support of his\ndecaying strength.\n\nHe extended his hand grasping the briar-wood pipe, whose bowl was\ncharred on the edge, and knitted his bushy eyebrows heavily at the\nlight.\n\n\"You have returned,\" he said, with shaky dignity. \"Ah! Very well! I----\"\n\nHe broke off. Nostromo, leaning back against the table, his arms folded\non his breast, nodded at him slightly.\n\n\"You thought I was drowned! No! The best dog of the rich, of the\naristocrats, of these fine men who can only talk and betray the people,\nis not dead yet.\"\n\nThe Garibaldino, motionless, seemed to drink in the sound of the\nwell-known voice. His head moved slightly once as if in sign of\napproval; but Nostromo saw clearly that the old man understood nothing\nof the words. There was no one to understand; no one he could take into\nthe confidence of Decoud's fate, of his own, into the secret of the\nsilver. That doctor was an enemy of the people--a tempter. . . .\n\nOld Giorgio's heavy frame shook from head to foot with the effort\nto overcome his emotion at the sight of that man, who had shared the\nintimacies of his domestic life as though he had been a grown-up son.\n\n\"She believed you would return,\" he said, solemnly.\n\nNostromo raised his head.\n\n\"She was a wise woman. How could I fail to come back----?\"\n\nHe finished the thought mentally: \"Since she has prophesied for me an\nend of poverty, misery, and starvation.\" These words of Teresa's anger,\nfrom the circumstances in which they had been uttered, like the cry of\na soul prevented from making its peace with God, stirred the obscure\nsuperstition of personal fortune from which even the greatest genius\namongst men of adventure and action is seldom free. They reigned over\nNostromo's mind with the force of a potent malediction. And what a curse\nit was that which her words had laid upon him! He had been orphaned\nso young that he could remember no other woman whom he called mother.\nHenceforth there would be no enterprise in which he would not fail. The\nspell was working already. Death itself would elude him now. . . . He\nsaid violently--\n\n\"Come, viejo! Get me something to eat. I am hungry! Sangre de Dios! The\nemptiness of my belly makes me lightheaded.\"\n\nWith his chin dropped again upon his bare breast above his folded arms,\nbarefooted, watching from under a gloomy brow the movements of old Viola\nforaging amongst the cupboards, he seemed as if indeed fallen under a\ncurse--a ruined and sinister Capataz.\n\nOld Viola walked out of a dark corner, and, without a word, emptied upon\nthe table out of his hollowed palms a few dry crusts of bread and half a\nraw onion.\n\nWhile the Capataz began to devour this beggar's fare, taking up with\nstony-eyed voracity piece after piece lying by his side, the Garibaldino\nwent off, and squatting down in another corner filled an earthenware mug\nwith red wine out of a wicker-covered demijohn. With a familiar gesture,\nas when serving customers in the cafe, he had thrust his pipe between\nhis teeth to have his hands free.\n\nThe Capataz drank greedily. A slight flush deepened the bronze of his\ncheek. Before him, Viola, with a turn of his white and massive head\ntowards the staircase, took his empty pipe out of his mouth, and\npronounced slowly--\n\n\"After the shot was fired down here, which killed her as surely as if\nthe bullet had struck her oppressed heart, she called upon you to save\nthe children. Upon you, Gian' Battista.\"\n\nThe Capataz looked up.\n\n\"Did she do that, Padrone? To save the children! They are with the\nEnglish senora, their rich benefactress. Hey! old man of the people. Thy\nbenefactress. . . .\"\n\n\"I am old,\" muttered Giorgio Viola. \"An Englishwoman was allowed to give\na bed to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever\nlived. A man of the people, too--a sailor. I may let another keep a\nroof over my head. Si . . . I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long\nsometimes.\"\n\n\"And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are\nout, unless I . . . What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head?\nAm I to try--and save all the Blancos together with her?\"\n\n\"You shall do it,\" said old Viola in a strong voice. \"You shall do it as\nmy son would have. . . .\"\n\n\"Thy son, viejo! .. .. There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I\nmust try. . . . But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me\non? . . . And so she called upon me to save--and then----?\"\n\n\"She spoke no more.\" The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought\nof the eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form\nstretched out on the bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand\nto his furrowed brow. \"She was dead before I could seize her hands,\" he\nstammered out, pitifully.\n\nBefore the wide eyes of the Capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark\nstaircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in\ndistress, freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man.\nIt was impossible for him to do anything. He could only hold his\ntongue, since there was no one to trust. The treasure would be lost,\nprobably--unless Decoud. . . . And his thought came abruptly to an end.\nHe perceived that he could not imagine in the least what Decoud was\nlikely to do.\n\nOld Viola had not stirred. And the motionless Capataz dropped his\nlong, soft eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce,\nblack-whiskered face a touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had\nlasted for a long time.\n\n\"God rest her soul!\" he murmured, gloomily.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nThe next day was quiet in the morning, except for the faint sound of\nfiring to the northward, in the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchell\nhad listened to it from his balcony anxiously. The phrase, \"In\nmy delicate position as the only consular agent then in the port,\neverything, sir, everything was a just cause for anxiety,\" had its place\nin the more or less stereotyped relation of the \"historical events\"\nwhich for the next few years was at the service of distinguished\nstrangers visiting Sulaco. The mention of the dignity and neutrality of\nthe flag, so difficult to preserve in his position, \"right in the\nthick of these events between the lawlessness of that piratical villain\nSotillo and the more regularly established but scarcely less atrocious\ntyranny of his Excellency Don Pedro Montero,\" came next in order.\nCaptain Mitchell was not the man to enlarge upon mere dangers much. But\nhe insisted that it was a memorable day. On that day, towards dusk,\nhe had seen \"that poor fellow of mine--Nostromo. The sailor whom I\ndiscovered, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of the famous ride to\nCayta, sir. An historical event, sir!\"\n\nRegarded by the O. S. N. Company as an old and faithful servant, Captain\nMitchell was allowed to attain the term of his usefulness in ease and\ndignity at the head of the enormously extended service. The augmentation\nof the establishment, with its crowds of clerks, an office in town, the\nold office in the harbour, the division into departments--passenger,\ncargo, lighterage, and so on--secured a greater leisure for his last\nyears in the regenerated Sulaco, the capital of the Occidental Republic.\nLiked by the natives for his good nature and the formality of his\nmanner, self-important and simple, known for years as a \"friend of our\ncountry,\" he felt himself a personality of mark in the town. Getting\nup early for a turn in the market-place while the gigantic shadow of\nHiguerota was still lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up\nwith masses of gorgeous colouring, attending easily to current affairs,\nwelcomed in houses, greeted by ladies on the Alameda, with his\nentry into all the clubs and a footing in the Casa Gould, he led his\nprivileged old bachelor, man-about-town existence with great comfort and\nsolemnity. But on mail-boat days he was down at the Harbour Office at an\nearly hour, with his own gig, manned by a smart crew in white and\nblue, ready to dash off and board the ship directly she showed her bows\nbetween the harbour heads.\n\nIt would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged\npassenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a\nseat for a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell,\nseating himself at his desk, would keep on talking hospitably--\n\n\"There isn't much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall\nbe off in a moment. We'll have lunch at the Amarilla Club--though I\nbelong also to the Anglo-American--mining engineers and business men,\ndon't you know--and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club--English,\nFrench, Italians, all sorts--lively young fellows mostly, who wanted\nto pay a compliment to an old resident, sir. But we'll lunch at the\nAmarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing of the country. Men of the\nfirst families. The President of the Occidental Republic himself belongs\nto it, sir. Fine old bishop with a broken nose in the patio. Remarkable\npiece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti--you know\nParrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor--was working here for two\nyears--thought very highly of our old bishop. . . . There! I am very\nmuch at your service now.\"\n\nProud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical\nimportance of men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky\nperiods, with slight sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing\n\"escape the attention\" of his privileged captive.\n\n\"Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it\nwas a plain of burnt grass smothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-cart\ntrack to our Jetty. Nothing more. This is the Harbour Gate. Picturesque,\nis it not? Formerly the town stopped short there. We enter now the Calle\nde la Constitucion. Observe the old Spanish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I\nsuppose it's just as it was in the time of the Viceroys, except for the\npavement. Wood blocks now. Sulaco National Bank there, with the sentry\nboxes each side of the gate. Casa Avellanos this side, with all the\nground-floor windows shuttered. A wonderful woman lives there--Miss\nAvellanos--the beautiful Antonia. A character, sir! A historical woman!\nOpposite--Casa Gould. Noble gateway. Yes, the Goulds of the original\nGould Concession, that all the world knows of now. I hold seventeen of\nthe thousand-dollar shares in the Consolidated San Tome mines. All the\npoor savings of my lifetime, sir, and it will be enough to keep me in\ncomfort to the end of my days at home when I retire. I got in on the\nground-floor, you see. Don Carlos, great friend of mine. Seventeen\nshares--quite a little fortune to leave behind one, too. I have a\nniece--married a parson--most worthy man, incumbent of a small parish in\nSussex; no end of children. I was never married myself. A sailor should\nexercise self-denial. Standing under that very gateway, sir, with some\nyoung engineer-fellows, ready to defend that house where we had received\nso much kindness and hospitality, I saw the first and last charge of\nPedrito's horsemen upon Barrios's troops, who had just taken the Harbour\nGate. They could not stand the new rifles brought out by that poor\nDecoud. It was a murderous fire. In a moment the street became blocked\nwith a mass of dead men and horses. They never came on again.\"\n\nAnd all day Captain Mitchell would talk like this to his more or less\nwilling victim--\n\n\"The Plaza. I call it magnificent. Twice the area of Trafalgar Square.\"\n\nFrom the very centre, in the blazing sunshine, he pointed out the\nbuildings--\n\n\"The Intendencia, now President's Palace--Cabildo, where the Lower\nChamber of Parliament sits. You notice the new houses on that side\nof the Plaza? Compania Anzani, a great general store, like those\ncooperative things at home. Old Anzani was murdered by the National\nGuards in front of his safe. It was even for that specific crime that\nthe deputy Gamacho, commanding the Nationals, a bloodthirsty and\nsavage brute, was executed publicly by garrotte upon the sentence of\na court-martial ordered by Barrios. Anzani's nephews converted the\nbusiness into a company. All that side of the Plaza had been burnt; used\nto be colonnaded before. A terrible fire, by the light of which I saw\nthe last of the fighting, the llaneros flying, the Nationals throwing\ntheir arms down, and the miners of San Tome, all Indians from the\nSierra, rolling by like a torrent to the sound of pipes and cymbals,\ngreen flags flying, a wild mass of men in white ponchos and green hats,\non foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such a sight, sir, will never be seen\nagain. The miners, sir, had marched upon the town, Don Pepe leading on\nhis black horse, and their very wives in the rear on burros, screaming\nencouragement, sir, and beating tambourines. I remember one of these\nwomen had a green parrot seated on her shoulder, as calm as a bird\nof stone. They had just saved their Senor Administrador; for Barrios,\nthough he ordered the assault at once, at night, too, would have been\ntoo late. Pedrito Montero had Don Carlos led out to be shot--like his\nuncle many years ago--and then, as Barrios said afterwards, 'Sulaco\nwould not have been worth fighting for.' Sulaco without the Concession\nwas nothing; and there were tons and tons of dynamite distributed all\nover the mountain with detonators arranged, and an old priest, Father\nRoman, standing by to annihilate the San Tome mine at the first news of\nfailure. Don Carlos had made up his mind not to leave it behind, and he\nhad the right men to see to it, too.\"\n\nThus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middle of the Plaza, holding\nover his head a white umbrella with a green lining; but inside the\ncathedral, in the dim light, with a faint scent of incense floating in\nthe cool atmosphere, and here and there a kneeling female figure, black\nor all white, with a veiled head, his lowered voice became solemn and\nimpressive.\n\n\"Here,\" he would say, pointing to a niche in the wall of the dusky\naisle, \"you see the bust of Don Jose Avellanos, 'Patriot and Statesman,'\nas the inscription says, 'Minister to Courts of England and Spain, etc.,\netc., died in the woods of Los Hatos worn out with his lifelong struggle\nfor Right and Justice at the dawn of the New Era.' A fair likeness.\nParrochetti's work from some old photographs and a pencil sketch by Mrs.\nGould. I was well acquainted with that distinguished Spanish-American of\nthe old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everybody who knew him.\nThe marble medallion in the wall, in the antique style, representing\na veiled woman seated with her hands clasped loosely over her knees,\ncommemorates that unfortunate young gentleman who sailed out with\nNostromo on that fatal night, sir. See, 'To the memory of Martin Decoud,\nhis betrothed Antonia Avellanos.' Frank, simple, noble. There you have\nthat lady, sir, as she is. An exceptional woman. Those who thought she\nwould give way to despair were mistaken, sir. She has been blamed in\nmany quarters for not having taken the veil. It was expected of her. But\nDona Antonia is not the stuff they make nuns of. Bishop Corbelan, her\nuncle, lives with her in the Corbelan town house. He is a fierce sort of\npriest, everlastingly worrying the Government about the old Church lands\nand convents. I believe they think a lot of him in Rome. Now let us go\nto the Amarilla Club, just across the Plaza, to get some lunch.\"\n\nDirectly outside the cathedral on the very top of the noble flight\nof steps, his voice rose pompously, his arm found again its sweeping\ngesture.\n\n\"Porvenir, over there on that first floor, above those French\nplate-glass shop-fronts; our biggest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I\nshould say, Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentary party here of which\nthe actual Chief of the State, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very\nsagacious man, I think. A first-rate intellect, sir. The Democratic\nparty in opposition rests mostly, I am sorry to say, on these\nsocialistic Italians, sir, with their secret societies, camorras, and\nsuch-like. There are lots of Italians settled here on the railway lands,\ndismissed navvies, mechanics, and so on, all along the trunk line. There\nare whole villages of Italians on the Campo. And the natives, too, are\nbeing drawn into these ways . . . American bar? Yes. And over there you\ncan see another. New Yorkers mostly frequent that one----Here we are at\nthe Amarilla. Observe the bishop at the foot of the stairs to the right\nas we go in.\"\n\nAnd the lunch would begin and terminate its lavish and leisurely course\nat a little table in the gallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing,\ngetting up to speak for a moment to different officials in black\nclothes, merchants in jackets, officers in uniform, middle-aged\ncaballeros from the Campo--sallow, little, nervous men, and fat, placid,\nswarthy men, and Europeans or North Americans of superior standing,\nwhose faces looked very white amongst the majority of dark complexions\nand black, glistening eyes.\n\nCaptain Mitchell would lie back in the chair, casting around looks of\nsatisfaction, and tender over the table a case full of thick cigars.\n\n\"Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco. The black coffee you get at\nthe Amarilla, sir, you don't meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean\nfrom a famous cafeteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sends three sacks\nevery year as a present to his fellow members in remembrance of the\nfight against Gamacho's Nationals, carried on from these very windows by\nthe caballeros. He was in town at the time, and took part, sir, to the\nbitter end. It arrives on three mules--not in the common way, by rail;\nno fear!--right into the patio, escorted by mounted peons, in charge of\nthe Mayoral of his estate, who walks upstairs, booted and spurred, and\ndelivers it to our committee formally with the words, 'For the sake of\nthose fallen on the third of May.' We call it Tres de Mayo coffee. Taste\nit.\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell, with an expression as though making ready to hear a\nsermon in a church, would lift the tiny cup to his lips. And the nectar\nwould be sipped to the bottom during a restful silence in a cloud of\ncigar smoke.\n\n\"Look at this man in black just going out,\" he would begin, leaning\nforward hastily. \"This is the famous Hernandez, Minister of War. The\nTimes' special correspondent, who wrote that striking series of letters\ncalling the Occidental Republic the 'Treasure House of the World,' gave\na whole article to him and the force he has organized--the renowned\nCarabineers of the Campo.\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell's guest, staring curiously, would see a figure in a\nlong-tailed black coat walking gravely, with downcast eyelids in a long,\ncomposed face, a brow furrowed horizontally, a pointed head, whose grey\nhair, thin at the top, combed down carefully on all sides and rolled at\nthe ends, fell low on the neck and shoulders. This, then, was the famous\nbandit of whom Europe had heard with interest. He put on a high-crowned\nsombrero with a wide flat brim; a rosary of wooden beads was twisted\nabout his right wrist. And Captain Mitchell would proceed--\n\n\"The protector of the Sulaco refugees from the rage of Pedrito. As\ngeneral of cavalry with Barrios he distinguished himself at the storming\nof Tonoro, where Senor Fuentes was killed with the last remnant of the\nMonterists. He is the friend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelan.\nHears three Masses every day. I bet you he will step into the cathedral\nto say a prayer or two on his way home to his siesta.\"\n\nHe took several puffs at his cigar in silence; then, in his most\nimportant manner, pronounced:\n\n\"The Spanish race, sir, is prolific of remarkable characters in every\nrank of life. . . . I propose we go now into the billiard-room, which is\ncool, for a quiet chat. There's never anybody there till after five.\nI could tell you episodes of the Separationist revolution that would\nastonish you. When the great heat's over, we'll take a turn on the\nAlameda.\"\n\nThe programme went on relentless, like a law of Nature. The turn on the\nAlameda was taken with slow steps and stately remarks.\n\n\"All the great world of Sulaco here, sir.\" Captain Mitchell bowed right\nand left with no end of formality; then with animation, \"Dona Emilia,\nMrs. Gould's carriage. Look. Always white mules. The kindest, most\ngracious woman the sun ever shone upon. A great position, sir. A great\nposition. First lady in Sulaco--far before the President's wife. And\nworthy of it.\" He took off his hat; then, with a studied change of tone,\nadded, negligently, that the man in black by her side, with a high white\ncollar and a scarred, snarly face, was Dr. Monygham, Inspector of State\nHospitals, chief medical officer of the Consolidated San Tome mines. \"A\nfamiliar of the house. Everlastingly there. No wonder. The Goulds made\nhim. Very clever man and all that, but I never liked him. Nobody does. I\ncan recollect him limping about the streets in a check shirt and native\nsandals with a watermelon under his arm--all he would get to eat for the\nday. A big-wig now, sir, and as nasty as ever. However . . . There's no\ndoubt he played his part fairly well at the time. He saved us all from\nthe deadly incubus of Sotillo, where a more particular man might have\nfailed----\"\n\nHis arm went up.\n\n\"The equestrian statue that used to stand on the pedestal over there\nhas been removed. It was an anachronism,\" Captain Mitchell commented,\nobscurely. \"There is some talk of replacing it by a marble shaft\ncommemorative of Separation, with angels of peace at the four corners,\nand bronze Justice holding an even balance, all gilt, on the top.\nCavaliere Parrochetti was asked to make a design, which you can see\nframed under glass in the Municipal Sala. Names are to be engraved all\nround the base. Well! They could do no better than begin with the name\nof Nostromo. He has done for Separation as much as anybody else, and,\"\nadded Captain Mitchell, \"has got less than many others by it--when it\ncomes to that.\" He dropped on to a stone seat under a tree, and tapped\ninvitingly at the place by his side. \"He carried to Barrios the letters\nfrom Sulaco which decided the General to abandon Cayta for a time, and\ncome back to our help here by sea. The transports were still in harbour\nfortunately. Sir, I did not even know that my Capataz de Cargadores was\nalive. I had no idea. It was Dr. Monygham who came upon him, by chance,\nin the Custom House, evacuated an hour or two before by the wretched\nSotillo. I was never told; never given a hint, nothing--as if I were\nunworthy of confidence. Monygham arranged it all. He went to the railway\nyards, and got admission to the engineer-in-chief, who, for the sake of\nthe Goulds as much as for anything else, consented to let an engine\nmake a dash down the line, one hundred and eighty miles, with Nostromo\naboard. It was the only way to get him off. In the Construction Camp\nat the railhead, he obtained a horse, arms, some clothing, and started\nalone on that marvellous ride--four hundred miles in six days, through\na disturbed country, ending by the feat of passing through the Monterist\nlines outside Cayta. The history of that ride, sir, would make a\nmost exciting book. He carried all our lives in his pocket. Devotion,\ncourage, fidelity, intelligence were not enough. Of course, he was\nperfectly fearless and incorruptible. But a man was wanted that would\nknow how to succeed. He was that man, sir. On the fifth of May, being\npractically a prisoner in the Harbour Office of my Company, I suddenly\nheard the whistle of an engine in the railway yards, a quarter of a mile\naway. I could not believe my ears. I made one jump on to the balcony,\nand beheld a locomotive under a great head of steam run out of the yard\ngates, screeching like mad, enveloped in a white cloud, and then, just\nabreast of old Viola's inn, check almost to a standstill. I made out,\nsir, a man--I couldn't tell who--dash out of the Albergo d'ltalia Una,\nclimb into the cab, and then, sir, that engine seemed positively to leap\nclear of the house, and was gone in the twinkling of an eye. As you blow\na candle out, sir! There was a first-rate driver on the foot-plate, sir,\nI can tell you. They were fired heavily upon by the National Guards in\nRincon and one other place. Fortunately the line had not been torn\nup. In four hours they reached the Construction Camp. Nostromo had his\nstart. . . . The rest you know. You've got only to look round you. There\nare people on this Alameda that ride in their carriages, or even are\nalive at all to-day, because years ago I engaged a runaway Italian\nsailor for a foreman of our wharf simply on the strength of his looks.\nAnd that's a fact. You can't get over it, sir. On the seventeenth of\nMay, just twelve days after I saw the man from the Casa Viola get on the\nengine, and wondered what it meant, Barrios's transports were entering\nthis harbour, and the 'Treasure House of the World,' as The Times man\ncalls Sulaco in his book, was saved intact for civilization--for a\ngreat future, sir. Pedrito, with Hernandez on the west, and the San Tome\nminers pressing on the land gate, was not able to oppose the landing. He\nhad been sending messages to Sotillo for a week to join him. Had Sotillo\ndone so there would have been massacres and proscription that would have\nleft no man or woman of position alive. But that's where Dr. Monygham\ncomes in. Sotillo, blind and deaf to everything, stuck on board his\nsteamer watching the dragging for silver, which he believed to be sunk\nat the bottom of the harbour. They say that for the last three days he\nwas out of his mind raving and foaming with disappointment at getting\nnothing, flying about the deck, and yelling curses at the boats with the\ndrags, ordering them in, and then suddenly stamping his foot and crying\nout, 'And yet it is there! I see it! I feel it!'\n\n\"He was preparing to hang Dr. Monygham (whom he had on board) at the end\nof the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios's transports, one of our\nown ships at that, steamed right in, and ranging close alongside opened\na small-arm fire without as much preliminaries as a hail. It was the\ncompletest surprise in the world, sir. They were too astounded at first\nto bolt below. Men were falling right and left like ninepins. It's a\nmiracle that Monygham, standing on the after-hatch with the rope already\nround his neck, escaped being riddled through and through like a sieve.\nHe told me since that he had given himself up for lost, and kept on\nyelling with all the strength of his lungs: 'Hoist a white flag! Hoist\na white flag!' Suddenly an old major of the Esmeralda regiment, standing\nby, unsheathed his sword with a shriek: 'Die, perjured traitor!' and ran\nSotillo clean through the body, just before he fell himself shot through\nthe head.\"\n\nCaptain Mitchell stopped for a while.\n\n\"Begad, sir! I could spin you a yarn for hours. But it's time we started\noff to Rincon. It would not do for you to pass through Sulaco and not\nsee the lights of the San Tome mine, a whole mountain ablaze like a\nlighted palace above the dark Campo. It's a fashionable drive. . . . But\nlet me tell you one little anecdote, sir; just to show you. A fortnight\nor more later, when Barrios, declared Generalissimo, was gone in pursuit\nof Pedrito away south, when the Provisional Junta, with Don Juste Lopez\nat its head, had promulgated the new Constitution, and our Don Carlos\nGould was packing up his trunks bound on a mission to San Francisco\nand Washington (the United States, sir, were the first great power to\nrecognize the Occidental Republic)--a fortnight later, I say, when we\nwere beginning to feel that our heads were safe on our shoulders, if\nI may express myself so, a prominent man, a large shipper by our line,\ncame to see me on business, and, says he, the first thing: 'I say,\nCaptain Mitchell, is that fellow' (meaning Nostromo) 'still the Capataz\nof your Cargadores or not?' 'What's the matter?' says I. 'Because, if\nhe is, then I don't mind; I send and receive a good lot of cargo by your\nships; but I have observed him several days loafing about the wharf,\nand just now he stopped me as cool as you please, with a request for a\ncigar. Now, you know, my cigars are rather special, and I can't get them\nso easily as all that.' 'I hope you stretched a point,' I said,\nvery gently. 'Why, yes. But it's a confounded nuisance. The fellow's\neverlastingly cadging for smokes.' Sir, I turned my eyes away, and then\nasked, 'Weren't you one of the prisoners in the Cabildo?' 'You know very\nwell I was, and in chains, too,' says he. 'And under a fine of fifteen\nthousand dollars?' He coloured, sir, because it got about that he\nfainted from fright when they came to arrest him, and then behaved\nbefore Fuentes in a manner to make the very policianos, who had dragged\nhim there by the hair of his head, smile at his cringing. 'Yes,' he\nsays, in a sort of shy way. 'Why?' 'Oh, nothing. You stood to lose a\ntidy bit,' says I, 'even if you saved your life. . . . But what can I do\nfor you?' He never even saw the point. Not he. And that's how the world\nwags, sir.\"\n\nHe rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rincon would be taken with\nonly one philosophical remark, uttered by the merciless cicerone, with\nhis eyes fixed upon the lights of San Tome, that seemed suspended in the\ndark night between earth and heaven.\n\n\"A great power, this, for good and evil, sir. A great power.\"\n\nAnd the dinner of the Mirliflores would be eaten, excellent as to\ncooking, and leaving upon the traveller's mind an impression that there\nwere in Sulaco many pleasant, able young men with salaries apparently\ntoo large for their discretion, and amongst them a few, mostly\nAnglo-Saxon, skilled in the art of, as the saying is, \"taking a rise\"\nout of his kind host.\n\nWith a rapid, jingling drive to the harbour in a two-wheeled machine\n(which Captain Mitchell called a curricle) behind a fleet and scraggy\nmule beaten all the time by an obviously Neapolitan driver, the cycle\nwould be nearly closed before the lighted-up offices of the O. S. N.\nCompany, remaining open so late because of the steamer. Nearly--but not\nquite.\n\n\"Ten o'clock. Your ship won't be ready to leave till half-past twelve,\nif by then. Come in for a brandy-and-soda and one more cigar.\"\n\nAnd in the superintendent's private room the privileged passenger by the\nCeres, or Juno, or Pallas, stunned and as it were annihilated mentally\nby a sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, names, facts, and complicated\ninformation imperfectly apprehended, would listen like a tired child\nto a fairy tale; would hear a voice, familiar and surprising in its\npompousness, tell him, as if from another world, how there was \"in this\nvery harbour\" an international naval demonstration, which put an end to\nthe Costaguana-Sulaco War. How the United States cruiser, Powhattan, was\nthe first to salute the Occidental flag--white, with a wreath of green\nlaurel in the middle encircling a yellow amarilla flower. Would hear how\nGeneral Montero, in less than a month after proclaiming himself Emperor\nof Costaguana, was shot dead (during a solemn and public distribution\nof orders and crosses) by a young artillery officer, the brother of his\nthen mistress.\n\n\"The abominable Pedrito, sir, fled the country,\" the voice would say.\nAnd it would continue: \"A captain of one of our ships told me lately\nthat he recognized Pedrito the Guerrillero, arrayed in purple slippers\nand a velvet smoking-cap with a gold tassel, keeping a disorderly house\nin one of the southern ports.\"\n\n\"Abominable Pedrito! Who the devil was he?\" would wonder the\ndistinguished bird of passage hovering on the confines of waking and\nsleep with resolutely open eyes and a faint but amiable curl upon his\nlips, from between which stuck out the eighteenth or twentieth cigar of\nthat memorable day.\n\n\"He appeared to me in this very room like a haunting ghost,\nsir\"--Captain Mitchell was talking of his Nostromo with true warmth of\nfeeling and a touch of wistful pride. \"You may imagine, sir, what an\neffect it produced on me. He had come round by sea with Barrios, of\ncourse. And the first thing he told me after I became fit to hear him\nwas that he had picked up the lighter's boat floating in the gulf!\nHe seemed quite overcome by the circumstance. And a remarkable enough\ncircumstance it was, when you remember that it was then sixteen days\nsince the sinking of the silver. At once I could see he was another man.\nHe stared at the wall, sir, as if there had been a spider or something\nrunning about there. The loss of the silver preyed on his mind. The\nfirst thing he asked me about was whether Dona Antonia had heard yet of\nDecoud's death. His voice trembled. I had to tell him that Dona Antonia,\nas a matter of fact, was not back in town yet. Poor girl! And just as I\nwas making ready to ask him a thousand questions, with a sudden, 'Pardon\nme, senor,' he cleared out of the office altogether. I did not see him\nagain for three days. I was terribly busy, you know. It seems that he\nwandered about in and out of the town, and on two nights turned up\nto sleep in the baracoons of the railway people. He seemed absolutely\nindifferent to what went on. I asked him on the wharf, 'When are you\ngoing to take hold again, Nostromo? There will be plenty of work for the\nCargadores presently.'\n\n\"'Senor,' says he, looking at me in a slow, inquisitive manner, 'would\nit surprise you to hear that I am too tired to work just yet? And what\nwork could I do now? How can I look my Cargadores in the face after\nlosing a lighter?'\n\n\"I begged him not to think any more about the silver, and he smiled. A\nsmile that went to my heart, sir. 'It was no mistake,' I told him. 'It\nwas a fatality. A thing that could not be helped.' 'Si, si!\" he said,\nand turned away. I thought it best to leave him alone for a bit to get\nover it. Sir, it took him years really, to get over it. I was present\nat his interview with Don Carlos. I must say that Gould is rather a cold\nman. He had to keep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing with thieves\nand rascals, in constant danger of ruin for himself and wife for so many\nyears, that it had become a second nature. They looked at each other for\na long time. Don Carlos asked what he could do for him, in his quiet,\nreserved way.\n\n\"'My name is known from one end of Sulaco to the other,' he said, as\nquiet as the other. 'What more can you do for me?' That was all that\npassed on that occasion. Later, however, there was a very fine coasting\nschooner for sale, and Mrs. Gould and I put our heads together to get\nher bought and presented to him. It was done, but he paid all the price\nback within the next three years. Business was booming all along this\nseaboard, sir. Moreover, that man always succeeded in everything\nexcept in saving the silver. Poor Dona Antonia, fresh from her terrible\nexperiences in the woods of Los Hatos, had an interview with him, too.\nWanted to hear about Decoud: what they said, what they did, what they\nthought up to the last on that fatal night. Mrs. Gould told me his\nmanner was perfect for quietness and sympathy. Miss Avellanos burst into\ntears only when he told her how Decoud had happened to say that his plan\nwould be a glorious success. . . . And there's no doubt, sir, that it\nis. It is a success.\"\n\nThe cycle was about to close at last. And while the privileged\npassenger, shivering with the pleasant anticipations of his berth,\nforgot to ask himself, \"What on earth Decoud's plan could be?\" Captain\nMitchell was saying, \"Sorry we must part so soon. Your intelligent\ninterest made this a pleasant day to me. I shall see you now on board.\nYou had a glimpse of the 'Treasure House of the World.' A very good name\nthat.\" And the coxswain's voice at the door, announcing that the gig was\nready, closed the cycle.\n\nNostromo had, indeed, found the lighter's boat, which he had left on\nthe Great Isabel with Decoud, floating empty far out in the gulf. He was\nthen on the bridge of the first of Barrios's transports, and within an\nhour's steaming from Sulaco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat of\ndaring and a good judge of courage, had taken a great liking to the\nCapataz. During the passage round the coast the General kept Nostromo\nnear his person, addressing him frequently in that abrupt and boisterous\nmanner which was the sign of his high favour.\n\nNostromo's eyes were the first to catch, broad on the bow, the tiny,\nelusive dark speck, which, alone with the forms of the Three Isabels\nright ahead, appeared on the flat, shimmering emptiness of the gulf.\nThere are times when no fact should be neglected as insignificant;\na small boat so far from the land might have had some meaning worth\nfinding out. At a nod of consent from Barrios the transport swept out\nof her course, passing near enough to ascertain that no one manned the\nlittle cockle-shell. It was merely a common small boat gone adrift with\nher oars in her. But Nostromo, to whose mind Decoud had been insistently\npresent for days, had long before recognized with excitement the dinghy\nof the lighter.\n\nThere could be no question of stopping to pick up that thing. Every\nminute of time was momentous with the lives and futures of a whole town.\nThe head of the leading ship, with the General on board, fell off to her\ncourse. Behind her, the fleet of transports, scattered haphazard over a\nmile or so in the offing, like the finish of an ocean race, pressed on,\nall black and smoking on the western sky.\n\n\"Mi General,\" Nostromo's voice rang out loud, but quiet, from behind a\ngroup of officers, \"I should like to save that little boat. Por Dios, I\nknow her. She belongs to my Company.\"\n\n\"And, por Dios,\" guffawed Barrios, in a noisy, good-humoured voice, \"you\nbelong to me. I am going to make you a captain of cavalry directly we\nget within sight of a horse again.\"\n\n\"I can swim far better than I can ride, mi General,\" cried Nostromo,\npushing through to the rail with a set stare in his eyes. \"Let me----\"\n\n\"Let you? What a conceited fellow that is,\" bantered the General,\njovially, without even looking at him. \"Let him go! Ha! ha! ha! He wants\nme to admit that we cannot take Sulaco without him! Ha! ha! ha! Would\nyou like to swim off to her, my son?\"\n\nA tremendous shout from one end of the ship to the other stopped his\nguffaw. Nostromo had leaped overboard; and his black head bobbed up far\naway already from the ship. The General muttered an appalled \"Cielo!\nSinner that I am!\" in a thunderstruck tone. One anxious glance was\nenough to show him that Nostromo was swimming with perfect ease; and\nthen he thundered terribly, \"No! no! We shall not stop to pick up this\nimpertinent fellow. Let him drown--that mad Capataz.\"\n\nNothing short of main force would have kept Nostromo from leaping\noverboard. That empty boat, coming out to meet him mysteriously, as if\nrowed by an invisible spectre, exercised the fascination of some sign,\nof some warning, seemed to answer in a startling and enigmatic way the\npersistent thought of a treasure and of a man's fate. He would have\nleaped if there had been death in that half-mile of water. It was as\nsmooth as a pond, and for some reason sharks are unknown in the Placid\nGulf, though on the other side of the Punta Mala the coastline swarms\nwith them.\n\nThe Capataz seized hold of the stern and blew with force. A queer, faint\nfeeling had come over him while he swam. He had got rid of his boots and\ncoat in the water. He hung on for a time, regaining his breath. In\nthe distance the transports, more in a bunch now, held on straight for\nSulaco, with their air of friendly contest, of nautical sport, of\na regatta; and the united smoke of their funnels drove like a thin,\nsulphurous fogbank right over his head. It was his daring, his courage,\nhis act that had set these ships in motion upon the sea, hurrying on\nto save the lives and fortunes of the Blancos, the taskmasters of the\npeople; to save the San Tome mine; to save the children.\n\nWith a vigorous and skilful effort he clambered over the stern. The\nvery boat! No doubt of it; no doubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the\nlighter No. 3--the dinghy left with Martin Decoud on the Great Isabel so\nthat he should have some means to help himself if nothing could be done\nfor him from the shore. And here she had come out to meet him empty\nand inexplicable. What had become of Decoud? The Capataz made a minute\nexamination. He looked for some scratch, for some mark, for some sign.\nAll he discovered was a brown stain on the gunwale abreast of the\nthwart. He bent his face over it and rubbed hard with his finger. Then\nhe sat down in the stern sheets, passive, with his knees close together\nand legs aslant.\n\nStreaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank\nand dripping and a lustreless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, the\nCapataz of the Sulaco Cargadores resembled a drowned corpse come up from\nthe bottom to idle away the sunset hour in a small boat. The excitement\nof his adventurous ride, the excitement of the return in time,\nof achievement, of success, all this excitement centred round the\nassociated ideas of the great treasure and of the only other man who\nknew of its existence, had departed from him. To the very last moment\nhe had been cudgelling his brains as to how he could manage to visit\nthe Great Isabel without loss of time and undetected. For the idea of\nsecrecy had come to be connected with the treasure so closely that even\nto Barrios himself he had refrained from mentioning the existence of\nDecoud and of the silver on the island. The letters he carried to the\nGeneral, however, made brief mention of the loss of the lighter, as\nhaving its bearing upon the situation in Sulaco. In the circumstances,\nthe one-eyed tiger-slayer, scenting battle from afar, had not wasted his\ntime in making inquiries from the messenger. In fact, Barrios, talking\nwith Nostromo, assumed that both Don Martin Decoud and the ingots of San\nTome were lost together, and Nostromo, not questioned directly, had kept\nsilent, under the influence of some indefinable form of resentment and\ndistrust. Let Don Martin speak of everything with his own lips--was what\nhe told himself mentally.\n\nAnd now, with the means of gaining the Great Isabel thrown thus in his\nway at the earliest possible moment, his excitement had departed, as\nwhen the soul takes flight leaving the body inert upon an earth it knows\nno more. Nostromo did not seem to know the gulf. For a long time even\nhis eyelids did not flutter once upon the glazed emptiness of his stare.\nThen slowly, without a limb having stirred, without a twitch of muscle\nor quiver of an eyelash, an expression, a living expression came upon\nthe still features, deep thought crept into the empty stare--as if an\noutcast soul, a quiet, brooding soul, finding that untenanted body in\nits way, had come in stealthily to take possession.\n\nThe Capataz frowned: and in the immense stillness of sea, islands, and\ncoast, of cloud forms on the sky and trails of light upon the water, the\nknitting of that brow had the emphasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing\nelse budged for a long time; then the Capataz shook his head and again\nsurrendered himself to the universal repose of all visible things.\nSuddenly he seized the oars, and with one movement made the dinghy spin\nround, head-on to the Great Isabel. But before he began to pull he bent\nonce more over the brown stain on the gunwale.\n\n\"I know that thing,\" he muttered to himself, with a sagacious jerk of\nthe head. \"That's blood.\"\n\nHis stroke was long, vigorous, and steady. Now and then he looked\nover his shoulder at the Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to his\nanxious gaze like an impenetrable face. At last the stem touched the\nstrand. He flung rather than dragged the boat up the little beach. At\nonce, turning his back upon the sunset, he plunged with long strides\ninto the ravine, making the water of the stream spurt and fly upwards at\nevery step, as if spurning its shallow, clear, murmuring spirit with his\nfeet. He wanted to save every moment of daylight.\n\nA mass of earth, grass, and smashed bushes had fallen down very\nnaturally from above upon the cavity under the leaning tree. Decoud had\nattended to the concealment of the silver as instructed, using the spade\nwith some intelligence. But Nostromo's half-smile of approval changed\ninto a scornful curl of the lip by the sight of the spade itself flung\nthere in full view, as if in utter carelessness or sudden panic, giving\naway the whole thing. Ah! They were all alike in their folly, these\nhombres finos that invented laws and governments and barren tasks for\nthe people.\n\nThe Capataz picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his\npalm the desire of having a look at the horse-hide boxes of treasure\ncame upon him suddenly. In a very few strokes he uncovered the edges and\ncorners of several; then, clearing away more earth, became aware that\none of them had been slashed with a knife.\n\nHe exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voice, and dropped on his\nknees with a look of irrational apprehension over one shoulder, then\nover the other. The stiff hide had closed, and he hesitated before he\npushed his hand through the long slit and felt the ingots inside. There\nthey were. One, two, three. Yes, four gone. Taken away. Four ingots.\nBut who? Decoud? Nobody else. And why? For what purpose? For what cursed\nfancy? Let him explain. Four ingots carried off in a boat, and--blood!\n\nIn the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, unclouded, unaltered,\nplunged into the waters in a grave and untroubled mystery of\nself-immolation consummated far from all mortal eyes, with an infinite\nmajesty of silence and peace. Four ingots short!--and blood!\n\nThe Capataz got up slowly.\n\n\"He might simply have cut his hand,\" he muttered. \"But, then----\"\n\nHe sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as if he had been chained\nto the treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air of\nhopeless submission, like a slave set on guard. Once only he lifted his\nhead smartly: the rattle of hot musketry fire had reached his ears, like\npouring from on high a stream of dry peas upon a drum. After listening\nfor a while, he said, half aloud--\n\n\"He will never come back to explain.\"\n\nAnd he lowered his head again.\n\n\"Impossible!\" he muttered, gloomily.\n\nThe sounds of firing died out. The loom of a great conflagration in\nSulaco flashed up red above the coast, played on the clouds at the head\nof the gulf, seemed to touch with a ruddy and sinister reflection the\nforms of the Three Isabels. He never saw it, though he raised his head.\n\n\"But, then, I cannot know,\" he pronounced, distinctly, and remained\nsilent and staring for hours.\n\nHe could not know. Nobody was to know. As might have been supposed, the\nend of Don Martin Decoud never became a subject of speculation for any\none except Nostromo. Had the truth of the facts been known, there would\nalways have remained the question. Why? Whereas the version of his death\nat the sinking of the lighter had no uncertainty of motive. The young\napostle of Separation had died striving for his idea by an ever-lamented\naccident. But the truth was that he died from solitude, the enemy known\nbut to few on this earth, and whom only the simplest of us are fit to\nwithstand. The brilliant Costaguanero of the boulevards had died from\nsolitude and want of faith in himself and others.\n\nFor some good and valid reasons beyond mere human comprehension, the\nsea-birds of the gulf shun the Isabels. The rocky head of Azuera is\ntheir haunt, whose stony levels and chasms resound with their wild\nand tumultuous clamour as if they were for ever quarrelling over the\nlegendary treasure.\n\nAt the end of his first day on the Great Isabel, Decoud, turning in his\nlair of coarse grass, under the shade of a tree, said to himself--\n\n\"I have not seen as much as one single bird all day.\"\n\nAnd he had not heard a sound, either, all day but that one now of his\nown muttering voice. It had been a day of absolute silence--the first\nhe had known in his life. And he had not slept a wink. Not for all these\nwakeful nights and the days of fighting, planning, talking; not for all\nthat last night of danger and hard physical toil upon the gulf, had he\nbeen able to close his eyes for a moment. And yet from sunrise to sunset\nhe had been lying prone on the ground, either on his back or on his\nface.\n\nHe stretched himself, and with slow steps descended into the gully to\nspend the night by the side of the silver. If Nostromo returned--as he\nmight have done at any moment--it was there that he would look first;\nand night would, of course, be the proper time for an attempt to\ncommunicate. He remembered with profound indifference that he had not\neaten anything yet since he had been left alone on the island.\n\nHe spent the night open-eyed, and when the day broke he ate something\nwith the same indifference. The brilliant \"Son Decoud,\" the spoiled\ndarling of the family, the lover of Antonia and journalist of Sulaco,\nwas not fit to grapple with himself single-handed. Solitude from mere\noutward condition of existence becomes very swiftly a state of soul in\nwhich the affectations of irony and scepticism have no place. It takes\npossession of the mind, and drives forth the thought into the exile of\nutter unbelief. After three days of waiting for the sight of some\nhuman face, Decoud caught himself entertaining a doubt of his own\nindividuality. It had merged into the world of cloud and water, of\nnatural forces and forms of nature. In our activity alone do we find\nthe sustaining illusion of an independent existence as against the\nwhole scheme of things of which we form a helpless part. Decoud lost all\nbelief in the reality of his action past and to come. On the fifth day\nan immense melancholy descended upon him palpably. He resolved not to\ngive himself up to these people in Sulaco, who had beset him, unreal and\nterrible, like jibbering and obscene spectres. He saw himself struggling\nfeebly in their midst, and Antonia, gigantic and lovely like an\nallegorical statue, looking on with scornful eyes at his weakness.\n\nNot a living being, not a speck of distant sail, appeared within\nthe range of his vision; and, as if to escape from this solitude,\nhe absorbed himself in his melancholy. The vague consciousness of a\nmisdirected life given up to impulses whose memory left a bitter taste\nin his mouth was the first moral sentiment of his manhood. But at the\nsame time he felt no remorse. What should he regret? He had recognized\nno other virtue than intelligence, and had erected passions into duties.\nBoth his intelligence and his passion were swallowed up easily in this\ngreat unbroken solitude of waiting without faith. Sleeplessness had\nrobbed his will of all energy, for he had not slept seven hours in the\nseven days. His sadness was the sadness of a sceptical mind. He beheld\nthe universe as a succession of incomprehensible images. Nostromo was\ndead. Everything had failed ignominiously. He no longer dared to think\nof Antonia. She had not survived. But if she survived he could not face\nher. And all exertion seemed senseless.\n\nOn the tenth day, after a night spent without even dozing off once (it\nhad occurred to him that Antonia could not possibly have ever loved\na being so impalpable as himself), the solitude appeared like a great\nvoid, and the silence of the gulf like a tense, thin cord to which he\nhung suspended by both hands, without fear, without surprise, without\nany sort of emotion whatever. Only towards the evening, in the\ncomparative relief of coolness, he began to wish that this cord would\nsnap. He imagined it snapping with a report as of a pistol--a sharp,\nfull crack. And that would be the end of him. He contemplated that\neventuality with pleasure, because he dreaded the sleepless nights in\nwhich the silence, remaining unbroken in the shape of a cord to which he\nhung with both hands, vibrated with senseless phrases, always the same\nbut utterly incomprehensible, about Nostromo, Antonia, Barrios, and\nproclamations mingled into an ironical and senseless buzzing. In the\ndaytime he could look at the silence like a still cord stretched to\nbreaking-point, with his life, his vain life, suspended to it like a\nweight.\n\n\"I wonder whether I would hear it snap before I fell,\" he asked himself.\n\nThe sun was two hours above the horizon when he got up, gaunt, dirty,\nwhite-faced, and looked at it with his red-rimmed eyes. His limbs obeyed\nhim slowly, as if full of lead, yet without tremor; and the effect\nof that physical condition gave to his movements an unhesitating,\ndeliberate dignity. He acted as if accomplishing some sort of rite. He\ndescended into the gully; for the fascination of all that silver, with\nits potential power, survived alone outside of himself. He picked up the\nbelt with the revolver, that was lying there, and buckled it round his\nwaist. The cord of silence could never snap on the island. It must let\nhim fall and sink into the sea, he thought. And sink! He was looking at\nthe loose earth covering the treasure. In the sea! His aspect was that\nof a somnambulist. He lowered himself down on his knees slowly and went\non grubbing with his fingers with industrious patience till he uncovered\none of the boxes. Without a pause, as if doing some work done many\ntimes before, he slit it open and took four ingots, which he put in his\npockets. He covered up the exposed box again and step by step came out\nof the gully. The bushes closed after him with a swish.\n\nIt was on the third day of his solitude that he had dragged the dinghy\nnear the water with an idea of rowing away somewhere, but had desisted\npartly at the whisper of lingering hope that Nostromo would return,\npartly from conviction of utter uselessness of all effort. Now she\nwanted only a slight shove to be set afloat. He had eaten a little every\nday after the first, and had some muscular strength left yet. Taking up\nthe oars slowly, he pulled away from the cliff of the Great Isabel, that\nstood behind him warm with sunshine, as if with the heat of life, bathed\nin a rich light from head to foot as if in a radiance of hope and joy.\nHe pulled straight towards the setting sun. When the gulf had grown\ndark, he ceased rowing and flung the sculls in. The hollow clatter they\nmade in falling was the loudest noise he had ever heard in his life. It\nwas a revelation. It seemed to recall him from far away, Actually the\nthought, \"Perhaps I may sleep to-night,\" passed through his mind. But he\ndid not believe it. He believed in nothing; and he remained sitting on\nthe thwart.\n\nThe dawn from behind the mountains put a gleam into his unwinking eyes.\nAfter a clear daybreak the sun appeared splendidly above the peaks of\nthe range. The great gulf burst into a glitter all around the boat; and\nin this glory of merciless solitude the silence appeared again before\nhim, stretched taut like a dark, thin string.\n\nHis eyes looked at it while, without haste, he shifted his seat from\nthe thwart to the gunwale. They looked at it fixedly, while his hand,\nfeeling about his waist, unbuttoned the flap of the leather case, drew\nthe revolver, cocked it, brought it forward pointing at his breast,\npulled the trigger, and, with convulsive force, sent the still-smoking\nweapon hurtling through the air. His eyes looked at it while he fell\nforward and hung with his breast on the gunwale and the fingers of his\nright hand hooked under the thwart. They looked----\n\n\"It is done,\" he stammered out, in a sudden flow of blood. His last\nthought was: \"I wonder how that Capataz died.\" The stiffness of the\nfingers relaxed, and the lover of Antonia Avellanos rolled overboard\nwithout having heard the cord of silence snap in the solitude of the\nPlacid Gulf, whose glittering surface remained untroubled by the fall of\nhis body.\n\nA victim of the disillusioned weariness which is the retribution meted\nout to intellectual audacity, the brilliant Don Martin Decoud, weighted\nby the bars of San Tome silver, disappeared without a trace, swallowed\nup in the immense indifference of things. His sleepless, crouching\nfigure was gone from the side of the San Tome silver; and for a time the\nspirits of good and evil that hover near every concealed treasure of\nthe earth might have thought that this one had been forgotten by all\nmankind. Then, after a few days, another form appeared striding away\nfrom the setting sun to sit motionless and awake in the narrow black\ngully all through the night, in nearly the same pose, in the same place\nin which had sat that other sleepless man who had gone away for ever so\nquietly in a small boat, about the time of sunset. And the spirits of\ngood and evil that hover about a forbidden treasure understood well that\nthe silver of San Tome was provided now with a faithful and lifelong\nslave.\n\nThe magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, victim of the disenchanted vanity\nwhich is the reward of audacious action, sat in the weary pose of a\nhunted outcast through a night of sleeplessness as tormenting as any\nknown to Decoud, his companion in the most desperate affair of his life.\nAnd he wondered how Decoud had died. But he knew the part he had\nplayed himself. First a woman, then a man, abandoned both in their last\nextremity, for the sake of this accursed treasure. It was paid for by\na soul lost and by a vanished life. The blank stillness of awe was\nsucceeded by a gust of immense pride. There was no one in the world but\nGian' Battista Fidanza, Capataz de Cargadores, the incorruptible and\nfaithful Nostromo, to pay such a price.\n\nHe had made up his mind that nothing should be allowed now to rob him of\nhis bargain. Nothing. Decoud had died. But how? That he was dead he had\nnot a shadow of a doubt. But four ingots? . . . What for? Did he mean to\ncome for more--some other time?\n\nThe treasure was putting forth its latent power. It troubled the clear\nmind of the man who had paid the price. He was sure that Decoud was\ndead. The island seemed full of that whisper. Dead! Gone! And he\ncaught himself listening for the swish of bushes and the splash of the\nfootfalls in the bed of the brook. Dead! The talker, the novio of Dona\nAntonia!\n\n\"Ha!\" he murmured, with his head on his knees, under the livid clouded\ndawn breaking over the liberated Sulaco and upon the gulf as gray as\nashes. \"It is to her that he will fly. To her that he will fly!\"\n\nAnd four ingots! Did he take them in revenge, to cast a spell, like the\nangry woman who had prophesied remorse and failure, and yet had laid\nupon him the task of saving the children? Well, he had saved the\nchildren. He had defeated the spell of poverty and starvation. He had\ndone it all alone--or perhaps helped by the devil. Who cared? He had\ndone it, betrayed as he was, and saving by the same stroke the San Tome\nmine, which appeared to him hateful and immense, lording it by its vast\nwealth over the valour, the toil, the fidelity of the poor, over war and\npeace, over the labours of the town, the sea, and the Campo.\n\nThe sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of the Cordillera. The Capataz\nlooked down for a time upon the fall of loose earth, stones, and smashed\nbushes, concealing the hiding-place of the silver.\n\n\"I must grow rich very slowly,\" he meditated, aloud.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nSulaco outstripped Nostromo's prudence, growing rich swiftly on the\nhidden treasures of the earth, hovered over by the anxious spirits of\ngood and evil, torn out by the labouring hands of the people. It was\nlike a second youth, like a new life, full of promise, of unrest, of\ntoil, scattering lavishly its wealth to the four corners of an excited\nworld. Material changes swept along in the train of material interests.\nAnd other changes more subtle, outwardly unmarked, affected the minds\nand hearts of the workers. Captain Mitchell had gone home to live on his\nsavings invested in the San Tome mine; and Dr. Monygham had grown older,\nwith his head steel-grey and the unchanged expression of his face,\nliving on the inexhaustible treasure of his devotion drawn upon in the\nsecret of his heart like a store of unlawful wealth.\n\nThe Inspector-General of State Hospitals (whose maintenance is a charge\nupon the Gould Concession), Official Adviser on Sanitation to the\nMunicipality, Chief Medical Officer of the San Tome Consolidated Mines\n(whose territory, containing gold, silver, copper, lead, cobalt,\nextends for miles along the foot-hills of the Cordillera), had felt\npoverty-stricken, miserable, and starved during the prolonged, second\nvisit the Goulds paid to Europe and the United States of America.\nIntimate of the casa, proved friend, a bachelor without ties and without\nestablishment (except of the professional sort), he had been asked to\ntake up his quarters in the Gould house. In the eleven months of their\nabsence the familiar rooms, recalling at every glance the woman to\nwhom he had given all his loyalty, had grown intolerable. As the day\napproached for the arrival of the mail boat Hermes (the latest addition\nto the O. S. N. Co.'s splendid fleet), the doctor hobbled about more\nvivaciously, snapped more sardonically at simple and gentle out of sheer\nnervousness.\n\nHe packed up his modest trunk with speed, with fury, with enthusiasm,\nand saw it carried out past the old porter at the gate of the Casa Gould\nwith delight, with intoxication; then, as the hour approached, sitting\nalone in the great landau behind the white mules, a little sideways, his\ndrawn-in face positively venomous with the effort of self-control, and\nholding a pair of new gloves in his left hand, he drove to the harbour.\n\nHis heart dilated within him so, when he saw the Goulds on the deck of\nthe Hermes, that his greetings were reduced to a casual mutter. Driving\nback to town, all three were silent. And in the patio the doctor, in a\nmore natural manner, said--\n\n\"I'll leave you now to yourselves. I'll call to-morrow if I may?\"\n\n\"Come to lunch, dear Dr. Monygham, and come early,\" said Mrs. Gould, in\nher travelling dress and her veil down, turning to look at him at the\nfoot of the stairs; while at the top of the flight the Madonna, in blue\nrobes and the Child on her arm, seemed to welcome her with an aspect of\npitying tenderness.\n\n\"Don't expect to find me at home,\" Charles Gould warned him. \"I'll be\noff early to the mine.\"\n\nAfter lunch, Dona Emilia and the senor doctor came slowly through\nthe inner gateway of the patio. The large gardens of the Casa Gould,\nsurrounded by high walls, and the red-tile slopes of neighbouring roofs,\nlay open before them, with masses of shade under the trees and level\nsurfaces of sunlight upon the lawns. A triple row of old orange trees\nsurrounded the whole. Barefooted, brown gardeners, in snowy white shirts\nand wide calzoneras, dotted the grounds, squatting over flowerbeds,\npassing between the trees, dragging slender India-rubber tubes across\nthe gravel of the paths; and the fine jets of water crossed each other\nin graceful curves, sparkling in the sunshine with a slight pattering\nnoise upon the bushes, and an effect of showered diamonds upon the\ngrass.\n\nDona Emilia, holding up the train of a clear dress, walked by the side\nof Dr. Monygham, in a longish black coat and severe black bow on\nan immaculate shirtfront. Under a shady clump of trees, where stood\nscattered little tables and wicker easy-chairs, Mrs. Gould sat down in a\nlow and ample seat.\n\n\"Don't go yet,\" she said to Dr. Monygham, who was unable to tear himself\naway from the spot. His chin nestling within the points of his collar,\nhe devoured her stealthily with his eyes, which, luckily, were round and\nhard like clouded marbles, and incapable of disclosing his sentiments.\nHis pitying emotion at the marks of time upon the face of that woman,\nthe air of frailty and weary fatigue that had settled upon the eyes and\ntemples of the \"Never-tired Senora\" (as Don Pepe years ago used to call\nher with admiration), touched him almost to tears. \"Don't go yet.\nTo-day is all my own,\" Mrs. Gould urged, gently. \"We are not back yet\nofficially. No one will come. It's only to-morrow that the windows of\nthe Casa Gould are to be lit up for a reception.\"\n\nThe doctor dropped into a chair.\n\n\"Giving a tertulia?\" he said, with a detached air.\n\n\"A simple greeting for all the kind friends who care to come.\"\n\n\"And only to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Yes. Charles would be tired out after a day at the mine, and so I----It\nwould be good to have him to myself for one evening on our return to\nthis house I love. It has seen all my life.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" snarled the doctor, suddenly. \"Women count time from the\nmarriage feast. Didn't you live a little before?\"\n\n\"Yes; but what is there to remember? There were no cares.\"\n\nMrs. Gould sighed. And as two friends, after a long separation, will\nrevert to the most agitated period of their lives, they began to talk of\nthe Sulaco Revolution. It seemed strange to Mrs. Gould that people who\nhad taken part in it seemed to forget its memory and its lesson.\n\n\"And yet,\" struck in the doctor, \"we who played our part in it had our\nreward. Don Pepe, though superannuated, still can sit a horse. Barrios\nis drinking himself to death in jovial company away somewhere on his\nfundacion beyond the Bolson de Tonoro. And the heroic Father Roman--I\nimagine the old padre blowing up systematically the San Tome mine,\nuttering a pious exclamation at every bang, and taking handfuls of\nsnuff between the explosions--the heroic Padre Roman says that he is not\nafraid of the harm Holroyd's missionaries can do to his flock, as long\nas he is alive.\"\n\nMrs. Gould shuddered a little at the allusion to the destruction that\nhad come so near to the San Tome mine.\n\n\"Ah, but you, dear friend?\"\n\n\"I did the work I was fit for.\"\n\n\"You faced the most cruel dangers of all. Something more than death.\"\n\n\"No, Mrs. Gould! Only death--by hanging. And I am rewarded beyond my\ndeserts.\"\n\nNoticing Mrs. Gould's gaze fixed upon him, he dropped his eyes.\n\n\"I've made my career--as you see,\" said the Inspector-General of State\nHospitals, taking up lightly the lapels of his superfine black coat.\nThe doctor's self-respect marked inwardly by the almost complete\ndisappearance from his dreams of Father Beron appeared visibly in what,\nby contrast with former carelessness, seemed an immoderate cult of\npersonal appearance. Carried out within severe limits of form and\ncolour, and in perpetual freshness, this change of apparel gave to Dr.\nMonygham an air at the same time professional and festive; while his\ngait and the unchanged crabbed character of his face acquired from it a\nstartling force of incongruity.\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on. \"We all had our rewards--the engineer-in-chief,\nCaptain Mitchell----\"\n\n\"We saw him,\" interrupted Mrs. Gould, in her charming voice. \"The poor\ndear man came up from the country on purpose to call on us in our hotel\nin London. He comported himself with great dignity, but I fancy he\nregrets Sulaco. He rambled feebly about 'historical events' till I felt\nI could have a cry.\"\n\n\"H'm,\" grunted the doctor; \"getting old, I suppose. Even Nostromo is\ngetting older--though he is not changed. And, speaking of that fellow, I\nwanted to tell you something----\"\n\nFor some time the house had been full of murmurs, of agitation. Suddenly\nthe two gardeners, busy with rose trees at the side of the garden\narch, fell upon their knees with bowed heads on the passage of Antonia\nAvellanos, who appeared walking beside her uncle.\n\nInvested with the red hat after a short visit to Rome, where he had\nbeen invited by the Propaganda, Father Corbelan, missionary to the\nwild Indians, conspirator, friend and patron of Hernandez the robber,\nadvanced with big, slow strides, gaunt and leaning forward, with his\npowerful hands clasped behind his back. The first Cardinal-Archbishop\nof Sulaco had preserved his fanatical and morose air; the aspect of a\nchaplain of bandits. It was believed that his unexpected elevation\nto the purple was a counter-move to the Protestant invasion of Sulaco\norganized by the Holroyd Missionary Fund. Antonia, the beauty of her\nface as if a little blurred, her figure slightly fuller, advanced with\nher light walk and her high serenity, smiling from a distance at Mrs.\nGould. She had brought her uncle over to see dear Emilia, without\nceremony, just for a moment before the siesta.\n\nWhen all were seated again, Dr. Monygham, who had come to dislike\nheartily everybody who approached Mrs. Gould with any intimacy, kept\naside, pretending to be lost in profound meditation. A louder phrase of\nAntonia made him lift his head.\n\n\"How can we abandon, groaning under oppression, those who have been\nour countrymen only a few years ago, who are our countrymen now?\" Miss\nAvellanos was saying. \"How can we remain blind, and deaf without pity to\nthe cruel wrongs suffered by our brothers? There is a remedy.\"\n\n\"Annex the rest of Costaguana to the order and prosperity of Sulaco,\"\nsnapped the doctor. \"There is no other remedy.\"\n\n\"I am convinced, senor doctor,\" Antonia said, with the earnest calm\nof invincible resolution, \"that this was from the first poor Martin's\nintention.\"\n\n\"Yes, but the material interests will not let you jeopardize their\ndevelopment for a mere idea of pity and justice,\" the doctor muttered\ngrumpily. \"And it is just as well perhaps.\"\n\nThe Cardinal-Archbishop straightened up his gaunt, bony frame.\n\n\"We have worked for them; we have made them, these material interests\nof the foreigners,\" the last of the Corbelans uttered in a deep,\ndenunciatory tone.\n\n\"And without them you are nothing,\" cried the doctor from the distance.\n\"They will not let you.\"\n\n\"Let them beware, then, lest the people, prevented from their\naspirations, should rise and claim their share of the wealth and their\nshare of the power,\" the popular Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco declared,\nsignificantly, menacingly.\n\nA silence ensued, during which his Eminence stared, frowning at the\nground, and Antonia, graceful and rigid in her chair, breathed calmly\nin the strength of her convictions. Then the conversation took a\nsocial turn, touching on the visit of the Goulds to Europe. The\nCardinal-Archbishop, when in Rome, had suffered from neuralgia in the\nhead all the time. It was the climate--the bad air.\n\nWhen uncle and niece had gone away, with the servants again falling\non their knees, and the old porter, who had known Henry Gould, almost\ntotally blind and impotent now, creeping up to kiss his Eminence's\nextended hand, Dr. Monygham, looking after them, pronounced the one\nword--\n\n\"Incorrigible!\"\n\nMrs. Gould, with a look upwards, dropped wearily on her lap her white\nhands flashing with the gold and stones of many rings.\n\n\"Conspiring. Yes!\" said the doctor. \"The last of the Avellanos and the\nlast of the Corbelans are conspiring with the refugees from Sta. Marta\nthat flock here after every revolution. The Cafe Lambroso at the corner\nof the Plaza is full of them; you can hear their chatter across the\nstreet like the noise of a parrot-house. They are conspiring for the\ninvasion of Costaguana. And do you know where they go for strength,\nfor the necessary force? To the secret societies amongst immigrants and\nnatives, where Nostromo--I should say Captain Fidanza--is the great man.\nWhat gives him that position? Who can say? Genius? He has genius. He is\ngreater with the populace than ever he was before. It is as if he had\nsome secret power; some mysterious means to keep up his influence. He\nholds conferences with the Archbishop, as in those old days which you\nand I remember. Barrios is useless. But for a military head they have\nthe pious Hernandez. And they may raise the country with the new cry of\nthe wealth for the people.\"\n\n\"Will there be never any peace? Will there be no rest?\" Mrs. Gould\nwhispered. \"I thought that we----\"\n\n\"No!\" interrupted the doctor. \"There is no peace and no rest in the\ndevelopment of material interests. They have their law, and their\njustice. But it is founded on expediency, and is inhuman; it is without\nrectitude, without the continuity and the force that can be found only\nin a moral principle. Mrs. Gould, the time approaches when all that the\nGould Concession stands for shall weigh as heavily upon the people as\nthe barbarism, cruelty, and misrule of a few years back.\"\n\n\"How can you say that, Dr. Monygham?\" she cried out, as if hurt in the\nmost sensitive place of her soul.\n\n\"I can say what is true,\" the doctor insisted, obstinately. \"It'll weigh\nas heavily, and provoke resentment, bloodshed, and vengeance, because\nthe men have grown different. Do you think that now the mine would march\nupon the town to save their Senor Administrador? Do you think that?\"\n\nShe pressed the backs of her entwined hands on her eyes and murmured\nhopelessly--\n\n\"Is it this we have worked for, then?\"\n\nThe doctor lowered his head. He could follow her silent thought. Was it\nfor this that her life had been robbed of all the intimate felicities of\ndaily affection which her tenderness needed as the human body needs air\nto breathe? And the doctor, indignant with Charles Gould's blindness,\nhastened to change the conversation.\n\n\"It is about Nostromo that I wanted to talk to you. Ah! that fellow has\nsome continuity and force. Nothing will put an end to him. But never\nmind that. There's something inexplicable going on--or perhaps only too\neasy to explain. You know, Linda is practically the lighthouse keeper of\nthe Great Isabel light. The Garibaldino is too old now. His part is to\nclean the lamps and to cook in the house; but he can't get up the stairs\nany longer. The black-eyed Linda sleeps all day and watches the light\nall night. Not all day, though. She is up towards five in the afternoon,\nwhen our Nostromo, whenever he is in harbour with his schooner, comes\nout on his courting visit, pulling in a small boat.\"\n\n\"Aren't they married yet?\" Mrs. Gould asked. \"The mother wished it, as\nfar as I can understand, while Linda was yet quite a child. When I had\nthe girls with me for a year or so during the War of Separation, that\nextraordinary Linda used to declare quite simply that she was going to\nbe Gian' Battista's wife.\"\n\n\"They are not married yet,\" said the doctor, curtly. \"I have looked\nafter them a little.\"\n\n\"Thank you, dear Dr. Monygham,\" said Mrs. Gould; and under the shade\nof the big trees her little, even teeth gleamed in a youthful smile of\ngentle malice. \"People don't know how really good you are. You will not\nlet them know, as if on purpose to annoy me, who have put my faith in\nyour good heart long ago.\"\n\nThe doctor, with a lifting up of his upper lip, as though he were\nlonging to bite, bowed stiffly in his chair. With the utter absorption\nof a man to whom love comes late, not as the most splendid of illusions,\nbut like an enlightening and priceless misfortune, the sight of that\nwoman (of whom he had been deprived for nearly a year) suggested ideas\nof adoration, of kissing the hem of her robe. And this excess of feeling\ntranslated itself naturally into an augmented grimness of speech.\n\n\"I am afraid of being overwhelmed by too much gratitude. However, these\npeople interest me. I went out several times to the Great Isabel light\nto look after old Giorgio.\"\n\nHe did not tell Mrs. Gould that it was because he found there, in her\nabsence, the relief of an atmosphere of congenial sentiment in\nold Giorgio's austere admiration for the \"English signora--the\nbenefactress\"; in black-eyed Linda's voluble, torrential, passionate\naffection for \"our Dona Emilia--that angel\"; in the white-throated, fair\nGiselle's adoring upward turn of the eyes, which then glided towards him\nwith a sidelong, half-arch, half-candid glance, which made the doctor\nexclaim to himself mentally, \"If I weren't what I am, old and ugly, I\nwould think the minx is making eyes at me. And perhaps she is. I dare\nsay she would make eyes at anybody.\" Dr. Monygham said nothing of this\nto Mrs. Gould, the providence of the Viola family, but reverted to what\nhe called \"our great Nostromo.\"\n\n\"What I wanted to tell you is this: Our great Nostromo did not take much\nnotice of the old man and the children for some years. It's true, too,\nthat he was away on his coasting voyages certainly ten months out of the\ntwelve. He was making his fortune, as he told Captain Mitchell once. He\nseems to have done uncommonly well. It was only to be expected. He is\na man full of resource, full of confidence in himself, ready to take\nchances and risks of every sort. I remember being in Mitchell's office\none day, when he came in with that calm, grave air he always carries\neverywhere. He had been away trading in the Gulf of California, he said,\nlooking straight past us at the wall, as his manner is, and was glad to\nsee on his return that a lighthouse was being built on the cliff of the\nGreat Isabel. Very glad, he repeated. Mitchell explained that it was\nthe O. S. N. Co. who was building it, for the convenience of the mail\nservice, on his own advice. Captain Fidanza was good enough to say that\nit was excellent advice. I remember him twisting up his moustaches and\nlooking all round the cornice of the room before he proposed that old\nGiorgio should be made the keeper of that light.\"\n\n\"I heard of this. I was consulted at the time,\" Mrs. Gould said. \"I\ndoubted whether it would be good for these girls to be shut up on that\nisland as if in a prison.\"\n\n\"The proposal fell in with the old Garibaldino's humour. As to Linda,\nany place was lovely and delightful enough for her as long as it was\nNostromo's suggestion. She could wait for her Gian' Battista's good\npleasure there as well as anywhere else. My opinion is that she was\nalways in love with that incorruptible Capataz. Moreover, both father\nand sister were anxious to get Giselle away from the attentions of a\ncertain Ramirez.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Mrs. Gould, interested. \"Ramirez? What sort of man is that?\"\n\n\"Just a mozo of the town. His father was a Cargador. As a lanky boy he\nran about the wharf in rags, till Nostromo took him up and made a man of\nhim. When he got a little older, he put him into a lighter and very soon\ngave him charge of the No. 3 boat--the boat which took the silver away,\nMrs. Gould. Nostromo selected that lighter for the work because she\nwas the best sailing and the strongest boat of all the Company's fleet.\nYoung Ramirez was one of the five Cargadores entrusted with the removal\nof the treasure from the Custom House on that famous night. As the boat\nhe had charge of was sunk, Nostromo, on leaving the Company's service,\nrecommended him to Captain Mitchell for his successor. He had trained\nhim in the routine of work perfectly, and thus Mr. Ramirez, from a\nstarving waif, becomes a man and the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.\"\n\n\"Thanks to Nostromo,\" said Mrs. Gould, with warm approval.\n\n\"Thanks to Nostromo,\" repeated Dr. Monygham. \"Upon my word, the fellow's\npower frightens me when I think of it. That our poor old Mitchell was\nonly too glad to appoint somebody trained to the work, who saved him\ntrouble, is not surprising. What is wonderful is the fact that the\nSulaco Cargadores accepted Ramirez for their chief, simply because such\nwas Nostromo's good pleasure. Of course, he is not a second Nostromo,\nas he fondly imagined he would be; but still, the position was brilliant\nenough. It emboldened him to make up to Giselle Viola, who, you know, is\nthe recognized beauty of the town. The old Garibaldino, however, took a\nviolent dislike to him. I don't know why. Perhaps because he was not\na model of perfection like his Gian' Battista, the incarnation of the\ncourage, the fidelity, the honour of 'the people.' Signor Viola does\nnot think much of Sulaco natives. Both of them, the old Spartan and that\nwhite-faced Linda, with her red mouth and coal-black eyes, were looking\nrather fiercely after the fair one. Ramirez was warned off. Father\nViola, I am told, threatened him with his gun once.\"\n\n\"But what of Giselle herself?\" asked Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"She's a bit of a flirt, I believe,\" said the doctor. \"I don't think\nshe cared much one way or another. Of course she likes men's attentions.\nRamirez was not the only one, let me tell you, Mrs. Gould. There was one\nengineer, at least, on the railway staff who got warned off with a gun,\ntoo. Old Viola does not allow any trifling with his honour. He has grown\nuneasy and suspicious since his wife died. He was very pleased to remove\nhis youngest girl away from the town. But look what happens, Mrs. Gould.\nRamirez, the honest, lovelorn swain, is forbidden the island. Very well.\nHe respects the prohibition, but naturally turns his eyes frequently\ntowards the Great Isabel. It seems as though he had been in the habit of\ngazing late at night upon the light. And during these sentimental vigils\nhe discovers that Nostromo, Captain Fidanza that is, returns very late\nfrom his visits to the Violas. As late as midnight at times.\"\n\nThe doctor paused and stared meaningly at Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"Yes. But I don't understand,\" she began, looking puzzled.\n\n\"Now comes the strange part,\" went on Dr. Monygham. \"Viola, who is king\non his island, will allow no visitor on it after dark. Even Captain\nFidanza has got to leave after sunset, when Linda has gone up to\ntend the light. And Nostromo goes away obediently. But what happens\nafterwards? What does he do in the gulf between half-past six and\nmidnight? He has been seen more than once at that late hour pulling\nquietly into the harbour. Ramirez is devoured by jealousy. He dared not\napproach old Viola; but he plucked up courage to rail at Linda about it\non Sunday morning as she came on the mainland to hear mass and visit her\nmother's grave. There was a scene on the wharf, which, as a matter of\nfact, I witnessed. It was early morning. He must have been waiting for\nher on purpose. I was there by the merest chance, having been called\nto an urgent consultation by the doctor of the German gunboat in the\nharbour. She poured wrath, scorn, and flame upon Ramirez, who seemed out\nof his mind. It was a strange sight, Mrs. Gould: the long jetty, with\nthis raving Cargador in his crimson sash and the girl all in black, at\nthe end; the early Sunday morning quiet of the harbour in the shade of\nthe mountains; nothing but a canoe or two moving between the ships at\nanchor, and the German gunboat's gig coming to take me off. Linda passed\nme within a foot. I noticed her wild eyes. I called out to her. She\nnever heard me. She never saw me. But I looked at her face. It was awful\nin its anger and wretchedness.\"\n\nMrs. Gould sat up, opening her eyes very wide.\n\n\"What do you mean, Dr. Monygham? Do you mean to say that you suspect the\nyounger sister?\"\n\n\"Quien sabe! Who can tell?\" said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders\nlike a born Costaguanero. \"Ramirez came up to me on the wharf. He\nreeled--he looked insane. He took his head into his hands. He had to\ntalk to someone--simply had to. Of course for all his mad state he\nrecognized me. People know me well here. I have lived too long amongst\nthem to be anything else but the evil-eyed doctor, who can cure all the\nills of the flesh, and bring bad luck by a glance. He came up to me. He\ntried to be calm. He tried to make it out that he wanted merely to\nwarn me against Nostromo. It seems that Captain Fidanza at some secret\nmeeting or other had mentioned me as the worst despiser of all the\npoor--of the people. It's very possible. He honours me with his undying\ndislike. And a word from the great Fidanza may be quite enough to send\nsome fool's knife into my back. The Sanitary Commission I preside\nover is not in favour with the populace. 'Beware of him, senor doctor.\nDestroy him, senor doctor,' Ramirez hissed right into my face. And then\nhe broke out. 'That man,' he spluttered, 'has cast a spell upon both\nthese girls.' As to himself, he had said too much. He must run away\nnow--run away and hide somewhere. He moaned tenderly about Giselle, and\nthen called her names that cannot be repeated. If he thought she could\nbe made to love him by any means, he would carry her off from the\nisland. Off into the woods. But it was no good. . . . He strode away,\nflourishing his arms above his head. Then I noticed an old negro, who\nhad been sitting behind a pile of cases, fishing from the wharf. He\nwound up his lines and slunk away at once. But he must have heard\nsomething, and must have talked, too, because some of the old\nGaribaldino's railway friends, I suppose, warned him against Ramirez. At\nany rate, the father has been warned. But Ramirez has disappeared from\nthe town.\"\n\n\"I feel I have a duty towards these girls,\" said Mrs. Gould, uneasily.\n\"Is Nostromo in Sulaco now?\"\n\n\"He is, since last Sunday.\"\n\n\"He ought to be spoken to--at once.\"\n\n\"Who will dare speak to him? Even the love-mad Ramirez runs away from\nthe mere shadow of Captain Fidanza.\"\n\n\"I can. I will,\" Mrs. Gould declared. \"A word will be enough for a man\nlike Nostromo.\"\n\nThe doctor smiled sourly.\n\n\"He must end this situation which lends itself to----I can't believe it\nof that child,\" pursued Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"He's very attractive,\" muttered the doctor, gloomily.\n\n\"He'll see it, I am sure. He must put an end to all this by marrying\nLinda at once,\" pronounced the first lady of Sulaco with immense\ndecision.\n\nThrough the garden gate emerged Basilio, grown fat and sleek, with an\nelderly hairless face, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his\njet-black, coarse hair plastered down smoothly. Stooping carefully\nbehind an ornamental clump of bushes, he put down with precaution a\nsmall child he had been carrying on his shoulder--his own and Leonarda's\nlast born. The pouting, spoiled Camerista and the head mozo of the Casa\nGould had been married for some years now.\n\nHe remained squatting on his heels for a time, gazing fondly at his\noffspring, which returned his stare with imperturbable gravity; then,\nsolemn and respectable, walked down the path.\n\n\"What is it, Basilio?\" asked Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"A telephone came through from the office of the mine. The master\nremains to sleep at the mountain to-night.\"\n\nDr. Monygham had got up and stood looking away. A profound silence\nreigned for a time under the shade of the biggest trees in the lovely\ngardens of the Casa Gould.\n\n\"Very well, Basilio,\" said Mrs. Gould. She watched him walk away along\nthe path, step aside behind the flowering bush, and reappear with the\nchild seated on his shoulder. He passed through the gateway between the\ngarden and the patio with measured steps, careful of his light burden.\n\nThe doctor, with his back to Mrs. Gould, contemplated a flower-bed away\nin the sunshine. People believed him scornful and soured. The truth\nof his nature consisted in his capacity for passion and in the\nsensitiveness of his temperament. What he lacked was the polished\ncallousness of men of the world, the callousness from which springs\nan easy tolerance for oneself and others; the tolerance wide as\npoles asunder from true sympathy and human compassion. This want of\ncallousness accounted for his sardonic turn of mind and his biting\nspeeches.\n\nIn profound silence, and glaring viciously at the brilliant flower-bed,\nDr. Monygham poured mental imprecations on Charles Gould's head. Behind\nhim the immobility of Mrs. Gould added to the grace of her seated\nfigure the charm of art, of an attitude caught and interpreted for ever.\nTurning abruptly, the doctor took his leave.\n\nMrs. Gould leaned back in the shade of the big trees planted in a\ncircle. She leaned back with her eyes closed and her white hands lying\nidle on the arms of her seat. The half-light under the thick mass of\nleaves brought out the youthful prettiness of her face; made the clear,\nlight fabrics and white lace of her dress appear luminous. Small and\ndainty, as if radiating a light of her own in the deep shade of the\ninterlaced boughs, she resembled a good fairy, weary with a long career\nof well-doing, touched by the withering suspicion of the uselessness of\nher labours, the powerlessness of her magic.\n\nHad anybody asked her of what she was thinking, alone in the garden\nof the Casa, with her husband at the mine and the house closed to the\nstreet like an empty dwelling, her frankness would have had to evade the\nquestion. It had come into her mind that for life to be large and full,\nit must contain the care of the past and of the future in every passing\nmoment of the present. Our daily work must be done to the glory of the\ndead, and for the good of those who come after. She thought that, and\nsighed without opening her eyes--without moving at all. Mrs. Gould's\nface became set and rigid for a second, as if to receive, without\nflinching, a great wave of loneliness that swept over her head. And it\ncame into her mind, too, that no one would ever ask her with solicitude\nwhat she was thinking of. No one. No one, but perhaps the man who had\njust gone away. No; no one who could be answered with careless sincerity\nin the ideal perfection of confidence.\n\nThe word \"incorrigible\"--a word lately pronounced by Dr.\nMonygham--floated into her still and sad immobility. Incorrigible in\nhis devotion to the great silver mine was the Senor Administrador!\nIncorrigible in his hard, determined service of the material interests\nto which he had pinned his faith in the triumph of order and justice.\nPoor boy! She had a clear vision of the grey hairs on his temples.\nHe was perfect--perfect. What more could she have expected? It was\na colossal and lasting success; and love was only a short moment of\nforgetfulness, a short intoxication, whose delight one remembered with\na sense of sadness, as if it had been a deep grief lived through. There\nwas something inherent in the necessities of successful action which\ncarried with it the moral degradation of the idea. She saw the San Tome\nmountain hanging over the Campo, over the whole land, feared, hated,\nwealthy; more soulless than any tyrant, more pitiless and autocratic\nthan the worst Government; ready to crush innumerable lives in the\nexpansion of its greatness. He did not see it. He could not see it. It\nwas not his fault. He was perfect, perfect; but she would never have him\nto herself. Never; not for one short hour altogether to herself in\nthis old Spanish house she loved so well! Incorrigible, the last of the\nCorbelans, the last of the Avellanos, the doctor had said; but she saw\nclearly the San Tome mine possessing, consuming, burning up the life of\nthe last of the Costaguana Goulds; mastering the energetic spirit of the\nson as it had mastered the lamentable weakness of the father. A terrible\nsuccess for the last of the Goulds. The last! She had hoped for a long,\nlong time, that perhaps----But no! There were to be no more. An immense\ndesolation, the dread of her own continued life, descended upon the\nfirst lady of Sulaco. With a prophetic vision she saw herself surviving\nalone the degradation of her young ideal of life, of love, of work--all\nalone in the Treasure House of the World. The profound, blind, suffering\nexpression of a painful dream settled on her face with its closed eyes.\nIn the indistinct voice of an unlucky sleeper lying passive in the grip\nof a merciless nightmare, she stammered out aimlessly the words--\n\n\"Material interest.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nNostromo had been growing rich very slowly. It was an effect of his\nprudence. He could command himself even when thrown off his balance.\nAnd to become the slave of a treasure with full self-knowledge is an\noccurrence rare and mentally disturbing. But it was also in a great part\nbecause of the difficulty of converting it into a form in which it\ncould become available. The mere act of getting it away from the island\npiecemeal, little by little, was surrounded by difficulties, by the\ndangers of imminent detection. He had to visit the Great Isabel in\nsecret, between his voyages along the coast, which were the ostensible\nsource of his fortune. The crew of his own schooner were to be feared as\nif they had been spies upon their dreaded captain. He did not dare stay\ntoo long in port. When his coaster was unloaded, he hurried away on\nanother trip, for he feared arousing suspicion even by a day's delay.\nSometimes during a week's stay, or more, he could only manage one visit\nto the treasure. And that was all. A couple of ingots. He suffered\nthrough his fears as much as through his prudence. To do things by\nstealth humiliated him. And he suffered most from the concentration of\nhis thought upon the treasure.\n\nA transgression, a crime, entering a man's existence, eats it up like a\nmalignant growth, consumes it like a fever. Nostromo had lost his peace;\nthe genuineness of all his qualities was destroyed. He felt it himself,\nand often cursed the silver of San Tome. His courage, his magnificence,\nhis leisure, his work, everything was as before, only everything was a\nsham. But the treasure was real. He clung to it with a more tenacious,\nmental grip. But he hated the feel of the ingots. Sometimes, after\nputting away a couple of them in his cabin--the fruit of a secret night\nexpedition to the Great Isabel--he would look fixedly at his fingers, as\nif surprised they had left no stain on his skin.\n\nHe had found means of disposing of the silver bars in distant ports. The\nnecessity to go far afield made his coasting voyages long, and caused\nhis visits to the Viola household to be rare and far between. He was\nfated to have his wife from there. He had said so once to Giorgio\nhimself. But the Garibaldino had put the subject aside with a majestic\nwave of his hand, clutching a smouldering black briar-root pipe. There\nwas plenty of time; he was not the man to force his girls upon anybody.\n\nAs time went on, Nostromo discovered his preference for the younger of\nthe two. They had some profound similarities of nature, which must\nexist for complete confidence and understanding, no matter what\noutward differences of temperament there may be to exercise their own\nfascination of contrast. His wife would have to know his secret or else\nlife would be impossible. He was attracted by Giselle, with her candid\ngaze and white throat, pliable, silent, fond of excitement under her\nquiet indolence; whereas Linda, with her intense, passionately pale\nface, energetic, all fire and words, touched with gloom and scorn, a\nchip of the old block, true daughter of the austere republican, but with\nTeresa's voice, inspired him with a deep-seated mistrust. Moreover, the\npoor girl could not conceal her love for Gian' Battista. He could see it\nwould be violent, exacting, suspicious, uncompromising--like her soul.\nGiselle, by her fair but warm beauty, by the surface placidity of her\nnature holding a promise of submissiveness, by the charm of her girlish\nmysteriousness, excited his passion and allayed his fears as to the\nfuture.\n\nHis absences from Sulaco were long. On returning from the longest of\nthem, he made out lighters loaded with blocks of stone lying under\nthe cliff of the Great Isabel; cranes and scaffolding above; workmen's\nfigures moving about, and a small lighthouse already rising from its\nfoundations on the edge of the cliff.\n\nAt this unexpected, undreamt-of, startling sight, he thought himself\nlost irretrievably. What could save him from detection now? Nothing! He\nwas struck with amazed dread at this turn of chance, that would kindle\na far-reaching light upon the only secret spot of his life; that life\nwhose very essence, value, reality, consisted in its reflection from the\nadmiring eyes of men. All of it but that thing which was beyond common\ncomprehension; which stood between him and the power that hears and\ngives effect to the evil intention of curses. It was dark. Not every man\nhad such a darkness. And they were going to put a light there. A light!\nHe saw it shining upon disgrace, poverty, contempt. Somebody was sure\nto. . . . Perhaps somebody had already. . . .\n\nThe incomparable Nostromo, the Capataz, the respected and feared Captain\nFidanza, the unquestioned patron of secret societies, a republican like\nold Giorgio, and a revolutionist at heart (but in another manner), was\non the point of jumping overboard from the deck of his own schooner.\nThat man, subjective almost to insanity, looked suicide deliberately in\nthe face. But he never lost his head. He was checked by the thought\nthat this was no escape. He imagined himself dead, and the disgrace,\nthe shame going on. Or, rather, properly speaking, he could not imagine\nhimself dead. He was possessed too strongly by the sense of his own\nexistence, a thing of infinite duration in its changes, to grasp the\nnotion of finality. The earth goes on for ever.\n\nAnd he was courageous. It was a corrupt courage, but it was as good\nfor his purposes as the other kind. He sailed close to the cliff of the\nGreat Isabel, throwing a penetrating glance from the deck at the mouth\nof the ravine, tangled in an undisturbed growth of bushes. He sailed\nclose enough to exchange hails with the workmen, shading their eyes on\nthe edge of the sheer drop of the cliff overhung by the jib-head of a\npowerful crane. He perceived that none of them had any occasion even to\napproach the ravine where the silver lay hidden; let alone to enter it.\nIn the harbour he learned that no one slept on the island. The labouring\ngangs returned to port every evening, singing chorus songs in the empty\nlighters towed by a harbour tug. For the moment he had nothing to fear.\n\nBut afterwards? he asked himself. Later, when a keeper came to live in\nthe cottage that was being built some hundred and fifty yards back from\nthe low lighttower, and four hundred or so from the dark, shaded, jungly\nravine, containing the secret of his safety, of his influence, of his\nmagnificence, of his power over the future, of his defiance of ill-luck,\nof every possible betrayal from rich and poor alike--what then? He could\nnever shake off the treasure. His audacity, greater than that of other\nmen, had welded that vein of silver into his life. And the feeling\nof fearful and ardent subjection, the feeling of his slavery--so\nirremediable and profound that often, in his thoughts, he compared\nhimself to the legendary Gringos, neither dead nor alive, bound down\nto their conquest of unlawful wealth on Azuera--weighed heavily on the\nindependent Captain Fidanza, owner and master of a coasting schooner,\nwhose smart appearance (and fabulous good-luck in trading) were so well\nknown along the western seaboard of a vast continent.\n\nFiercely whiskered and grave, a shade less supple in his walk, the\nvigour and symmetry of his powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of a\nbrown tweed suit, made by Jews in the slums of London, and sold by the\nclothing department of the Compania Anzani, Captain Fidanza was seen in\nthe streets of Sulaco attending to his business, as usual, that trip.\nAnd, as usual, he allowed it to get about that he had made a great\nprofit on his cargo. It was a cargo of salt fish, and Lent was\napproaching. He was seen in tramcars going to and fro between the town\nand the harbour; he talked with people in a cafe or two in his measured,\nsteady voice. Captain Fidanza was seen. The generation that would know\nnothing of the famous ride to Cayta was not born yet.\n\nNostromo, the miscalled Capataz de Cargadores, had made for himself,\nunder his rightful name, another public existence, but modified by\nthe new conditions, less picturesque, more difficult to keep up in the\nincreased size and varied population of Sulaco, the progressive capital\nof the Occidental Republic.\n\nCaptain Fidanza, unpicturesque, but always a little mysterious, was\nrecognized quite sufficiently under the lofty glass and iron roof of the\nSulaco railway station. He took a local train, and got out in Rincon,\nwhere he visited the widow of the Cargador who had died of his wounds\n(at the dawn of the New Era, like Don Jose Avellanos) in the patio\nof the Casa Gould. He consented to sit down and drink a glass of cool\nlemonade in the hut, while the woman, standing up, poured a perfect\ntorrent of words to which he did not listen. He left some money with\nher, as usual. The orphaned children, growing up and well schooled,\ncalling him uncle, clamoured for his blessing. He gave that, too; and in\nthe doorway paused for a moment to look at the flat face of the San Tome\nmountain with a faint frown. This slight contraction of his bronzed brow\ncasting a marked tinge of severity upon his usual unbending expression,\nwas observed at the Lodge which he attended--but went away before the\nbanquet. He wore it at the meeting of some good comrades, Italians\nand Occidentals, assembled in his honour under the presidency of an\nindigent, sickly, somewhat hunchbacked little photographer, with a white\nface and a magnanimous soul dyed crimson by a bloodthirsty hate of\nall capitalists, oppressors of the two hemispheres. The heroic Giorgio\nViola, old revolutionist, would have understood nothing of his opening\nspeech; and Captain Fidanza, lavishly generous as usual to some poor\ncomrades, made no speech at all. He had listened, frowning, with his\nmind far away, and walked off unapproachable, silent, like a man full of\ncares.\n\nHis frown deepened as, in the early morning, he watched the stone-masons\ngo off to the Great Isabel, in lighters loaded with squared blocks of\nstone, enough to add another course to the squat light-tower. That was\nthe rate of the work. One course per day.\n\nAnd Captain Fidanza meditated. The presence of strangers on the island\nwould cut him completely off the treasure. It had been difficult and\ndangerous enough before. He was afraid, and he was angry. He thought\nwith the resolution of a master and the cunning of a cowed slave. Then\nhe went ashore.\n\nHe was a man of resource and ingenuity; and, as usual, the expedient he\nfound at a critical moment was effective enough to alter the situation\nradically. He had the gift of evolving safety out of the very danger,\nthis incomparable Nostromo, this \"fellow in a thousand.\" With Giorgio\nestablished on the Great Isabel, there would be no need for concealment.\nHe would be able to go openly, in daylight, to see his daughters--one of\nhis daughters--and stay late talking to the old Garibaldino. Then in the\ndark . . . Night after night . . . He would dare to grow rich quicker\nnow. He yearned to clasp, embrace, absorb, subjugate in unquestioned\npossession this treasure, whose tyranny had weighed upon his mind, his\nactions, his very sleep.\n\nHe went to see his friend Captain Mitchell--and the thing was done as\nDr. Monygham had related to Mrs. Gould. When the project was mooted to\nthe Garibaldino, something like the faint reflection, the dim ghost of a\nvery ancient smile, stole under the white and enormous moustaches of the\nold hater of kings and ministers. His daughters were the object of his\nanxious care. The younger, especially. Linda, with her mother's voice,\nhad taken more her mother's place. Her deep, vibrating \"Eh, Padre?\"\nseemed, but for the change of the word, the very echo of the\nimpassioned, remonstrating \"Eh, Giorgio?\" of poor Signora Teresa. It was\nhis fixed opinion that the town was no proper place for his girls.\nThe infatuated but guileless Ramirez was the object of his profound\naversion, as resuming the sins of the country whose people were blind,\nvile esclavos.\n\nOn his return from his next voyage, Captain Fidanza found the Violas\nsettled in the light-keeper's cottage. His knowledge of Giorgio's\nidiosyncrasies had not played him false. The Garibaldino had refused\nto entertain the idea of any companion whatever, except his girls.\nAnd Captain Mitchell, anxious to please his poor Nostromo, with that\nfelicity of inspiration which only true affection can give, had formally\nappointed Linda Viola as under-keeper of the Isabel's Light.\n\n\"The light is private property,\" he used to explain. \"It belongs to my\nCompany. I've the power to nominate whom I like, and Viola it shall be.\nIt's about the only thing Nostromo--a man worth his weight in gold, mind\nyou--has ever asked me to do for him.\"\n\nDirectly his schooner was anchored opposite the New Custom House, with\nits sham air of a Greek temple, flatroofed, with a colonnade, Captain\nFidanza went pulling his small boat out of the harbour, bound for the\nGreat Isabel, openly in the light of a declining day, before all men's\neyes, with a sense of having mastered the fates. He must establish a\nregular position. He would ask him for his daughter now. He thought of\nGiselle as he pulled. Linda loved him, perhaps, but the old man would be\nglad to keep the elder, who had his wife's voice.\n\nHe did not pull for the narrow strand where he had landed with Decoud,\nand afterwards alone on his first visit to the treasure. He made for the\nbeach at the other end, and walked up the regular and gentle slope of\nthe wedge-shaped island. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar, sitting\non a bench under the front wall of the cottage, lifted his arm slightly\nto his loud hail. He walked up. Neither of the girls appeared.\n\n\"It is good here,\" said the old man, in his austere, far-away manner.\n\nNostromo nodded; then, after a short silence--\n\n\"You saw my schooner pass in not two hours ago? Do you know why I am\nhere before, so to speak, my anchor has fairly bitten into the ground of\nthis port of Sulaco?\"\n\n\"You are welcome like a son,\" the old man declared, quietly, staring\naway upon the sea.\n\n\"Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well,\nviejo. It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you\nfor----\"\n\nA sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He\ndared not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a\nmarked weight and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.\n\n\"For my wife!\" . . . His heart was beating fast. \"It is time you----\"\n\nThe Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. \"That was left for\nyou to judge.\"\n\nHe got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa's death, thick,\nsnow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door,\nand called out in his strong voice--\n\n\"Linda.\"\n\nHer answer came sharp and faint from within; and the appalled Nostromo\nstood up, too, but remained mute, gazing at the door. He was afraid. He\nwas not afraid of being refused the girl he loved--no mere refusal could\nstand between him and a woman he desired--but the shining spectre of\nthe treasure rose before him, claiming his allegiance in a silence that\ncould not be gainsaid. He was afraid, because, neither dead nor\nalive, like the Gringos on Azuera, he belonged body and soul to the\nunlawfulness of his audacity. He was afraid of being forbidden the\nisland. He was afraid, and said nothing.\n\nSeeing the two men standing up side by side to await her, Linda stopped\nin the doorway. Nothing could alter the passionate dead whiteness of her\nface; but her black eyes seemed to catch and concentrate all the light\nof the low sun in a flaming spark within the black depths, covered at\nonce by the slow descent of heavy eyelids.\n\n\"Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor.\" Old Viola's voice\nresounded with a force that seemed to fill the whole gulf.\n\nShe stepped forward with her eyes nearly closed, like a sleep-walker in\na beatific dream.\n\nNostromo made a superhuman effort. \"It is time, Linda, we two were\nbetrothed,\" he said, steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.\n\nShe put her hand into his offered palm, lowering her head, dark with\nbronze glints, upon which her father's hand rested for a moment.\n\n\"And so the soul of the dead is satisfied.\"\n\nThis came from Giorgio Viola, who went on talking for a while of his\ndead wife; while the two, sitting side by side, never looked at each\nother. Then the old man ceased; and Linda, motionless, began to speak.\n\n\"Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I have lived for you alone,\nGian' Battista. And that you knew! You knew it . . . Battistino.\"\n\nShe pronounced the name exactly with her mother's intonation. A gloom as\nof the grave covered Nostromo's heart.\n\n\"Yes. I knew,\" he said.\n\nThe heroic Garibaldino sat on the same bench bowing his hoary head, his\nold soul dwelling alone with its memories, tender and violent, terrible\nand dreary--solitary on the earth full of men.\n\nAnd Linda, his best-loved daughter, was saying, \"I was yours ever since\nI can remember. I had only to think of you for the earth to become empty\nto my eyes. When you were there, I could see no one else. I was yours.\nNothing is changed. The world belongs to you, and you let me live in\nit.\" . . . She dropped her low, vibrating voice to a still lower note,\nand found other things to say--torturing for the man at her side. Her\nmurmur ran on ardent and voluble. She did not seem to see her sister,\nwho came out with an altar-cloth she was embroidering in her hands, and\npassed in front of them, silent, fresh, fair, with a quick glance and a\nfaint smile, to sit a little away on the other side of Nostromo.\n\nThe evening was still. The sun sank almost to the edge of a purple\nocean; and the white lighthouse, livid against the background of clouds\nfilling the head of the gulf, bore the lantern red and glowing, like a\nlive ember kindled by the fire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure,\nraised the altar-cloth from time to time to hide nervous yawns, as of a\nyoung panther.\n\nSuddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and seizing her head, covered her\nface with kisses. Nostromo's brain reeled. When she left her, as if\nstunned by the violent caresses, with her hands lying in her lap, the\nslave of the treasure felt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Giorgio\nlifted his leonine head.\n\n\"Where are you going, Linda?\"\n\n\"To the light, padre mio.\"\n\n\"Si, si--to your duty.\"\n\nHe got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter; then, in a tone whose\nfestive note seemed the echo of a mood lost in the night of ages--\n\n\"I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son! The old man knows where to\nfind a bottle of wine, too.\"\n\nHe turned to Giselle, with a change to austere tenderness.\n\n\"And you, little one, pray not to the God of priests and slaves, but to\nthe God of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children,\nto give thee a man like this one for a husband.\"\n\nHis hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostromo's shoulder; then he\nwent in. The hopeless slave of the San Tome silver felt at these words\nthe venomous fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was\nappalled by the novelty of the experience, by its force, by its physical\nintimacy. A husband! A husband for her! And yet it was natural that\nGiselle should have a husband at some time or other. He had never\nrealized that before. In discovering that her beauty could belong\nto another he felt as though he could kill this one of old Giorgio's\ndaughters also. He muttered moodily--\n\n\"They say you love Ramirez.\"\n\nShe shook her head without looking at him. Coppery glints rippled to and\nfro on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft,\npure sheen of a priceless pearl in the splendour of the sunset, mingling\nthe gloom of starry spaces, the purple of the sea, and the crimson of\nthe sky in a magnificent stillness.\n\n\"No,\" she said, slowly. \"I never loved him. I think I never . . . He\nloves me--perhaps.\"\n\nThe seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes\nremained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought.\n\n\"Ramirez told you he loved you?\" asked Nostromo, restraining himself.\n\n\"Ah! once--one evening . . .\"\n\n\"The miserable . . . Ha!\"\n\nHe had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute\nwith anger.\n\n\"Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian' Battista! Poor wretch that I am!\"\nshe lamented in ingenuous tones. \"I told Linda, and she scolded--she\nscolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And she told\nfather, who took down his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then you\ncame, and she told you.\"\n\nHe looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white\nthroat, which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating,\ndelicate, and alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible?\nIt dawned upon him that in these last years he had really seen very\nlittle--nothing--of her. Nothing. She had come into the world like\na thing unknown. She had come upon him unawares. She was a danger. A\nfrightful danger. The instinctive mood of fierce determination that had\nnever failed him before the perils of this life added its steady force\nto the violence of his passion. She, in a voice that recalled to him the\nsong of running water, the tinkling of a silver bell, continued--\n\n\"And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to\nthe sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sanctissima Madre.\nMy hair shall turn grey on this tedious island. I could hate you, Gian'\nBattista!\"\n\nHe laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She bemoaned\nher fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its perfume in the\ncoolness of the evening, the indefinable seduction of her person. Was\nit her fault that nobody ever had admired Linda? Even when they were\nlittle, going out with their mother to Mass, she remembered that people\ntook no notice of Linda, who was fearless, and chose instead to frighten\nher, who was timid, with their attention. It was her hair like gold, she\nsupposed.\n\nHe broke out--\n\n\"Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips like the\nrose; your round arms, your white throat.\" . . .\n\nImperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply all\nover to the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was no more\nself-conscious than a flower. But she was pleased. And perhaps even\na flower loves to hear itself praised. He glanced down, and added,\nimpetuously--\n\n\"Your little feet!\"\n\nLeaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she seemed to\nbask languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only her lowered eyes\nglanced at her little feet.\n\n\"And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is terrible. Ah!\nnow she will understand better since you have told her you love her. She\nwill not be so fierce.\"\n\n\"Chica!\" said Nostromo, \"I have not told her anything.\"\n\n\"Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come and tell her, so that I may have\nsome peace from her scolding and--perhaps--who knows . . .\"\n\n\"Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Is that it? You . . .\"\n\n\"Mercy of God! How violent you are, Giovanni,\" she said, unmoved. \"Who\nis Ramirez . . . Ramirez . . . Who is he?\" she repeated, dreamily, in\nthe dusk and gloom of the clouded gulf, with a low red streak in the\nwest like a hot bar of glowing iron laid across the entrance of a world\nsombre as a cavern, where the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores had\nhidden his conquests of love and wealth.\n\n\"Listen, Giselle,\" he said, in measured tones; \"I will tell no word of\nlove to your sister. Do you want to know why?\"\n\n\"Alas! I could not understand perhaps, Giovanni. Father says you are not\nlike other men; that no one had ever understood you properly; that the\nrich will be surprised yet. . . . Oh! saints in heaven! I am weary.\"\n\nShe raised her embroidery to conceal the lower part of her face, then\nlet it fall on her lap. The lantern was shaded on the land side, but\nslanting away from the dark column of the lighthouse they could see the\nlong shaft of light, kindled by Linda, go out to strike the expiring\nglow in a horizon of purple and red.\n\nGiselle Viola, with her head resting against the wall of the house,\nher eyes half closed, and her little feet, in white stockings and black\nslippers, crossed over each other, seemed to surrender herself, tranquil\nand fatal, to the gathering dusk. The charm of her body, the promising\nmysteriousness of her indolence, went out into the night of the Placid\nGulf like a fresh and intoxicating fragrance spreading out in the\nshadows, impregnating the air. The incorruptible Nostromo breathed\nher ambient seduction in the tumultuous heaving of his breast. Before\nleaving the harbour he had thrown off the store clothing of Captain\nFidanza, for greater ease in the long pull out to the islands. He stood\nbefore her in the red sash and check shirt as he used to appear on the\nCompany's wharf--a Mediterranean sailor come ashore to try his luck in\nCostaguana. The dusk of purple and red enveloped him, too--close, soft,\nprofound, as no more than fifty yards from that spot it had gathered\nevening after evening about the self-destructive passion of Don Martin\nDecoud's utter scepticism, flaming up to death in solitude.\n\n\"You have got to hear,\" he began at last, with perfect self-control. \"I\nshall say no word of love to your sister, to whom I am betrothed from\nthis evening, because it is you that I love. It is you!\" . . .\n\nThe dusk let him see yet the tender and voluptuous smile that came\ninstinctively upon her lips shaped for love and kisses, freeze hard in\nthe drawn, haggard lines of terror. He could not restrain himself any\nlonger. While she shrank from his approach, her arms went out to him,\nabandoned and regal in the dignity of her languid surrender. He held her\nhead in his two hands, and showered rapid kisses upon the upturned face\nthat gleamed in the purple dusk. Masterful and tender, he was entering\nslowly upon the fulness of his possession. And he perceived that she was\ncrying. Then the incomparable Capataz, the man of careless loves, became\ngentle and caressing, like a woman to the grief of a child. He murmured\nto her fondly. He sat down by her and nursed her fair head on his\nbreast. He called her his star and his little flower.\n\nIt had grown dark. From the living-room of the light-keeper's cottage,\nwhere Giorgio, one of the Immortal Thousand, was bending his leonine and\nheroic head over a charcoal fire, there came the sound of sizzling and\nthe aroma of an artistic frittura.\n\nIn the obscure disarray of that thing, happening like a cataclysm, it\nwas in her feminine head that some gleam of reason survived. He was lost\nto the world in their embraced stillness. But she said, whispering into\nhis ear--\n\n\"God of mercy! What will become of me--here--now--between this sky and\nthis water I hate? Linda, Linda--I see her!\" . . . She tried to get out\nof his arms, suddenly relaxed at the sound of that name. But there was\nno one approaching their black shapes, enlaced and struggling on the\nwhite background of the wall. \"Linda! Poor Linda! I tremble! I shall die\nof fear before my poor sister Linda, betrothed to-day to Giovanni--my\nlover! Giovanni, you must have been mad! I cannot understand you! You\nare not like other men! I will not give you up--never--only to God\nhimself! But why have you done this blind, mad, cruel, frightful thing?\"\n\nReleased, she hung her head, let fall her hands. The altar-cloth, as if\ntossed by a great wind, lay far away from them, gleaming white on the\nblack ground.\n\n\"From fear of losing my hope of you,\" said Nostromo.\n\n\"You knew that you had my soul! You know everything! It was made for\nyou! But what could stand between you and me? What? Tell me!\" she\nrepeated, without impatience, in superb assurance.\n\n\"Your dead mother,\" he said, very low.\n\n\"Ah! . . . Poor mother! She has always . . . She is a saint in heaven\nnow, and I cannot give you up to her. No, Giovanni. Only to God alone.\nYou were mad--but it is done. Oh! what have you done? Giovanni, my\nbeloved, my life, my master, do not leave me here in this grave of\nclouds. You cannot leave me now. You must take me away--at once--this\ninstant--in the little boat. Giovanni, carry me off to-night, from my\nfear of Linda's eyes, before I have to look at her again.\"\n\nShe nestled close to him. The slave of the San Tome silver felt the\nweight as of chains upon his limbs, a pressure as of a cold hand upon\nhis lips. He struggled against the spell.\n\n\"I cannot,\" he said. \"Not yet. There is something that stands between us\ntwo and the freedom of the world.\"\n\nShe pressed her form closer to his side with a subtle and naive instinct\nof seduction.\n\n\"You rave, Giovanni--my lover!\" she whispered, engagingly. \"What can\nthere be? Carry me off--in thy very hands--to Dona Emilia--away from\nhere. I am not very heavy.\"\n\nIt seemed as though she expected him to lift her up at once in his two\npalms. She had lost the notion of all impossibility. Anything could\nhappen on this night of wonder. As he made no movement, she almost cried\naloud--\n\n\"I tell you I am afraid of Linda!\" And still he did not move. She became\nquiet and wily. \"What can there be?\" she asked, coaxingly.\n\nHe felt her warm, breathing, alive, quivering in the hollow of his\narm. In the exulting consciousness of his strength, and the triumphant\nexcitement of his mind, he struck out for his freedom.\n\n\"A treasure,\" he said. All was still. She did not understand. \"A\ntreasure. A treasure of silver to buy a gold crown for thy brow.\"\n\n\"A treasure?\" she repeated in a faint voice, as if from the depths of a\ndream. \"What is it you say?\"\n\nShe disengaged herself gently. He got up and looked down at her, aware\nof her face, of her hair, her lips, the dimples on her cheeks--seeing\nthe fascination of her person in the night of the gulf as if in the\nblaze of noonday. Her nonchalant and seductive voice trembled with the\nexcitement of admiring awe and ungovernable curiosity.\n\n\"A treasure of silver!\" she stammered out. Then pressed on faster:\n\"What? Where? How did you get it, Giovanni?\"\n\nHe wrestled with the spell of captivity. It was as if striking a heroic\nblow that he burst out--\n\n\"Like a thief!\"\n\nThe densest blackness of the Placid Gulf seemed to fall upon his head.\nHe could not see her now. She had vanished into a long, obscure abysmal\nsilence, whence her voice came back to him after a time with a faint\nglimmer, which was her face.\n\n\"I love you! I love you!\"\n\nThese words gave him an unwonted sense of freedom; they cast a spell\nstronger than the accursed spell of the treasure; they changed his weary\nsubjection to that dead thing into an exulting conviction of his power.\nHe would cherish her, he said, in a splendour as great as Dona Emilia's.\nThe rich lived on wealth stolen from the people, but he had taken from\nthe rich nothing--nothing that was not lost to them already by their\nfolly and their betrayal. For he had been betrayed--he said--deceived,\ntempted. She believed him. . . . He had kept the treasure for purposes\nof revenge; but now he cared nothing for it. He cared only for her. He\nwould put her beauty in a palace on a hill crowned with olive trees--a\nwhite palace above a blue sea. He would keep her there like a jewel in\na casket. He would get land for her--her own land fertile with vines and\ncorn--to set her little feet upon. He kissed them. . . . He had already\npaid for it all with the soul of a woman and the life of a man. . . .\nThe Capataz de Cargadores tasted the supreme intoxication of his\ngenerosity. He flung the mastered treasure superbly at her feet in\nthe impenetrable darkness of the gulf, in the darkness defying--as men\nsaid--the knowledge of God and the wit of the devil. But she must let\nhim grow rich first--he warned her.\n\nShe listened as if in a trance. Her fingers stirred in his hair. He got\nup from his knees reeling, weak, empty, as though he had flung his soul\naway.\n\n\"Make haste, then,\" she said. \"Make haste, Giovanni, my lover, my\nmaster, for I will give thee up to no one but God. And I am afraid of\nLinda.\"\n\nHe guessed at her shudder, and swore to do his best. He trusted the\ncourage of her love. She promised to be brave in order to be loved\nalways--far away in a white palace upon a hill above a blue sea. Then\nwith a timid, tentative eagerness she murmured--\n\n\"Where is it? Where? Tell me that, Giovanni.\"\n\nHe opened his mouth and remained silent--thunderstruck.\n\n\"Not that! Not that!\" he gasped out, appalled at the spell of secrecy\nthat had kept him dumb before so many people falling upon his lips again\nwith unimpaired force. Not even to her. Not even to her. It was too\ndangerous. \"I forbid thee to ask,\" he cried at her, deadening cautiously\nthe anger of his voice.\n\nHe had not regained his freedom. The spectre of the unlawful treasure\narose, standing by her side like a figure of silver, pitiless and\nsecret, with a finger on its pale lips. His soul died within him at the\nvision of himself creeping in presently along the ravine, with the smell\nof earth, of damp foliage in his nostrils--creeping in, determined in\na purpose that numbed his breast, and creeping out again loaded with\nsilver, with his ears alert to every sound. It must be done on this very\nnight--that work of a craven slave!\n\nHe stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips, with a\nmuttered command--\n\n\"Tell him I would not stay,\" and was gone suddenly from her, silent,\nwithout as much as a footfall in the dark night.\n\nShe sat still, her head resting indolently against the wall, and her\nlittle feet in white stockings and black slippers crossed over each\nother. Old Giorgio, coming out, did not seem to be surprised at the\nintelligence as much as she had vaguely feared. For she was full of\ninexplicable fear now--fear of everything and everybody except of her\nGiovanni and his treasure. But that was incredible.\n\nThe heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo's abrupt departure with a\nsagacious indulgence. He remembered his own feelings, and exhibited a\nmasculine penetration of the true state of the case.\n\n\"Va bene. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter how fair the woman, it galls a\nlittle. Liberty, liberty. There's more than one kind! He has said\nthe great word, and son Gian' Battista is not tame.\" He seemed to be\ninstructing the motionless and scared Giselle. . . . \"A man should not\nbe tame,\" he added, dogmatically out of the doorway. Her stillness and\nsilence seemed to displease him. \"Do not give way to the enviousness of\nyour sister's lot,\" he admonished her, very grave, in his deep voice.\n\nPresently he had to come to the door again to call in his younger\ndaughter. It was late. He shouted her name three times before she\neven moved her head. Left alone, she had become the helpless prey of\nastonishment. She walked into the bedroom she shared with Linda like\na person profoundly asleep. That aspect was so marked that even old\nGiorgio, spectacled, raising his eyes from the Bible, shook his head as\nshe shut the door behind her.\n\nShe walked right across the room without looking at anything, and sat\ndown at once by the open window. Linda, stealing down from the tower in\nthe exuberance of her happiness, found her with a lighted candle at her\nback, facing the black night full of sighing gusts of wind and the sound\nof distant showers--a true night of the gulf, too dense for the eye of\nGod and the wiles of the devil. She did not turn her head at the opening\nof the door.\n\nThere was something in that immobility which reached Linda in the depths\nof her paradise. The elder sister guessed angrily: the child is\nthinking of that wretched Ramirez. Linda longed to talk. She said in\nher arbitrary voice, \"Giselle!\" and was not answered by the slightest\nmovement.\n\nThe girl that was going to live in a palace and walk on ground of her\nown was ready to die with terror. Not for anything in the world would\nshe have turned her head to face her sister. Her heart was beating\nmadly. She said with subdued haste--\n\n\"Do not speak to me. I am praying.\"\n\nLinda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Giselle sat on unbelieving,\nlost, dazed, patient, as if waiting for the confirmation of the\nincredible. The hopeless blackness of the clouds seemed part of a dream,\ntoo. She waited.\n\nShe did not wait in vain. The man whose soul was dead within him,\ncreeping out of the ravine, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam\nof the lighted window, and could not help retracing his steps from the\nbeach.\n\nOn that impenetrable background, obliterating the lofty mountains by\nthe seaboard, she saw the slave of the San Tome silver, as if by\nan extraordinary power of a miracle. She accepted his return as if\nhenceforth the world could hold no surprise for all eternity.\n\nShe rose, compelled and rigid, and began to speak long before the light\nfrom within fell upon the face of the approaching man.\n\n\"You have come back to carry me off. It is well! Open thy arms,\nGiovanni, my lover. I am coming.\"\n\nHis prudent footsteps stopped, and with his eyes glistening wildly, he\nspoke in a harsh voice:\n\n\"Not yet. I must grow rich slowly.\" . . . A threatening note came into\nhis tone. \"Do not forget that you have a thief for your lover.\"\n\n\"Yes! Yes!\" she whispered, hastily. \"Come nearer! Listen! Do not give me\nup, Giovanni! Never, never! . . . I will be patient! . . .\"\n\nHer form drooped consolingly over the low casement towards the slave of\nthe unlawful treasure. The light in the room went out, and weighted with\nsilver, the magnificent Capataz clasped her round her white neck in the\ndarkness of the gulf as a drowning man clutches at a straw.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nOn the day Mrs. Gould was going, in Dr. Monygham's words, to \"give a\ntertulia,\" Captain Fidanza went down the side of his schooner lying in\nSulaco harbour, calm, unbending, deliberate in the way he sat down\nin his dinghy and took up his sculls. He was later than usual. The\nafternoon was well advanced before he landed on the beach of the Great\nIsabel, and with a steady pace climbed the slope of the island.\n\nFrom a distance he made out Giselle sitting in a chair tilted back\nagainst the end of the house, under the window of the girl's room. She\nhad her embroidery in her hands, and held it well up to her eyes. The\ntranquillity of that girlish figure exasperated the feeling of perpetual\nstruggle and strife he carried in his breast. He became angry. It seemed\nto him that she ought to hear the clanking of his fetters--his silver\nfetters, from afar. And while ashore that day, he had met the doctor\nwith the evil eye, who had looked at him very hard.\n\nThe raising of her eyes mollified him. They smiled in their flower-like\nfreshness straight upon his heart. Then she frowned. It was a warning to\nbe cautious. He stopped some distance away, and in a loud, indifferent\ntone, said--\n\n\"Good day, Giselle. Is Linda up yet?\"\n\n\"Yes. She is in the big room with father.\"\n\nHe approached then, and, looking through the window into the bedroom\nfor fear of being detected by Linda returning there for some reason, he\nsaid, moving only his lips--\n\n\"You love me?\"\n\n\"More than my life.\" She went on with her embroidery under his\ncontemplating gaze and continued to speak, looking at her work, \"Or I\ncould not live. I could not, Giovanni. For this life is like death. Oh,\nGiovanni, I shall perish if you do not take me away.\"\n\nHe smiled carelessly. \"I will come to the window when it's dark,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"No, don't, Giovanni. Not-to-night. Linda and father have been talking\ntogether for a long time today.\"\n\n\"What about?\"\n\n\"Ramirez, I fancy I heard. I do not know. I am afraid. I am always\nafraid. It is like dying a thousand times a day. Your love is to me like\nyour treasure to you. It is there, but I can never get enough of it.\"\n\nHe looked at her very still. She was beautiful. His desire had grown\nwithin him. He had two masters now. But she was incapable of sustained\nemotion. She was sincere in what she said, but she slept placidly at\nnight. When she saw him she flamed up always. Then only an increased\ntaciturnity marked the change in her. She was afraid of betraying\nherself. She was afraid of pain, of bodily harm, of sharp words, of\nfacing anger, and witnessing violence. For her soul was light and tender\nwith a pagan sincerity in its impulses. She murmured--\n\n\"Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vineyard on the hills, for which\nwe are starving our love.\"\n\nShe ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at the corner of the house.\n\nNostromo turned to his affianced wife with a greeting, and was amazed at\nher sunken eyes, at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness and anguish\nin her face.\n\n\"Have you been ill?\" he asked, trying to put some concern into this\nquestion.\n\nHer black eyes blazed at him. \"Am I thinner?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes--perhaps--a little.\"\n\n\"And older?\"\n\n\"Every day counts--for all of us.\"\n\n\"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger,\" she said,\nslowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him.\n\nShe waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves.\n\n\"No fear of that,\" he said, absently.\n\nShe turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself\nwith household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation\nwith the old Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties\nunimpaired, only they seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within\nhim. His answers were slow in coming, with an effect of august gravity.\nBut that day he was more animated, quicker; there seemed to be more\nlife in the old lion. He was uneasy for the integrity of his honour.\nHe believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs upon his younger\ndaughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said nothing of\nhis cares to \"Son Gian' Battista.\" It was a touch of senile vanity. He\nwanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the\nhonour of his house.\n\nNostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards\nthe beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile,\nsat down by the side of her father.\n\nEver since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had\nwaited for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous\nravings of that man were no revelation. They had only fixed with\nprecision, as with a nail driven into her heart, that sense of unreality\nand deception which, instead of bliss and security, she had found in\nher intercourse with her promised husband. She had passed on, pouring\nindignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday, she nearly died\nof wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered stone of\nTeresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of\nthe railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian\nUnity. Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying\nhis wife in the sea; and Linda wept upon the stone.\n\nThe gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her\nheart--well and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But\nwhy trample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He\ncould not break that. She dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The\nlittle one that, ever since she could toddle, had always clung to\nher skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she could not help it\nprobably. When there was a man in the case the poor featherheaded wretch\ncould not help herself.\n\nLinda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say\nnothing. But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's\nshort answers, prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by\ntheir curtness that resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon\nthe chair in which her indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark\nof her teeth at the base of the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried\nout. But she had her share of the Viola heroism. Ready to faint with\nterror, she only said, in a lazy voice, \"Madre de Dios! Are you going to\neat me alive, Linda?\" And this outburst passed off leaving no trace upon\nthe situation. \"She knows nothing. She cannot know any thing,\" reflected\nGiselle. \"Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true,\" Linda tried to\npersuade herself.\n\nBut when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting\nwith the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned.\nShe watched him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself\nstoically, \"Will they meet to-night?\" She made up her mind not to leave\nthe tower for a second. When he had disappeared she came out and sat\ndown by her father.\n\nThe venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, \"a young man yet.\" In\none way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him\nof late; and his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was\nnot what his son would have been, had made him restless. He slept very\nlittle now; but for several nights past instead of reading--or only\nsitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, before the\nopen Bible, he had been prowling actively all about the island with his\nold gun, on watch over his honour.\n\nLinda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his\nexcitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was\ngone. His talk of what he would do meant nothing.\n\n\"No,\" the old man interrupted. \"But son Gian' Battista told me--quite\nof himself--that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the\nrascals of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get\nsome of the worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of negroes to help\nhim in his attempt upon the little one. . . . But I am not so old. No!\"\n\nShe argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made;\nand at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women\nhad their obstinate notions which must be humoured--his poor wife was\nlike that, and Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man\nto argue. \"May be. May be,\" he mumbled.\n\nShe was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned\nher eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal\ntenderness, and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat.\nThen she rose and walked over to her.\n\n\"Listen--you,\" she said, roughly.\n\nThe invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew,\nexcited her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes--the Chica--this\nvile thing of white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether\nshe wanted to tear them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their\nmysterious and shameless innocence with kisses of pity and love. And\nsuddenly they became empty, gazing blankly at her, except for a little\nfear not quite buried deep enough with all the other emotions in\nGiselle's heart.\n\nLinda said, \"Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from\nthe island.\"\n\n\"What folly!\" answered the other, and in a perversity born of long\nrestraint, she added: \"He is not the man,\" in a jesting tone with a\ntrembling audacity.\n\n\"No?\" said Linda, through her clenched teeth. \"Is he not? Well, then,\nlook to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at\nnight.\"\n\n\"It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not\nlisten to me.\"\n\n\"I shall say nothing--never any more--to anybody,\" cried Linda,\npassionately.\n\nThis could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away\nsoon--the very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for\never so much silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was\nnot uneasy at her father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not\nto come to the window that night. He had promised to keep away for this\nonce. And she did not know, could not guess or imagine, that he had\nanother reason for coming on the island.\n\nLinda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She\nunlocked the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase,\ncarrying her love for the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an\never-increasing load of shameful fetters. No; she could not throw it\noff. No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And moving about the lantern,\nfilled with twilight and the sheen of the moon, with careful movements\nshe lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body.\n\n\"And with our mother looking on,\" she murmured. \"My own sister--the\nChica!\"\n\nThe whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of\nprisms, glittered and sparkled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds,\ncontaining not a lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And\nLinda, the keeper, in black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden\nchair, alone with her jealousy, far above the shames and passions of the\nearth. A strange, dragging pain as if somebody were pulling her about\nbrutally by her dark hair with bronze glints, made her put her hands up\nto her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And she knew where,\ntoo. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her cheeks,\nwhile the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of\nsilver the entrance of the Placid Gulf--the sombre cavern of clouds and\nstillness in the surf-fretted seaboard.\n\nLinda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither\nher nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten\nher, and also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What\nprevented him? He was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For\nwhat end were these two lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their\nlove. There was no such thing. The hope of regaining him for herself\nmade her break her vow of not leaving the tower that night. She must\ntalk at once to her father, who was wise, and would understand. She ran\ndown the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at the bottom\nshe heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel.\n\nShe felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on\nwithout pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, \"Giselle!\nGiselle!\" then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name\nat the open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing,\ndistracted, round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted\npast her, running silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring\nstraight ahead. She seemed to skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and\nvanished.\n\nLinda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All\nwas still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree\nunder which Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a\nsuccession of senseless images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon\nthe grass. Suddenly she saw her father, standing quietly all alone in\nthe moonlight.\n\nThe Garibaldino--big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard--had a\nmonumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her\nhand upon his arm lightly. He never stirred.\n\n\"What have you done?\" she asked, in her ordinary voice.\n\n\"I have shot Ramirez--infame!\" he answered, with his eyes directed to\nwhere the shade was blackest. \"Like a thief he came, and like a thief he\nfell. The child had to be protected.\"\n\nHe did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood\nthere, rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the\nhonour of his house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm,\nfirm and steady like an arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the\nblackness of the shade. She saw a stir of formless shapes on the ground,\nand stopped short. A murmur of despair and tears grew louder to her\nstrained hearing.\n\n\"I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you\npromised. Oh! Why--why did you come, Giovanni?\"\n\nIt was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice\nof the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the\nSan Tome treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while\nstealing across the open towards the ravine to get some more silver,\nanswered careless and cool, but sounding startlingly weak from the\nground.\n\n\"It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing\nthee once more--my star, my little flower.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and\nthe Senor Administrador had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham,\nwho had been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived\ndriving along the wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the\ndeserted Calle de la Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the\nCasa still open.\n\nHe limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio\non the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous\nmajordomo remained open-mouthed at this late invasion.\n\n\"Don't put out the lights,\" commanded the doctor. \"I want to see the\nsenora.\"\n\n\"The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's cancillaria,\" said Basilio,\nin an unctuous voice. \"The Senor Administrador starts for the mountain\nin an hour. There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it\nappears. A shameless people without reason and decency. And idle, senor.\nIdle.\"\n\n\"You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself,\" said the doctor,\nwith that faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved.\n\"Don't put the lights out.\"\n\nBasilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly\nlighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the\nhouse. A jingle of spurs died out. The Senor Administrador was off to\nthe mountain.\n\nWith a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the\nshimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a\nmass of fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the \"first\nlady of Sulaco,\" as Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along\nthe lighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreams of wealth, considered,\nloved, respected, honoured, and as solitary as any human being had ever\nbeen, perhaps, on this earth.\n\nThe doctor's \"Mrs. Gould! One minute!\" stopped her with a start at the\ndoor of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and\ncircumstance, the sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst\nthe groups of furniture, recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected\nmeeting with Martin Decoud; she seemed to hear in the silence the voice\nof that man, dead miserably so many years ago, pronounce the words,\n\"Antonia left her fan here.\" But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a\nlittle altered by his excitement. She remarked his shining eyes.\n\n\"Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember\nwhat I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha,\na decked boat, coming from Zapiga, with four negroes in her, passing\nclose to the Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's\nvoice--Linda's, as a matter of fact--commanding them (it's a moonlight\nnight) to go round to the beach and take up a wounded man to the town.\nThe patron (from whom I've heard all this), of course, did so at once.\nHe told me that when they got round to the low side of the Great Isabel,\nthey found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her: she led them\nunder a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo lying\non the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola\nstanding some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction\nthey got a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off\nthe legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and--and Giselle.\nThe negroes brought him in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour.\nHe made the attendant send for me. But it was not me he wanted to\nsee--it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you.\"\n\n\"Me?\" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little.\n\n\"Yes, you!\" the doctor burst out. \"He begged me--his enemy, as he\nthinks--to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to\nyou alone.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" murmured Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"He said to me, 'Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof\nover her head.' . . . Mrs. Gould,\" the doctor pursued, in the greatest\nexcitement. \"Do you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter--that\nwas lost?\"\n\nMrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of\nthat silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated\nhorror that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed\nthe truth from her husband about that very silver. She had been\ncorrupted by her fears at that time, and she had never forgiven herself.\nMoreover, that silver, which would never have come down if her husband\nhad been made acquainted with the news brought by Decoud, had been in\na roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr. Monygham's death. And these\nthings appeared to her very dreadful.\n\n\"Was it lost, though?\" the doctor exclaimed. \"I've always felt that\nthere was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants\nnow, at the point of death----\"\n\n\"The point of death?\" repeated Mrs. Gould.\n\n\"Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that\nsilver which----\"\n\n\"Oh, no! No!\" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. \"Isn't it lost and\ndone with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in\nthe world miserable?\"\n\nThe doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At\nlast he ventured, very low--\n\n\"And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as\nthough father and sister had----\"\n\nMrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these\ngirls.\n\n\"I have a volante here,\" the doctor said. \"If you don't mind getting\ninto that----\"\n\nHe waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown\nover her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood.\n\nIt was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening\ncostume, this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side\nof the bed on which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched\nout motionless on his back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a\nsombre and energetic relief to his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous\nhands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lying open\nand idle upon a white coverlet.\n\n\"She is innocent,\" the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as\nthough afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his\nspirit still kept upon his body. \"She is innocent. It is I alone. But no\nmatter. For these things I would answer to no man or woman alive.\"\n\nHe paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood,\nbent over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs\nof Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with\ncoppery gleams loose and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly\ntroubled the silence of the room.\n\n\"Ha! Old Giorgio--the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming\nupon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no\nbetter. But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The\nhonour was safe. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of\nthe world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is\nbroken!\"\n\nA low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down.\n\n\"I cannot see her. . . . No matter,\" he went on, with the shadow of the\nold magnificent carelessness in his voice. \"One kiss is enough, if\nthere is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like\nsunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there\nbetween them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed\nfrom one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of\nthe man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even\nRamirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez\nwho overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.\" He paused, made an\neffort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared--\n\n\"I die betrayed--betrayed by----\"\n\nBut he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed.\n\n\"She would not have betrayed me,\" he began again, opening his eyes very\nwide. \"She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have\ntorn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I\nwould have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four\ningots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure\nwith four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The\ndoctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!\"\n\nMrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension.\n\n\"What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?\"\n\n\"Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was\nto come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think\nI have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has\nkilled me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is.\nBut you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said,\n'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it\nwas lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up,\nNostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'\"\n\n\"Nostromo!\" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. \"I, too, have hated\nthe idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart.\"\n\n\"Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so\nwell how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the\npoor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But\nthere is something accursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you where\nthe treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining! Incorruptible!\"\n\nA pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes,\nplain to the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted\nher glance from the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled,\nwishing to hear no more of the silver.\n\n\"No, Capataz,\" she said. \"No one misses it now. Let it be lost for\never.\"\n\nAfter hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word,\nmade no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham,\nexcited to the highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up\nto the two women.\n\n\"Now, Mrs. Gould,\" he said, almost brutally in his impatience, \"tell me,\nwas I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you\nnot? He told you----\"\n\n\"He told me nothing,\" said Mrs. Gould, steadily.\n\nThe light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr.\nMonygham's eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs.\nGould. But her word was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable\nfatality affirming the victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even\nbefore that woman, whom he loved with secret devotion, he had been\ndefeated by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, the man who had lived\nhis own life on the assumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, and\ncourage!\n\n\"Pray send at once somebody for my carriage,\" spoke Mrs. Gould from\nwithin her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, \"Come nearer me, child;\ncome closer. We will wait here.\"\n\nGiselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling\nhair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm\nof the unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the\nhero without a stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops,\nthe head of the girl, who would have followed a thief to the end of the\nworld, rested on the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco,\nthe wife of the Senor Administrador of the San Tome mine. And Mrs.\nGould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited, had the\nfirst and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy of Dr.\nMonygham himself.\n\n\"Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his\ntreasure.\"\n\n\"Senora, he loved me. He loved me,\" Giselle whispered, despairingly. \"He\nloved me as no one had ever been loved before.\"\n\n\"I have been loved, too,\" Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone.\n\nGiselle clung to her convulsively. \"Oh, senora, but you shall live\nadored to the end of your life,\" she sobbed out.\n\nMrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She\nhelped in the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of\nthe landau, she leaned over to him.\n\n\"You can do nothing?\" she whispered.\n\n\"No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not\nmatter. I just had one look. . . . Useless.\"\n\nBut he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He\ncould get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained\nin the street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the\nwhite mules.\n\nThe rumour of some accident--an accident to Captain Fidanza--had been\nspreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark\nshapes of towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers--the poorest of the\npoor--hung about the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the\nmoonlight of the empty street.\n\nThere was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small,\nfrail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool\nnear the head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He\nhad been fetched by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had\nheard from a negro belonging to a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been\nbrought ashore mortally wounded.\n\n\"Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?\" he asked, anxiously. \"Do\nnot forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with\ntheir own weapons.\"\n\nNostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled\nup on the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey.\nThen, after a long silence--\n\n\"Comrade Fidanza,\" he began, solemnly, \"you have refused all aid from\nthat doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?\"\n\nIn the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and\nopened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a\nglance of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his\neyelids fell, and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan\nafter an hour of immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the\nmost atrocious sufferings.\n\nDr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the\nglitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great\nIsabel sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds.\n\n\"Pull easy,\" he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to\nimagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within\nhimself. \"Pull easy,\" he repeated.\n\n* * * * * *\n\nFrom the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had\nnot stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand\ngrasping the barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off\nNostromo for ever from her had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped\nbefore him. He did not seem to be aware of her presence, but when,\nlosing her forced calmness, she cried out--\n\n\"Do you know whom you have killed?\" he answered--\n\n\"Ramirez the vagabond.\"\n\nWhite, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face.\nAfter a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of\nher peals. Then she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled--\n\n\"He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice.\"\n\nThe gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a\nmoment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly.\n\n\"You are too old to understand. Come into the house.\"\n\nHe let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming\nto the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity\nof the last few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught\nat the back of his chair.\n\n\"In son Gian' Battista's voice,\" he repeated in a severe tone. \"I heard\nhim--Ramirez--the miserable----\"\n\nLinda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear--\n\n\"You have killed Gian' Battista.\"\n\nThe old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.\n\n\"Where is the child?\" he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness\nof the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit\nup half the night with the open Bible before him.\n\nLinda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes.\n\n\"She is asleep,\" she said. \"We shall talk of her tomorrow.\"\n\nShe could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an\nalmost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came\nover him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her\nthe whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty--\n\n\"Give me the book.\"\n\nLinda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the\nBible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.\n\n\"The child had to be protected,\" he said, in a strange, mournful voice.\n\nBehind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying without noise. Suddenly\nshe started for the door. He heard her move.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he asked.\n\n\"To the light,\" she answered, turning round to look at him balefully.\n\n\"The light! Si--duty.\"\n\nVery upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic in his absorbed quietness,\nhe felt in the pocket of his red shirt for the spectacles given him by\nDona Emilia. He put them on. After a long period of immobility he opened\nthe book, and from on high looked through the glasses at the small print\nin double columns. A rigid, stern expression settled upon his features\nwith a slight frown, as if in response to some gloomy thought or\nunpleasant sensation. But he never detached his eyes from the book while\nhe swayed forward, gently, gradually, till his snow-white head\nrested upon the open pages. A wooden clock ticked methodically on the\nwhite-washed wall, and growing slowly cold the Garibaldino lay alone,\nrugged, undecayed, like an old oak uprooted by a treacherous gust of\nwind.\n\nThe light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure\nof the San Tome mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars\nthe lantern sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black\nspeck upon the shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery,\nrested her head on the rail. The moon, drooping in the western board,\nlooked at her radiantly.\n\nBelow, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a\npassing boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.\n\n\"Linda!\" he shouted, throwing back his head. \"Linda!\"\n\nLinda stood up. She had recognized the voice.\n\n\"Is he dead?\" she cried, bending over.\n\n\"Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,\" the doctor answered from below.\n\"Pull to the beach,\" he said to the rowers.\n\nLinda's black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern\nwith her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw\nherself over.\n\n\"It is I who loved you,\" she whispered, with a face as set and white\nas marble in the moonlight. \"I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed\nmiserably for her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand.\nBut I shall never forget thee. Never!\"\n\nShe stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her\nfidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.\n\n\"Never! Gian' Battista!\"\n\nDr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass\nover his head. It was another of Nostromo's triumphs, the greatest, the\nmost enviable, the most sinister of all. In that true cry of undying\npassion that seemed to ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera and away to\nthe bright line of the horizon, overhung by a big white cloud shining\nlike a mass of solid silver, the genius of the magnificent Capataz de\nCargadores dominated the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure\nand love."