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- Джозеф Конрад
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- Ностромо
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- Стр. 7/274
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A
discharge
of
firearms
near
by
made
her
throw
her
head
back
and
close
her
eyes
.
Old
Giorgio
set
his
teeth
hard
under
his
white
moustache
,
and
his
eyes
began
to
roll
fiercely
.
Several
bullets
struck
the
end
of
the
wall
together
;
pieces
of
plaster
could
be
heard
falling
outside
;
a
voice
screamed
"
Here
they
come
!
"
and
after
a
moment
of
uneasy
silence
there
was
a
rush
of
running
feet
along
the
front
.
Then
the
tension
of
old
Giorgio
's
attitude
relaxed
,
and
a
smile
of
contemptuous
relief
came
upon
his
lips
of
an
old
fighter
with
a
leonine
face
.
These
were
not
a
people
striving
for
justice
,
but
thieves
.
Even
to
defend
his
life
against
them
was
a
sort
of
degradation
for
a
man
who
had
been
one
of
Garibaldi
's
immortal
thousand
in
the
conquest
of
Sicily
.
He
had
an
immense
scorn
for
this
outbreak
of
scoundrels
and
leperos
,
who
did
not
know
the
meaning
of
the
word
"
liberty
"
He
grounded
his
old
gun
,
and
,
turning
his
head
,
glanced
at
the
coloured
lithograph
of
Garibaldi
in
a
black
frame
on
the
white
wall
;
a
thread
of
strong
sunshine
cut
it
perpendicularly
.
His
eyes
,
accustomed
to
the
luminous
twilight
,
made
out
the
high
colouring
of
the
face
,
the
red
of
the
shirt
,
the
outlines
of
the
square
shoulders
,
the
black
patch
of
the
Bersagliere
hat
with
cock
's
feathers
curling
over
the
crown
.
An
immortal
hero
!
This
was
your
liberty
;
it
gave
you
not
only
life
,
but
immortality
as
well
!
For
that
one
man
his
fanaticism
had
suffered
no
diminution
.
In
the
moment
of
relief
from
the
apprehension
of
the
greatest
danger
,
perhaps
,
his
family
had
been
exposed
to
in
all
their
wanderings
,
he
had
turned
to
the
picture
of
his
old
chief
,
first
and
only
,
then
laid
his
hand
on
his
wife
's
shoulder
.
The
children
kneeling
on
the
floor
had
not
moved
.
Signora
Teresa
opened
her
eyes
a
little
,
as
though
he
had
awakened
her
from
a
very
deep
and
dreamless
slumber
.
Before
he
had
time
in
his
deliberate
way
to
say
a
reassuring
word
she
jumped
up
,
with
the
children
clinging
to
her
,
one
on
each
side
,
gasped
for
breath
,
and
let
out
a
hoarse
shriek
.
It
was
simultaneous
with
the
bang
of
a
violent
blow
struck
on
the
outside
of
the
shutter
.
They
could
hear
suddenly
the
snorting
of
a
horse
,
the
restive
tramping
of
hoofs
on
the
narrow
,
hard
path
in
front
of
the
house
;
the
toe
of
a
boot
struck
at
the
shutter
again
;
a
spur
jingled
at
every
blow
,
and
an
excited
voice
shouted
,
"
Hola
!
hola
,
in
there
!
"
ALL
the
morning
Nostromo
had
kept
his
eye
from
afar
on
the
Casa
Viola
,
even
in
the
thick
of
the
hottest
scrimmage
near
the
Custom
House
.
"
If
I
see
smoke
rising
over
there
,
"
he
thought
to
himself
,
"
they
are
lost
.
"
Directly
the
mob
had
broken
he
pressed
with
a
small
band
of
Italian
workmen
in
that
direction
,
which
,
indeed
,
was
the
shortest
line
towards
the
town
.
That
part
of
the
rabble
he
was
pursuing
seemed
to
think
of
making
a
stand
under
the
house
;
a
volley
fired
by
his
followers
from
behind
an
aloe
hedge
made
the
rascals
fly
.
In
a
gap
chopped
out
for
the
rails
of
the
harbour
branch
line
Nostromo
appeared
,
mounted
on
his
silver-grey
mare
.
He
shouted
,
sent
after
them
one
shot
from
his
revolver
,
and
galloped
up
to
the
cafe
window
.
He
had
an
idea
that
old
Giorgio
would
choose
that
part
of
the
house
for
a
refuge
.
His
voice
had
penetrated
to
them
,
sounding
breathlessly
hurried
:
"
Hola
!
Vecchio
!
O
,
Vecchio
!
Is
it
all
well
with
you
in
there
?
"
"
You
see
--
"
murmured
old
Viola
to
his
wife
.
Signora
Teresa
was
silent
now
.
Outside
Nostromo
laughed
.
