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"
I
did
n't
learn
till
later
in
the
afternoon
whom
it
was
that
Nostromo
,
with
his
Cargadores
and
some
Italian
workmen
as
well
,
had
managed
to
save
from
those
drunken
rascals
.
That
man
has
a
peculiar
talent
when
anything
striking
to
the
imagination
has
to
be
done
.
I
made
that
remark
to
him
afterwards
when
we
met
after
some
sort
of
order
had
been
restored
in
the
town
,
and
the
answer
he
made
rather
surprised
me
.
He
said
quite
moodily
,
'
And
how
much
do
I
get
for
that
,
senor
?
'
Then
it
dawned
upon
me
that
perhaps
this
man
's
vanity
has
been
satiated
by
the
adulation
of
the
common
people
and
the
confidence
of
his
superiors
!
"
Decoud
paused
to
light
a
cigarette
,
then
,
with
his
head
still
over
his
writing
,
he
blew
a
cloud
of
smoke
,
which
seemed
to
rebound
from
the
paper
.
He
took
up
the
pencil
again
.
"
That
was
yesterday
evening
on
the
Plaza
,
while
he
sat
on
the
steps
of
the
cathedral
,
his
hands
between
his
knees
,
holding
the
bridle
of
his
famous
silver-grey
mare
.
He
had
led
his
body
of
Cargadores
splendidly
all
day
long
.
He
looked
fatigued
.
I
do
n't
know
how
I
looked
.
Very
dirty
,
I
suppose
.
But
I
suppose
I
also
looked
pleased
.
From
the
time
the
fugitive
President
had
been
got
off
to
the
S.
S.
Minerva
,
the
tide
of
success
had
turned
against
the
mob
.
They
had
been
driven
off
the
harbour
,
and
out
of
the
better
streets
of
the
town
,
into
their
own
maze
of
ruins
and
tolderias
.
You
must
understand
that
this
riot
,
whose
primary
object
was
undoubtedly
the
getting
hold
of
the
San
Tome
silver
stored
in
the
lower
rooms
of
the
Custom
House
(
besides
the
general
looting
of
the
Ricos
)
,
had
acquired
a
political
colouring
from
the
fact
of
two
Deputies
to
the
Provincial
Assembly
,
Senores
Gamacho
and
Fuentes
,
both
from
Bolson
,
putting
themselves
at
the
head
of
it
--
late
in
the
afternoon
,
it
is
true
,
when
the
mob
,
disappointed
in
their
hopes
of
loot
,
made
a
stand
in
the
narrow
streets
to
the
cries
of
'
Viva
la
Libertad
!
Down
with
Feudalism
!
'
(
I
wonder
what
they
imagine
feudalism
to
be
?
)
'
Down
with
the
Goths
and
Paralytics
.
'
I
suppose
the
Senores
Gamacho
and
Fuentes
knew
what
they
were
doing
.
They
are
prudent
gentlemen
.
In
the
Assembly
they
called
themselves
Moderates
,
and
opposed
every
energetic
measure
with
philanthropic
pensiveness
.
At
the
first
rumours
of
Montero
's
victory
,
they
showed
a
subtle
change
of
the
pensive
temper
,
and
began
to
defy
poor
Don
Juste
Lopez
in
his
Presidential
tribune
with
an
effrontery
to
which
the
poor
man
could
only
respond
by
a
dazed
smoothing
of
his
beard
and
the
ringing
of
the
presidential
bell
.
Then
,
when
the
downfall
of
the
Ribierist
cause
became
confirmed
beyond
the
shadow
of
a
doubt
,
they
have
blossomed
into
convinced
Liberals
,
acting
together
as
if
they
were
Siamese
twins
,
and
ultimately
taking
charge
,
as
it
were
,
of
the
riot
in
the
name
of
Monterist
principles
.
"
Their
last
move
of
eight
o'clock
last
night
was
to
organize
themselves
into
a
Monterist
Committee
which
sits
,
as
far
as
I
know
,
in
a
posada
kept
by
a
retired
Mexican
bull-fighter
,
a
great
politician
,
too
,
whose
name
I
have
forgotten
.
Thence
they
have
issued
a
communication
to
us
,
the
Goths
and
Paralytics
of
the
Amarilla
Club
(
who
have
our
own
committee
)
,
inviting
us
to
come
to
some
provisional
understanding
for
a
truce
,
in
order
,
they
have
the
impudence
to
say
,
that
the
noble
cause
of
Liberty
'
should
not
be
stained
by
the
criminal
excesses
of
Conservative
selfishness
!
'
As
I
came
out
to
sit
with
Nostromo
on
the
cathedral
steps
the
club
was
busy
considering
a
proper
reply
in
the
principal
room
,
littered
with
exploded
cartridges
,
with
a
lot
of
broken
glass
,
blood
smears
,
candlesticks
,
and
all
sorts
of
wreckage
on
the
floor
.
But
all
this
is
nonsense
.
Nobody
in
the
town
has
any
real
power
except
the
railway
engineers
,
whose
men
occupy
the
dismantled
houses
acquired
by
the
Company
for
their
town
station
on
one
side
of
the
Plaza
,
and
Nostromo
,
whose
Cargadores
were
sleeping
under
the
arcades
along
the
front
of
Anzani
's
shops
.
A
fire
of
broken
furniture
out
of
the
Intendencia
saloons
,
mostly
gilt
,
was
burning
on
the
Plaza
,
in
a
high
flame
swaying
right
upon
the
statue
of
Charles
IV
.
The
dead
body
of
a
man
was
lying
on
the
steps
of
the
pedestal
,
his
arms
thrown
wide
open
,
and
his
sombrero
covering
his
face
--
the
attention
of
some
friend
,
perhaps
.
The
light
of
the
flames
touched
the
foliage
of
the
first
trees
on
the
Alameda
,
and
played
on
the
end
of
a
side
street
near
by
,
blocked
up
by
a
jumble
of
ox-carts
and
dead
bullocks
.
Sitting
on
one
of
the
carcasses
,
a
lepero
,
muffled
up
,
smoked
a
cigarette
.
It
was
a
truce
,
you
understand
.
The
only
other
living
being
on
the
Plaza
besides
ourselves
was
a
Cargador
walking
to
and
fro
,
with
a
long
,
bare
knife
in
his
hand
,
like
a
sentry
before
the
Arcades
,
where
his
friends
were
sleeping
.
And
the
only
other
spot
of
light
in
the
dark
town
were
the
lighted
windows
of
the
club
,
at
the
corner
of
the
Calle
.
"
After
having
written
so
far
,
Don
Martin
Decoud
,
the
exotic
dandy
of
the
Parisian
boulevard
,
got
up
and
walked
across
the
sanded
floor
of
the
cafe
at
one
end
of
the
Albergo
of
United
Italy
,
kept
by
Giorgio
Viola
,
the
old
companion
of
Garibaldi
.
The
highly
coloured
lithograph
of
the
Faithful
Hero
seemed
to
look
dimly
,
in
the
light
of
one
candle
,
at
the
man
with
no
faith
in
anything
except
the
truth
of
his
own
sensations
.
Looking
out
of
the
window
,
Decoud
was
met
by
a
darkness
so
impenetrable
that
he
could
see
neither
the
mountains
nor
the
town
,
nor
yet
the
buildings
near
the
harbour
;
and
there
was
not
a
sound
,
as
if
the
tremendous
obscurity
of
the
Placid
Gulf
,
spreading
from
the
waters
over
the
land
,
had
made
it
dumb
as
well
as
blind
.
Presently
Decoud
felt
a
light
tremor
of
the
floor
and
a
distant
clank
of
iron
.
A
bright
white
light
appeared
,
deep
in
the
darkness
,
growing
bigger
with
a
thundering
noise
.
The
rolling
stock
usually
kept
on
the
sidings
in
Rincon
was
being
run
back
to
the
yards
for
safe
keeping
.
Like
a
mysterious
stirring
of
the
darkness
behind
the
headlight
of
the
engine
,
the
train
passed
in
a
gust
of
hollow
uproar
,
by
the
end
of
the
house
,
which
seemed
to
vibrate
all
over
in
response
.
And
nothing
was
clearly
visible
but
,
on
the
end
of
the
last
flat
car
,
a
negro
,
in
white
trousers
and
naked
to
the
waist
,
swinging
a
blazing
torch
basket
incessantly
with
a
circular
movement
of
his
bare
arm
.
Decoud
did
not
stir
.
Behind
him
,
on
the
back
of
the
chair
from
which
he
had
risen
,
hung
his
elegant
Parisian
overcoat
,
with
a
pearl-grey
silk
lining
.
But
when
he
turned
back
to
come
to
the
table
the
candlelight
fell
upon
a
face
that
was
grimy
and
scratched
.
His
rosy
lips
were
blackened
with
heat
,
the
smoke
of
gun-powder
.
Dirt
and
rust
tarnished
the
lustre
of
his
short
beard
.
His
shirt
collar
and
cuffs
were
crumpled
;
the
blue
silken
tie
hung
down
his
breast
like
a
rag
;
a
greasy
smudge
crossed
his
white
brow
.
He
had
not
taken
off
his
clothing
nor
used
water
,
except
to
snatch
a
hasty
drink
greedily
,
for
some
forty
hours
.
An
awful
restlessness
had
made
him
its
own
,
had
marked
him
with
all
the
signs
of
desperate
strife
,
and
put
a
dry
,
sleepless
stare
into
his
eyes
.
He
murmured
to
himself
in
a
hoarse
voice
,
"
I
wonder
if
there
's
any
bread
here
,
"
looked
vaguely
about
him
,
then
dropped
into
the
chair
and
took
the
pencil
up
again
.
He
became
aware
he
had
not
eaten
anything
for
many
hours
.
It
occurred
to
him
that
no
one
could
understand
him
so
well
as
his
sister
.
In
the
most
sceptical
heart
there
lurks
at
such
moments
,
when
the
chances
of
existence
are
involved
,
a
desire
to
leave
a
correct
impression
of
the
feelings
,
like
a
light
by
which
the
action
may
be
seen
when
personality
is
gone
,
gone
where
no
light
of
investigation
can
ever
reach
the
truth
which
every
death
takes
out
of
the
world
.
Therefore
,
instead
of
looking
for
something
to
eat
,
or
trying
to
snatch
an
hour
or
so
of
sleep
,
Decoud
was
filling
the
pages
of
a
large
pocket-book
with
a
letter
to
his
sister
.
