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- Джозеф Конрад
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Then
he
went
away
moodily
to
sit
in
an
armchair
,
smoking
a
long
,
thin
cigar
,
not
very
far
from
Don
Jose
,
with
whom
,
bending
over
sideways
,
he
exchanged
a
few
words
from
time
to
time
.
He
ignored
the
entrance
of
the
priest
,
and
whenever
Father
Corbelan
's
voice
was
raised
behind
him
,
he
shrugged
his
shoulders
impatiently
.
Father
Corbelan
had
remained
quite
motionless
for
a
time
with
that
something
vengeful
in
his
immobility
which
seemed
to
characterize
all
his
attitudes
.
A
lurid
glow
of
strong
convictions
gave
its
peculiar
aspect
to
the
black
figure
.
But
its
fierceness
became
softened
as
the
padre
,
fixing
his
eyes
upon
Decoud
,
raised
his
long
,
black
arm
slowly
,
impressively
--
"
And
you
--
you
are
a
perfect
heathen
,
"
he
said
,
in
a
subdued
,
deep
voice
.
He
made
a
step
nearer
,
pointing
a
forefinger
at
the
young
man
's
breast
.
Decoud
,
very
calm
,
felt
the
wall
behind
the
curtain
with
the
back
of
his
head
.
Then
,
with
his
chin
tilted
well
up
,
he
smiled
.
"
Very
well
,
"
he
agreed
with
the
slightly
weary
nonchalance
of
a
man
well
used
to
these
passages
.
"
But
is
it
perhaps
that
you
have
not
discovered
yet
what
is
the
God
of
my
worship
?
It
was
an
easier
task
with
our
Barrios
.
"
The
priest
suppressed
a
gesture
of
discouragement
.
"
You
believe
neither
in
stick
nor
stone
,
"
he
said
.
"
Nor
bottle
,
"
added
Decoud
without
stirring
.
"
Neither
does
the
other
of
your
reverence
's
confidants
.
I
mean
the
Capataz
of
the
Cargadores
.
He
does
not
drink
.
Your
reading
of
my
character
does
honour
to
your
perspicacity
.
But
why
call
me
a
heathen
?
"
"
True
,
"
retorted
the
priest
.
"
You
are
ten
times
worse
.
A
miracle
could
not
convert
you
.
"
"
I
certainly
do
not
believe
in
miracles
,
"
said
Decoud
,
quietly
.
Father
Corbelan
shrugged
his
high
,
broad
shoulders
doubtfully
.
