Nostromo

Joseph Conrad

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

"Nostromo" is the most anxiously meditated ofthe longer novels which belong to the periodfollowing upon the publication of the "Ty-phoon" volume of short stories.

I don't mean to say that I became then con-scious of any impending change in my mental-ity and in my attitude towards the tasks of mywriting life. And perhaps there was never anychange, except in that mysterious, extraneousthing which has nothing to do with the theoriesof art; a subtle change in the nature of the inspi-ration; a phenomenon for which I can not inany way be held responsible. What, however,did cause me some concern was that after fin-ishing the last story of the "Typhoon" volume itseemed somehow that there was nothing morein the world to write about.

This so strangely negative but disturbing moodlasted some little time; and then, as with manyof my longer stories, the first hint for "Nos-tromo" came to me in the shape of a vagrantanecdote completely destitute of valuable de-tails.

As a matter of fact in 1875 or '6, when veryyoung, in the West Indies or rather in the Gulfof Mexico, for my contacts with land wereshort, few, and fleeting, I heard the story ofsome man who was supposed to have stolensingle-handed a whole lighter-full of silver,somewhere on the Tierra Firme seaboard dur-ing the troubles of a revolution.

On the face of it this was something of a feat.But I heard no details, and having no particularinterest in crime qua crime I was not likely tokeep that one in my mind. And I forgot it tilltwenty-six or seven years afterwards I cameupon the very thing in a shabby volume pickedup outside a second-hand book-shop. It was the

life story of an American seaman written byhimself with the assistance of a journalist. Inthe course of his wanderings that Americansailor worked for some months on board aschooner, the master and owner of which wasthe thief of whom I had heard in my veryyoung days. I have no doubt of that becausethere could hardly have been two exploits ofthat peculiar kind in the same part of the worldand both connected with a South Americanrevolution.

The fellow had actually managed to steal alighter with silver, and this, it seems, only be-cause he was implicitly trusted by his employ-ers, who must have been singularly poorjudges of character. In the sailor's story he isrepresented as an unmitigated rascal, a smallcheat, stupidly ferocious, morose, of mean ap-pearance, and altogether unworthy of thegreatness this opportunity had thrust upon

him. What was interesting was that he wouldboast of it openly.

He used to say: "People think I make a lot ofmoney in this schooner of mine. But that isnothing. I don't care for that. Now and then Igo away quietly and lift a bar of silver. I mustget rich slowly—you understand."

There was also another curious point about theman. Once in the course of some quarrel thesailor threatened him: "What's to prevent mereporting ashore what you have told me aboutthat silver?"

The cynical ruffian was not alarmed in theleast. He actually laughed. "You fool, if youdare talk like that on shore about me you willget a knife stuck in your back. Every man,woman, and child in that port is my friend.And who's to prove the lighter wasn't sunk? Ididn't show you where the silver is hidden. Did

I? So you know nothing. And suppose I lied?Eh?"

Ultimately the sailor, disgusted with the sordidmeanness of that impenitent thief, desertedfrom the schooner. The whole episode takesabout three pages of his autobiography. Noth-ing to speak of; but as I looked them over, thecurious confirmation of the few casual wordsheard in my early youth evoked the memoriesof that distant time when everything was sofresh, so surprising, so venturesome, so inter-esting; bits of strange coasts under the stars,shadows of hills in the sunshine, men's pas-sions in the dusk, gossip half-forgotten, facesgrown dim. . . . Perhaps, perhaps, there stillwas in the world something to write about. YetI did not see anything at first in the mere story.A rascal steals a large parcel of a valuablecommodity—so people say. It's either true oruntrue; and in any case it has no value in itself.To invent a circumstantial account of the rob-

bery did not appeal to me, because my talentsnot running that way I did not think that thegame was worth the candle. It was only when itdawned upon me that the purloiner of thetreasure need not necessarily be a confirmedrogue, that he could be even a man of character,an actor and possibly a victim in the changingscenes of a revolution, it was only then that Ihad the first vision of a twilight country whichwas to become the province of Sulaco, with itshigh shadowy Sierra and its misty Campo formute witnesses of events flowing from the pas-sions of men short-sighted in good and evil.

Such are in very truth the obscure origins of"Nostromo"—the book. From that moment, Isuppose, it had to be. Yet even then I hesitated,as if warned by the instinct of self-preservationfrom venturing on a distant and toilsome jour-ney into a land full of intrigues and revolutions.But it had to be done.

It took the best part of the years 1903-4 to do;with many intervals of renewed hesitation, lestI should lose myself in the ever-enlarging vistasopening before me as I progressed deeper inmy knowledge of the country. Often, also,when I had thought myself to a standstill overthe tangled-up affairs of the Republic, I would,figuratively speaking, pack my bag, rush awayfrom Sulaco for a change of air and write a fewpages of the "Mirror of the Sea." But generally,as I've said before, my sojourn on the Continentof Latin America, famed for its hospitality,lasted for about two years. On my return Ifound (speaking somewhat in the style of Cap-tain Gulliver) my family all well, my wifeheartily glad to learn that the fuss was all over,and our small boy considerably grown duringmy absence.

My principal authority for the history of Costa-guana is, of course, my venerated friend, thelate Don Jose Avellanos, Minister to the Courts

of England and Spain, etc., etc., in his impartialand eloquent "History of Fifty Years of Mis-rule." That work was never published—thereader will discover why—and I am in fact theonly person in the world possessed of its con-tents. I have mastered them in not a few hoursof earnest meditation, and I hope that my accu-racy will be trusted. In justice to myself, and toallay the fears of prospective readers, I beg topoint out that the few historical allusions arenever dragged in for the sake of parading myunique erudition, but that each of them isclosely related to actuality; either throwing alight on the nature of current events or affect-ing directly the fortunes of the people of whomI speak.

As to their own histories I have tried to setthem down, Aristocracy and People, men andwomen, Latin and Anglo-Saxon, bandit andpolitician, with as cool a hand as was possiblein the heat and clash of my own conflicting

emotions. And after all this is also the story oftheir conflicts. It is for the reader to say how farthey are deserving of interest in their actionsand in the secret purposes of their hearts re-vealed in the bitter necessities of the time. Iconfess that, for me, that time is the time of firmfriendships and unforgotten hospitalities. Andin my gratitude I must mention here Mrs.Gould, "the first lady of Sulaco," whom we maysafely leave to the secret devotion of Dr. Mony-gham, and Charles Gould, the Idealist-creatorof Material Interests whom we must leave tohis Mine—from which there is no escape in thisworld.

About Nostromo, the second of the two raciallyand socially contrasted men, both captured bythe silver of the San Tome Mine, I feel bound tosay something more.

I did not hesitate to make that central figure anItalian. First of all the thing is perfectly credible:Italians were swarming into the Occidental

Province at the time, as anybody who will readfurther can see; and secondly, there was no onewho could stand so well by the side of GiorgioViola the Garibaldino, the Idealist of the old,humanitarian revolutions. For myself I neededthere a Man of the People as free as possiblefrom his class-conventions and all settledmodes of thinking. This is not a side snarl atconventions. My reasons were not moral butartistic. Had he been an Anglo-Saxon he wouldhave tried to get into local politics. But Nos-tromo does not aspire to be a leader in a per-sonal game. He does not want to raise himselfabove the mass. He is content to feel himself apower—within the People.

But mainly Nostromo is what he is because Ireceived the inspiration for him in my earlydays from a Mediterranean sailor. Those whohave read certain pages of mine will see at oncewhat I mean when I say that Dominic, thepadrone of the Tremolino, might under given

circumstances have been a Nostromo. At anyrate Dominic would have understood theyounger man perfectly—if scornfully. He and Iwere engaged together in a rather absurd ad-venture, but the absurdity does not matter. It isa real satisfaction to think that in my veryyoung days there must, after all, have beensomething in me worthy to command thatman's half-bitter fidelity, his half-ironic devo-tion. Many of Nostromo's speeches I haveheard first in Dominic's voice. His hand on thetiller and his fearless eyes roaming the horizonfrom within the monkish hood shadowing hisface, he would utter the usual exordium of hisremorseless wisdom: "Vous autres gentilhom-mes!" in a caustic tone that hangs on my ear yet.Like Nostromo! "You hombres finos!" Very muchlike Nostromo. But Dominic the Corsicannursed a certain pride of ancestry from whichmy Nostromo is free; for Nostromo's lineagehad to be more ancient still. He is a man withthe weight of countless generations behind him

and no parentage to boast of. . . . Like the Peo-ple.

In his firm grip on the earth he inherits, in hisimprovidence and generosity, in his lavishnesswith his gifts, in his manly vanity, in the ob-scure sense of his greatness and in his faithfuldevotion with something despairing as well asdesperate in its impulses, he is a Man of thePeople, their very own unenvious force, dis-daining to lead but ruling from within. Yearsafterwards, grown older as the famous CaptainFidanza, with a stake in the country, goingabout his many affairs followed by respectfulglances in the modernized streets of Sulaco,calling on the widow of the cargador, attendingthe Lodge, listening in unmoved silence to an-archist speeches at the meeting, the enigmaticalpatron of the new revolutionary agitation, thetrusted, the wealthy comrade Fidanza with theknowledge of his moral ruin locked up in hisbreast, he remains essentially a Man of the

People. In his mingled love and scorn of lifeand in the bewildered conviction of havingbeen betrayed, of dying betrayed he hardlyknows by what or by whom, he is still of thePeople, their undoubted Great Man—with aprivate history of his own.

One more figure of those stirring times I wouldlike to mention: and that is Antonia Avel-lanos—the "beautiful Antonia." Whether she isa possible variation of Latin-American girlhoodI wouldn't dare to affirm. But, for me, she is.Always a little in the background by the side ofher father (my venerated friend) I hope she hasyet relief enough to make intelligible what I amgoing to say. Of all the people who had seenwith me the birth of the Occidental Republic,she is the only one who has kept in my memorythe aspect of continued life. Antonia the Aristo-crat and Nostromo the Man of the People arethe artisans of the New Era, the true creators ofthe New State; he by his legendary and daring

feat, she, like a woman, simply by the force ofwhat she is: the only being capable of inspiringa sincere passion in the heart of a trifler.

If anything could induce me to revisit Sulaco (Ishould hate to see all these changes) it wouldbe Antonia. And the true reason for that—whynot be frank about it?—the true reason is that Ihave modelled her on my first love. How we, aband of tallish schoolboys, the chums of hertwo brothers, how we used to look up to thatgirl just out of the schoolroom herself, as thestandard-bearer of a faith to which we all wereborn but which she alone knew how to holdaloft with an unflinching hope! She had per-haps more glow and less serenity in her soulthan Antonia, but she was an uncompromisingPuritan of patriotism with no taint of the slight-est worldliness in her thoughts. I was not theonly one in love with her; but it was I who hadto hear oftenest her scathing criticism of mylevities—very much like poor Decoud—or

stand the brunt of her austere, unanswerableinvective. She did not quite understand—butnever mind. That afternoon when I came in, ashrinking yet defiant sinner, to say the finalgood-bye I received a hand-squeeze that mademy heart leap and saw a tear that took mybreath away. She was softened at the last asthough she had suddenly perceived (we weresuch children still!) that I was really goingaway for good, going very far away—even asfar as Sulaco, lying unknown, hidden from oureyes in the darkness of the Placid Gulf.

That's why I long sometimes for anotherglimpse of the "beautiful Antonia" (or can it bethe Other?) moving in the dimness of the greatcathedral, saying a short prayer at the tomb ofthe first and last Cardinal-Archbishop of Su-laco, standing absorbed in filial devotion beforethe monument of Don Jose Avellanos, and,with a lingering, tender, faithful glance at themedallion-memorial to Martin Decoud, going

out serenely into the sunshine of the Plaza withher upright carriage and her white head; a relicof the past disregarded by men awaiting impa-tiently the Dawns of other New Eras, the com-ing of more Revolutions.

But this is the idlest of dreams; for I did under-stand perfectly well at the time that the mo-ment the breath left the body of the MagnificentCapataz, the Man of the People, freed at lastfrom the toils of love and wealth, there wasnothing more for me to do in Sulaco.

J. C.

October, 1917.

NOSTROMO

PART FIRST THE SILVER OF THE MINE

CHAPTER ONE

In the time of Spanish rule, and for many yearsafterwards, the town of Sulaco—the luxuriantbeauty of the orange gardens bears witness toits antiquity—had never been commerciallyanything more important than a coasting portwith a fairly large local trade in ox-hides and

indigo. The clumsy deep-sea galleons of theconquerors that, needing a brisk gale to moveat all, would lie becalmed, where your modernship built on clipper lines forges ahead by themere flapping of her sails, had been barred outof Sulaco by the prevailing calms of its vastgulf. Some harbours of the earth are made diffi-cult of access by the treachery of sunken rocksand the tempests of their shores. Sulaco hadfound an inviolable sanctuary from the tempta-tions of a trading world in the solemn hush ofthe deep Golfo Placido as if within an enor-mous semi-circular and unroofed temple opento the ocean, with its walls of lofty mountainshung with the mourning draperies of cloud.

On one side of this broad curve in the straightseaboard of the Republic of Costaguana, thelast spur of the coast range forms an insignifi-cant cape whose name is Punta Mala. From themiddle of the gulf the point of the land itself isnot visible at all; but the shoulder of a steep hill

at the back can be made out faintly like ashadow on the sky.

On the other side, what seems to be an isolatedpatch of blue mist floats lightly on the glare ofthe horizon. This is the peninsula of Azuera, awild chaos of sharp rocks and stony levels cutabout by vertical ravines. It lies far out to sealike a rough head of stone stretched from agreen-clad coast at the end of a slender neck ofsand covered with thickets of thorny scrub.Utterly waterless, for the rainfall runs off atonce on all sides into the sea, it has not soilenough—it is said—to grow a single blade ofgrass, as if it were blighted by a curse. Thepoor, associating by an obscure instinct of con-solation the ideas of evil and wealth, will tellyou that it is deadly because of its forbiddentreasures. The common folk of the neighbour-hood, peons of the estancias, vaqueros of theseaboard plains, tame Indians coming miles tomarket with a bundle of sugar-cane or a basket

of maize worth about threepence, are wellaware that heaps of shining gold lie in thegloom of the deep precipices cleaving the stonylevels of Azuera. Tradition has it that manyadventurers of olden time had perished in thesearch. The story goes also that within men'smemory two wandering sailors—Americanos,perhaps, but gringos of some sort for certain—talked over a gambling, good-for-nothingmozo, and the three stole a donkey to carry forthem a bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin, andprovisions enough to last a few days. Thus ac-companied, and with revolvers at their belts,they had started to chop their way with ma-chetes through the thorny scrub on the neck ofthe peninsula.

On the second evening an upright spiral ofsmoke (it could only have been from theircamp-fire) was seen for the first time withinmemory of man standing up faintly upon thesky above a razor-backed ridge on the stony

head. The crew of a coasting schooner, lyingbecalmed three miles off the shore, stared at itwith amazement till dark. A negro fisherman,living in a lonely hut in a little bay near by, hadseen the start and was on the lookout for somesign. He called to his wife just as the sun wasabout to set. They had watched the strange por-tent with envy, incredulity, and awe.

The impious adventurers gave no other sign.The sailors, the Indian, and the stolen burrowere never seen again. As to the mozo, a Sulacoman—his wife paid for some masses, and thepoor four-footed beast, being without sin, hadbeen probably permitted to die; but the twogringos, spectral and alive, are believed to bedwelling to this day amongst the rocks, underthe fatal spell of their success. Their souls can-not tear themselves away from their bodiesmounting guard over the discovered treasure.They are now rich and hungry and thirsty—astrange theory of tenacious gringo ghosts suf-

fering in their starved and parched flesh of de-fiant heretics, where a Christian would haverenounced and been released.

These, then, are the legendary inhabitants ofAzuera guarding its forbidden wealth; and theshadow on the sky on one side with the roundpatch of blue haze blurring the bright skirt ofthe horizon on the other, mark the two outer-most points of the bend which bears the nameof Golfo Placido, because never a strong windhad been known to blow upon its waters.

On crossing the imaginary line drawn fromPunta Mala to Azuera the ships from Europebound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezesof the ocean. They become the prey of capri-cious airs that play with them for thirty hoursat a stretch sometimes. Before them the head ofthe calm gulf is filled on most days of the yearby a great body of motionless and opaqueclouds. On the rare clear mornings anothershadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf. The

dawn breaks high behind the towering andserrated wall of the Cordillera, a clear-cut vi-sion of dark peaks rearing their steep slopes ona lofty pedestal of forest rising from the veryedge of the shore. Amongst them the whitehead of Higuerota rises majestically upon theblue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinklewith tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow.

Then, as the midday sun withdraws from thegulf the shadow of the mountains, the cloudsbegin to roll out of the lower valleys. Theyswathe in sombre tatters the naked crags ofprecipices above the wooded slopes, hide thepeaks, smoke in stormy trails across the snowsof Higuerota. The Cordillera is gone from youas if it had dissolved itself into great piles ofgrey and black vapours that travel out slowlyto seaward and vanish into thin air all along thefront before the blazing heat of the day. Thewasting edge of the cloud-bank always strivesfor, but seldom wins, the middle of the gulf.

The sun—as the sailors say—is eating it up.Unless perchance a sombre thunder-headbreaks away from the main body to career allover the gulf till it escapes into the offing be-yond Azuera, where it bursts suddenly intoflame and crashes like a sinster pirate-ship ofthe air, hove-to above the horizon, engaging thesea.

At night the body of clouds advancing higherup the sky smothers the whole quiet gulf belowwith an impenetrable darkness, in which thesound of the falling showers can be heard be-ginning and ceasing abruptly—now here, nowthere. Indeed, these cloudy nights are prover-bial with the seamen along the whole westcoast of a great continent. Sky, land, and seadisappear together out of the world when thePlacido—as the saying is—goes to sleep underits black poncho. The few stars left below theseaward frown of the vault shine feebly as intothe mouth of a black cavern. In its vastness

your ship floats unseen under your feet, hersails flutter invisible above your head. The eyeof God Himself—they add with grim profan-ity—could not find out what work a man'shand is doing in there; and you would be freeto call the devil to your aid with impunity ifeven his malice were not defeated by such ablind darkness.

The shores on the gulf are steep-to all round;three uninhabited islets basking in the sunshinejust outside the cloud veil, and opposite theentrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear thename of "The Isabels."

There is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel,which is round; and Hermosa, which is thesmallest.

That last is no more than a foot high, and aboutseven paces across, a mere flat top of a greyrock which smokes like a hot cinder after ashower, and where no man would care to ven-

ture a naked sole before sunset. On the LittleIsabel an old ragged palm, with a thick bulgingtrunk rough with spines, a very witch amongstpalm trees, rustles a dismal bunch of deadleaves above the coarse sand. The Great Isabelhas a spring of fresh water issuing from theovergrown side of a ravine. Resembling an em-erald green wedge of land a mile long, and laidflat upon the sea, it bears two forest trees stand-ing close together, with a wide spread of shadeat the foot of their smooth trunks. A ravine ex-tending the whole length of the island is full ofbushes; and presenting a deep tangled cleft onthe high side spreads itself out on the other intoa shallow depression abutting on a small stripof sandy shore.

From that low end of the Great Isabel the eyeplunges through an opening two miles away,as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out of theregular sweep of the coast, right into the har-bour of Sulaco. It is an oblong, lake-like piece of

water. On one side the short wooded spurs andvalleys of the Cordillera come down at rightangles to the very strand; on the other the openview of the great Sulaco plain passes into theopal mystery of great distances overhung bydry haze. The town of Sulaco itself—tops ofwalls, a great cupola, gleams of white miradorsin a vast grove of orange trees—lies betweenthe mountains and the plain, at some little dis-tance from its harbour and out of the direct lineof sight from the sea.

CHAPTER TWO

The only sign of commercial activity within theharbour, visible from the beach of the GreatIsabel, is the square blunt end of the woodenjetty which the Oceanic Steam Navigation

Company (the O.S.N. of familiar speech) hadthrown over the shallow part of the bay soonafter they had resolved to make of Sulaco oneof their ports of call for the Republic of Costa-guana. The State possesses several harbours onits long seaboard, but except Cayta, an impor-tant place, all are either small and inconvenientinlets in an iron-bound coast—like Esmeralda,for instance, sixty miles to the south—or elsemere open roadsteads exposed to the windsand fretted by the surf.

Perhaps the very atmospheric conditions whichhad kept away the merchant fleets of bygoneages induced the O.S.N. Company to violatethe sanctuary of peace sheltering the calm exis-tence of Sulaco. The variable airs sportinglightly with the vast semicircle of waters withinthe head of Azuera could not baffle the steampower of their excellent fleet. Year after yearthe black hulls of their ships had gone up anddown the coast, in and out, past Azuera, past

the Isabels, past Punta Mala—disregardingeverything but the tyranny of time. Theirnames, the names of all mythology, became thehousehold words of a coast that had never beenruled by the gods of Olympus. The Juno wasknown only for her comfortable cabins amid-ships, the Saturn for the geniality of her captainand the painted and gilt luxuriousness of hersaloon, whereas the Ganymede was fitted outmainly for cattle transport, and to be avoidedby coastwise passengers. The humblest Indianin the obscurest village on the coast was famil-iar with the Cerberus, a little black puffer with-out charm or living accommodation to speakof, whose mission was to creep inshore alongthe wooded beaches close to mighty ugly rocks,stopping obligingly before every cluster of hutsto collect produce, down to three-pound par-cels of indiarubber bound in a wrapper of drygrass.

And as they seldom failed to account for thesmallest package, rarely lost a bullock, and hadnever drowned a single passenger, the name ofthe O.S.N. stood very high for trustworthiness.People declared that under the Company's caretheir lives and property were safer on the waterthan in their own houses on shore.

The O.S.N.'s superintendent in Sulaco for thewhole Costaguana section of the service wasvery proud of his Company's standing. He re-sumed it in a saying which was very often onhis lips, "We never make mistakes." To theCompany's officers it took the form of a severeinjunction, "We must make no mistakes. I'llhave no mistakes here, no matter what Smithmay do at his end."

Smith, on whom he had never set eyes in hislife, was the other superintendent of the ser-vice, quartered some fifteen hundred milesaway from Sulaco. "Don't talk to me of yourSmith."

Then, calming down suddenly, he would dis-miss the subject with studied negligence.

"Smith knows no more of this continent than ababy."

"Our excellent Senor Mitchell" for the businessand official world of Sulaco; "Fussy Joe" for thecommanders of the Company's ships, CaptainJoseph Mitchell prided himself on his profoundknowledge of men and things in the country—cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last heaccounted as most unfavourable to the orderlyworking of his Company the frequent changesof government brought about by revolutions ofthe military type.

The political atmosphere of the Republic wasgenerally stormy in these days. The fugitivepatriots of the defeated party had the knack ofturning up again on the coast with half asteamer's load of small arms and ammunition.Such resourcefulness Captain Mitchell consid-

ered as perfectly wonderful in view of theirutter destitution at the time of flight. He hadobserved that "they never seemed to haveenough change about them to pay for their pas-sage ticket out of the country." And he couldspeak with knowledge; for on a memorableoccasion he had been called upon to save thelife of a dictator, together with the lives of a fewSulaco officials—the political chief, the directorof the customs, and the head of police—belonging to an overturned government. PoorSenor Ribiera (such was the dictator's name)had come pelting eighty miles over mountaintracks after the lost battle of Socorro, in thehope of out-distancing the fatal news—which,of course, he could not manage to do on a lamemule. The animal, moreover, expired underhim at the end of the Alameda, where the mili-tary band plays sometimes in the evenings be-tween the revolutions. "Sir," Captain Mitchellwould pursue with portentous gravity, "the ill-timed end of that mule attracted attention to

the unfortunate rider. His features were recog-nized by several deserters from the Dictatorialarmy amongst the rascally mob already en-gaged in smashing the windows of the In-tendencia."

Early on the morning of that day the local au-thorities of Sulaco had fled for refuge to theO.S.N. Company's offices, a strong buildingnear the shore end of the jetty, leaving the townto the mercies of a revolutionary rabble; and asthe Dictator was execrated by the populace onaccount of the severe recruitment law his ne-cessities had compelled him to enforce duringthe struggle, he stood a good chance of beingtorn to pieces. Providentially, Nostromo—invaluable fellow—with some Italian workmen,imported to work upon the National CentralRailway, was at hand, and managed to snatchhim away—for the time at least. Ultimately,Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking every-body off in his own gig to one of the Com-

pany's steamers—it was the Minerva—justthen, as luck would have it, entering the har-bour.

He had to lower these gentlemen at the end of arope out of a hole in the wall at the back, whilethe mob which, pouring out of the town, hadspread itself all along the shore, howled andfoamed at the foot of the building in front. Hehad to hurry them then the whole length of thejetty; it had been a desperate dash, neck ornothing—and again it was Nostromo, a fellowin a thousand, who, at the head, this time, ofthe Company's body of lightermen, held thejetty against the rushes of the rabble, thus giv-ing the fugitives time to reach the gig lyingready for them at the other end with the Com-pany's flag at the stern. Sticks, stones, shotsflew; knives, too, were thrown. CaptainMitchell exhibited willingly the long cicatrice ofa cut over his left ear and temple, made by arazor-blade fastened to a stick—a weapon, he

explained, very much in favour with the "worstkind of nigger out here."

Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man,wearing high, pointed collars and short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, and reallyvery communicative under his air of pompousreserve.

"These gentlemen," he would say, staring withgreat solemnity, "had to run like rabbits, sir. Iran like a rabbit myself. Certain forms of deathare—er—distasteful to a—a—er—respectableman. They would have pounded me to death,too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate.Under providence we owed our preservation tomy Capataz de Cargadores, as they called himin the town, a man who, when I discovered hisvalue, sir, was just the bos'n of an Italian ship, abig Genoese ship, one of the few Europeanships that ever came to Sulaco with a generalcargo before the building of the National Cen-tral. He left her on account of some very re-

spectable friends he made here, his own coun-trymen, but also, I suppose, to better himself.Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character. I en-gaged him to be the foreman of our lightermen,and caretaker of our jetty. That's all that he was.But without him Senor Ribiera would havebeen a dead man. This Nostromo, sir, a manabsolutely above reproach, became the terror ofall the thieves in the town. We were infested,infested, overrun, sir, here at that time byladrones and matreros, thieves and murderersfrom the whole province. On this occasion theyhad been flocking into Sulaco for a week past.They had scented the end, sir. Fifty per cent. ofthat murdering mob were professional banditsfrom the Campo, sir, but there wasn't one thathadn't heard of Nostromo. As to the town lep-eros, sir, the sight of his black whiskers andwhite teeth was enough for them. They quailedbefore him, sir. That's what the force of charac-ter will do for you."

It could very well be said that it was Nostromoalone who saved the lives of these gentlemen.Captain Mitchell, on his part, never left themtill he had seen them collapse, panting, terri-fied, and exasperated, but safe, on the luxuriantvelvet sofas in the first-class saloon of the Mi-nerva. To the very last he had been careful toaddress the ex-Dictator as "Your Excellency."

"Sir, I could do no other. The man was down—ghastly, livid, one mass of scratches."

The Minerva never let go her anchor that call.The superintendent ordered her out of the har-bour at once. No cargo could be landed, ofcourse, and the passengers for Sulaco naturallyrefused to go ashore. They could hear the firingand see plainly the fight going on at the edge ofthe water. The repulsed mob devoted its ener-gies to an attack upon the Custom House, adreary, unfinished-looking structure withmany windows two hundred yards away fromthe O.S.N. Offices, and the only other building

near the harbour. Captain Mitchell, after direct-ing the commander of the Minerva to land"these gentlemen" in the first port of call out-side Costaguana, went back in his gig to seewhat could be done for the protection of theCompany's property. That and the property ofthe railway were preserved by the Europeanresidents; that is, by Captain Mitchell himselfand the staff of engineers building the road,aided by the Italian and Basque workmen whorallied faithfully round their English chiefs. TheCompany's lightermen, too, natives of the Re-public, behaved very well under their Capataz.An outcast lot of very mixed blood, mainly ne-groes, everlastingly at feud with the other cus-tomers of low grog shops in the town, they em-braced with delight this opportunity to settletheir personal scores under such favourableauspices. There was not one of them that hadnot, at some time or other, looked with terror atNostromo's revolver poked very close at hisface, or been otherwise daunted by Nostromo's

resolution. He was "much of a man," their Ca-pataz was, they said, too scornful in his temperever to utter abuse, a tireless taskmaster, andthe more to be feared because of his aloofness.And behold! there he was that day, at theirhead, condescending to make jocular remarksto this man or the other.

Such leadership was inspiriting, and in truth allthe harm the mob managed to achieve was toset fire to one—only one—stack of railway-sleepers, which, being creosoted, burned well.The main attack on the railway yards, on theO.S.N. Offices, and especially on the CustomHouse, whose strong room, it was well known,contained a large treasure in silver ingots,failed completely. Even the little hotel kept byold Giorgio, standing alone halfway betweenthe harbour and the town, escaped looting anddestruction, not by a miracle, but because withthe safes in view they had neglected it at first,and afterwards found no leisure to stop. Nos-

tromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing themtoo hard then.

CHAPTER THREE

It might have been said that there he was onlyprotecting his own. From the first he had beenadmitted to live in the intimacy of the family ofthe hotel-keeper who was a countryman of his.Old Giorgio Viola, a Genoese with a shaggywhite leonine head—often called simply "theGaribaldino" (as Mohammedans are called aftertheir prophet)—was, to use Captain Mitchell'sown words, the "respectable married friend" bywhose advice Nostromo had left his ship to tryfor a run of shore luck in Costaguana.

The old man, full of scorn for the populace, asyour austere republican so often is, had disre-garded the preliminary sounds of trouble. Hewent on that day as usual pottering about the"casa" in his slippers, muttering angrily to him-self his contempt of the non-political nature ofthe riot, and shrugging his shoulders. In theend he was taken unawares by the out-rush ofthe rabble. It was too late then to remove hisfamily, and, indeed, where could he have runto with the portly Signora Teresa and two littlegirls on that great plain? So, barricading everyopening, the old man sat down sternly in themiddle of the darkened cafe with an old shot-gun on his knees. His wife sat on another chairby his side, muttering pious invocations to allthe saints of the calendar.

The old republican did not believe in saints, orin prayers, or in what he called "priest's relig-ion." Liberty and Garibaldi were his divinities;but he tolerated "superstition" in women, pre-

serving in these matters a lofty and silent atti-tude.

His two girls, the eldest fourteen, and the othertwo years younger, crouched on the sandedfloor, on each side of the Signora Teresa, withtheir heads on their mother's lap, both scared,but each in her own way, the dark-haired Lindaindignant and angry, the fair Giselle, theyounger, bewildered and resigned. The Patronaremoved her arms, which embraced her daugh-ters, for a moment to cross herself and wringher hands hurriedly. She moaned a littlelouder.

"Oh! Gian' Battista, why art thou not here? Oh!why art thou not here?"

She was not then invoking the saint himself,but calling upon Nostromo, whose patron hewas. And Giorgio, motionless on the chair byher side, would be provoked by these reproach-ful and distracted appeals.

"Peace, woman! Where's the sense of it? There'shis duty," he murmured in the dark; and shewould retort, panting—

"Eh! I have no patience. Duty! What of thewoman who has been like a mother to him? Ibent my knee to him this morning; don't you goout, Gian' Battista—stop in the house, Bat-tistino—look at those two little innocent chil-dren!"

Mrs. Viola was an Italian, too, a native of Spez-zia, and though considerably younger than herhusband, already middle-aged. She had ahandsome face, whose complexion had turnedyellow because the climate of Sulaco did notsuit her at all. Her voice was a rich contralto.When, with her arms folded tight under herample bosom, she scolded the squat, thick-legged China girls handling linen, pluckingfowls, pounding corn in wooden mortarsamongst the mud outbuildings at the back ofthe house, she could bring out such an impas-

sioned, vibrating, sepulchral note that thechained watch-dog bolted into his kennel witha great rattle. Luis, a cinnamon-coloured mu-latto with a sprouting moustache and thick,dark lips, would stop sweeping the cafe with abroom of palm-leaves to let a gentle shudderrun down his spine. His languishing almondeyes would remain closed for a long time.

This was the staff of the Casa Viola, but allthese people had fled early that morning at thefirst sounds of the riot, preferring to hide on theplain rather than trust themselves in the house;a preference for which they were in no way toblame, since, whether true or not, it was gener-ally believed in the town that the Garibaldinohad some money buried under the clay floor ofthe kitchen. The dog, an irritable, shaggy brute,barked violently and whined plaintively inturns at the back, running in and out of hiskennel as rage or fear prompted him.

Bursts of great shouting rose and died away,like wild gusts of wind on the plain round thebarricaded house; the fitful popping of shotsgrew louder above the yelling. Sometimes therewere intervals of unaccountable stillness out-side, and nothing could have been more gailypeaceful than the narrow bright lines ofsunlight from the cracks in the shutters, ruledstraight across the cafe over the disarrangedchairs and tables to the wall opposite. OldGiorgio had chosen that bare, whitewashedroom for a retreat. It had only one window, andits only door swung out upon the track of thickdust fenced by aloe hedges between the har-bour and the town, where clumsy carts used tocreak along behind slow yokes of oxen guidedby boys on horseback.

In a pause of stillness Giorgio cocked his gun.The ominous sound wrung a low moan fromthe rigid figure of the woman sitting by hisside. A sudden outbreak of defiant yelling quite

near the house sank all at once to a confusedmurmur of growls. Somebody ran along; theloud catching of his breath was heard for aninstant passing the door; there were hoarsemutters and footsteps near the wall; a shoulderrubbed against the shutter, effacing the brightlines of sunshine pencilled across the wholebreadth of the room. Signora Teresa's armsthrown about the kneeling forms of her daugh-ters embraced them closer with a convulsivepressure.

The mob, driven away from the Custom House,had broken up into several bands, retreatingacross the plain in the direction of the town.The subdued crash of irregular volleys fired inthe distance was answered by faint yells faraway. In the intervals the single shots rang fee-bly, and the low, long, white building blindedin every window seemed to be the centre of aturmoil widening in a great circle about itsclosed-up silence. But the cautious movements

and whispers of a routed party seeking a mo-mentary shelter behind the wall made thedarkness of the room, striped by threads ofquiet sunlight, alight with evil, stealthy sounds.The Violas had them in their ears as thoughinvisible ghosts hovering about their chairs hadconsulted in mutters as to the advisability ofsetting fire to this foreigner's casa.

It was trying to the nerves. Old Viola had risenslowly, gun in hand, irresolute, for he did notsee how he could prevent them. Already voicescould be heard talking at the back. SignoraTeresa was beside herself with terror.

"Ah! the traitor! the traitor!" she mumbled, al-most inaudibly. "Now we are going to be burnt;and I bent my knee to him. No! he must run atthe heels of his English."

She seemed to think that Nostromo's merepresence in the house would have made it per-fectly safe. So far, she, too, was under the spell

of that reputation the Capataz de Cargadoreshad made for himself by the waterside, alongthe railway line, with the English and with thepopulace of Sulaco. To his face, and evenagainst her husband, she invariably affected tolaugh it to scorn, sometimes good-naturedly,more often with a curious bitterness. But thenwomen are unreasonable in their opinions, asGiorgio used to remark calmly on fitting occa-sions. On this occasion, with his gun held atready before him, he stooped down to hiswife's head, and, keeping his eyes steadfastlyon the barricaded door, he breathed out intoher ear that Nostromo would have been power-less to help. What could two men shut up in ahouse do against twenty or more bent uponsetting fire to the roof? Gian' Battista was think-ing of the casa all the time, he was sure.

"He think of the casa! He!" gasped Signora Vi-ola, crazily. She struck her breast with her open

hands. "I know him. He thinks of nobody buthimself."

A discharge of firearms near by made herthrow her head back and close her eyes. OldGiorgio set his teeth hard under his whitemoustache, and his eyes began to roll fiercely.Several bullets struck the end of the wall to-gether; pieces of plaster could be heard fallingoutside; a voice screamed "Here they come!"and after a moment of uneasy silence there wasa rush of running feet along the front.

Then the tension of old Giorgio's attitude re-laxed, and a smile of contemptuous relief cameupon his lips of an old fighter with a leonineface. These were not a people striving for jus-tice, but thieves. Even to defend his life againstthem was a sort of degradation for a man whohad been one of Garibaldi's immortal thousandin the conquest of Sicily. He had an immensescorn for this outbreak of scoundrels and lep-

eros, who did not know the meaning of theword "liberty."

He grounded his old gun, and, turning hishead, glanced at the coloured lithograph ofGaribaldi in a black frame on the white wall; athread of strong sunshine cut it perpendicu-larly. His eyes, accustomed to the luminoustwilight, made out the high colouring of theface, the red of the shirt, the outlines of thesquare shoulders, the black patch of the Ber-sagliere hat with cock's feathers curling overthe crown. An immortal hero! This was yourliberty; it gave you not only life, but immortal-ity as well!

For that one man his fanaticism had suffered nodiminution. In the moment of relief from theapprehension of the greatest danger, perhaps,his family had been exposed to in all theirwanderings, he had turned to the picture of hisold chief, first and only, then laid his hand onhis wife's shoulder.

The children kneeling on the floor had notmoved. Signora Teresa opened her eyes a little,as though he had awakened her from a verydeep and dreamless slumber. Before he hadtime in his deliberate way to say a reassuringword she jumped up, with the children clingingto her, one on each side, gasped for breath, andlet out a hoarse shriek.

It was simultaneous with the bang of a violentblow struck on the outside of the shutter. Theycould hear suddenly the snorting of a horse, therestive tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hardpath in front of the house; the toe of a bootstruck at the shutter again; a spur jingled atevery blow, and an excited voice shouted,"Hola! hola, in there!"

CHAPTER FOUR

All the morning Nostromo had kept his eyefrom afar on the Casa Viola, even in the thick ofthe hottest scrimmage near the Custom House."If I see smoke rising over there," he thought tohimself, "they are lost." Directly the mob hadbroken he pressed with a small band of Italianworkmen in that direction, which, indeed, wasthe shortest line towards the town. That part ofthe rabble he was pursuing seemed to think ofmaking a stand under the house; a volley firedby his followers from behind an aloe hedgemade the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out forthe rails of the harbour branch line Nostromoappeared, mounted on his silver-grey mare. Heshouted, sent after them one shot from his re-volver, and galloped up to the cafe window. Hehad an idea that old Giorgio would choose thatpart of the house for a refuge.

His voice had penetrated to them, soundingbreathlessly hurried: "Hola! Vecchio! O, Vec-chio! Is it all well with you in there?"

"You see—" murmured old Viola to his wife.Signora Teresa was silent now. Outside Nos-tromo laughed.

"I can hear the padrona is not dead."

"You have done your best to kill me with fear,"cried Signora Teresa. She wanted to say some-thing more, but her voice failed her.

Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment,but old Giorgio shouted apologetically—

"She is a little upset."

Outside Nostromo shouted back with anotherlaugh—

"She cannot upset me."

Signora Teresa found her voice.

"It is what I say. You have no heart—and youhave no conscience, Gian' Battista—"

They heard him wheel his horse away from theshutters. The party he led were babbling excit-edly in Italian and Spanish, inciting each otherto the pursuit. He put himself at their head,crying, "Avanti!"

"He has not stopped very long with us. There isno praise from strangers to be got here," Si-gnora Teresa said tragically. "Avanti! Yes! Thatis all he cares for. To be first somewhere—somehow—to be first with these English. Theywill be showing him to everybody. 'This is ourNostromo!'" She laughed ominously. "What aname! What is that? Nostromo? He would takea name that is properly no word from them."

Meantime Giorgio, with tranquil movements,had been unfastening the door; the flood of

light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girlsgathered to her side, a picturesque woman in apose of maternal exaltation. Behind her the wallwas dazzlingly white, and the crude colours ofthe Garibaldi lithograph paled in the sunshine.

Old Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwardsas if referring all his quick, fleeting thoughts tothe picture of his old chief on the wall. Evenwhen he was cooking for the "Signori Inglesi"—the engineers (he was a famous cook, thoughthe kitchen was a dark place)—he was, as itwere, under the eye of the great man who hadled him in a glorious struggle where, under thewalls of Gaeta, tyranny would have expired forever had it not been for that accursed Piedmon-tese race of kings and ministers. When some-times a frying-pan caught fire during a delicateoperation with some shredded onions, and theold man was seen backing out of the doorway,swearing and coughing violently in an acridcloud of smoke, the name of Cavour—the arch

intriguer sold to kings and tyrants—could beheard involved in imprecations against theChina girls, cooking in general, and the brute ofa country where he was reduced to live for thelove of liberty that traitor had strangled.

Then Signora Teresa, all in black, issuing fromanother door, advanced, portly and anxious,inclining her fine, black-browed head, openingher arms, and crying in a profound tone—

"Giorgio! thou passionate man! MisericordiaDivina! In the sun like this! He will make him-self ill."

At her feet the hens made off in all directions,with immense strides; if there were any engi-neers from up the line staying in Sulaco, ayoung English face or two would appear at thebilliard-room occupying one end of the house;but at the other end, in the cafe, Luis, the mu-latto, took good care not to show himself. TheIndian girls, with hair like flowing black manes,

and dressed only in a shift and short petticoat,stared dully from under the square-cut fringeson their foreheads; the noisy frizzling of fat hadstopped, the fumes floated upwards in sun-shine, a strong smell of burnt onions hung inthe drowsy heat, enveloping the house; and theeye lost itself in a vast flat expanse of grass tothe west, as if the plain between the Sierra over-topping Sulaco and the coast range away theretowards Esmeralda had been as big as half theworld.

Signora Teresa, after an impressive pause, re-monstrated—

"Eh, Giorgio! Leave Cavour alone and take careof yourself now we are lost in this country allalone with the two children, because you can-not live under a king."

And while she looked at him she would some-times put her hand hastily to her side with ashort twitch of her fine lips and a knitting of

her black, straight eyebrows like a flicker ofangry pain or an angry thought on her hand-some, regular features.

It was pain; she suppressed the twinge. It hadcome to her first a few years after they had leftItaly to emigrate to America and settle at last inSulaco after wandering from town to town,trying shopkeeping in a small way here andthere; and once an organized enterprise of fish-ing—in Maldonado—for Giorgio, like the greatGaribaldi, had been a sailor in his time.

Sometimes she had no patience with pain. Foryears its gnawing had been part of the land-scape embracing the glitter of the harbour un-der the wooded spurs of the range; and thesunshine itself was heavy and dull—heavywith pain—not like the sunshine of her girl-hood, in which middle-aged Giorgio hadwooed her gravely and passionately on theshores of the gulf of Spezzia.

"You go in at once, Giorgio," she directed. "Onewould think you do not wish to have any pityon me—with four Signori Inglesi staying in thehouse." "Va bene, va bene," Giorgio would mut-ter. He obeyed. The Signori Inglesi would re-quire their midday meal presently. He hadbeen one of the immortal and invincible bandof liberators who had made the mercenaries oftyranny fly like chaff before a hurricane, "unuragano terribile." But that was before he wasmarried and had children; and before tyrannyhad reared its head again amongst the traitorswho had imprisoned Garibaldi, his hero.

There were three doors in the front of thehouse, and each afternoon the Garibaldinocould be seen at one or another of them withhis big bush of white hair, his arms folded, hislegs crossed, leaning back his leonine headagainst the side, and looking up the woodedslopes of the foothills at the snowy dome ofHiguerota. The front of his house threw off a

black long rectangle of shade, broadeningslowly over the soft ox-cart track. Through thegaps, chopped out in the oleander hedges, theharbour branch railway, laid out temporarilyon the level of the plain, curved away its shin-ing parallel ribbons on a belt of scorched andwithered grass within sixty yards of the end ofthe house. In the evening the empty materialtrains of flat cars circled round the dark greengrove of Sulaco, and ran, undulating slightlywith white jets of steam, over the plain towardsthe Casa Viola, on their way to the railwayyards by the harbour. The Italian drivers sa-luted him from the foot-plate with raised hand,while the negro brakesmen sat carelessly on thebrakes, looking straight forward, with the rimsof their big hats flapping in the wind. In returnGiorgio would give a slight sideways jerk of thehead, without unfolding his arms.

On this memorable day of the riot his armswere not folded on his chest. His hand grasped

the barrel of the gun grounded on the thresh-old; he did not look up once at the white domeof Higuerota, whose cool purity seemed to holditself aloof from a hot earth. His eyes examinedthe plain curiously. Tall trails of dust subsidedhere and there. In a speckless sky the sun hungclear and blinding. Knots of men ran headlong;others made a stand; and the irregular rattle offirearms came rippling to his ears in the fiery,still air. Single figures on foot raced desper-ately. Horsemen galloped towards each other,wheeled round together, separated at speed.Giorgio saw one fall, rider and horse disap-pearing as if they had galloped into a chasm,and the movements of the animated scene werelike the passages of a violent game played uponthe plain by dwarfs mounted and on foot, yell-ing with tiny throats, under the mountain thatseemed a colossal embodiment of silence.Never before had Giorgio seen this bit of plainso full of active life; his gaze could not take inall its details at once; he shaded his eyes with

his hand, till suddenly the thundering of manyhoofs near by startled him.

A troop of horses had broken out of the fencedpaddock of the Railway Company. They cameon like a whirlwind, and dashed over the linesnorting, kicking, squealing in a compact, pie-bald, tossing mob of bay, brown, grey backs,eyes staring, necks extended, nostrils red, longtails streaming. As soon as they had leapedupon the road the thick dust flew upwardsfrom under their hoofs, and within six yards ofGiorgio only a brown cloud with vague formsof necks and cruppers rolled by, making thesoil tremble on its passage.

Viola coughed, turning his face away from thedust, and shaking his head slightly.

"There will be some horse-catching to be donebefore to-night," he muttered.

In the square of sunlight falling through thedoor Signora Teresa, kneeling before the chair,had bowed her head, heavy with a twistedmass of ebony hair streaked with silver, intothe palm of her hands. The black lace shawl sheused to drape about her face had dropped tothe ground by her side. The two girls had gotup, hand-in-hand, in short skirts, their loosehair falling in disorder. The younger hadthrown her arm across her eyes, as if afraid toface the light. Linda, with her hand on theother's shoulder, stared fearlessly. Viola lookedat his children. The sun brought out the deeplines on his face, and, energetic in expression, ithad the immobility of a carving. It was impos-sible to discover what he thought. Bushy greyeyebrows shaded his dark glance.

"Well! And do you not pray like your mother?"

Linda pouted, advancing her red lips, whichwere almost too red; but she had admirableeyes, brown, with a sparkle of gold in the irises,

full of intelligence and meaning, and so clearthat they seemed to throw a glow upon herthin, colourless face. There were bronze glintsin the sombre clusters of her hair, and the eye-lashes, long and coal black, made her complex-ion appear still more pale.

"Mother is going to offer up a lot of candles inthe church. She always does when Nostromohas been away fighting. I shall have some tocarry up to the Chapel of the Madonna in theCathedral."

She said all this quickly, with great assurance,in an animated, penetrating voice. Then, givingher sister's shoulder a slight shake, she added—

"And she will be made to carry one, too!"

"Why made?" inquired Giorgio, gravely. "Doesshe not want to?"

"She is timid," said Linda, with a little burst oflaughter. "People notice her fair hair as she goesalong with us. They call out after her, 'Look atthe Rubia! Look at the Rubiacita!' They call outin the streets. She is timid."

"And you? You are not timid—eh?" the fatherpronounced, slowly.

She tossed back all her dark hair.

"Nobody calls out after me."

Old Giorgio contemplated his childrenthoughtfully. There was two years differencebetween them. They had been born to him late,years after the boy had died. Had he lived hewould have been nearly as old as Gian' Bat-tista—he whom the English called Nostromo;but as to his daughters, the severity of his tem-per, his advancing age, his absorption in hismemories, had prevented his taking much no-tice of them. He loved his children, but girls

belong more to the mother, and much of hisaffection had been expended in the worshipand service of liberty.

When quite a youth he had deserted from aship trading to La Plata, to enlist in the navy ofMontevideo, then under the command of Gari-baldi. Afterwards, in the Italian legion of theRepublic struggling against the encroachingtyranny of Rosas, he had taken part, on greatplains, on the banks of immense rivers, in thefiercest fighting perhaps the world had everknown. He had lived amongst men who haddeclaimed about liberty, suffered for liberty,died for liberty, with a desperate exaltation,and with their eyes turned towards an op-pressed Italy. His own enthusiasm had beenfed on scenes of carnage, on the examples oflofty devotion, on the din of armed struggle, onthe inflamed language of proclamations. Hehad never parted from the chief of his choice—the fiery apostle of independence—keeping by

his side in America and in Italy till after thefatal day of Aspromonte, when the treachery ofkings, emperors, and ministers had been re-vealed to the world in the wounding and im-prisonment of his hero—a catastrophe that hadinstilled into him a gloomy doubt of ever beingable to understand the ways of Divine justice.

He did not deny it, however. It required pa-tience, he would say. Though he dislikedpriests, and would not put his foot inside achurch for anything, he believed in God. Werenot the proclamations against tyrants ad-dressed to the peoples in the name of God andliberty? "God for men—religions for women,"he muttered sometimes. In Sicily, an English-man who had turned up in Palermo after itsevacuation by the army of the king, had givenhim a Bible in Italian—the publication of theBritish and Foreign Bible Society, bound in adark leather cover. In periods of political ad-versity, in the pauses of silence when the revo-

lutionists issued no proclamations, Giorgioearned his living with the first work that cameto hand—as sailor, as dock labourer on thequays of Genoa, once as a hand on a farm in thehills above Spezzia—and in his spare time hestudied the thick volume. He carried it withhim into battles. Now it was his only reading,and in order not to be deprived of it (the printwas small) he had consented to accept the pre-sent of a pair of silver-mounted spectacles fromSenora Emilia Gould, the wife of the English-man who managed the silver mine in themountains three leagues from the town. Shewas the only Englishwoman in Sulaco.

Giorgio Viola had a great consideration for theEnglish. This feeling, born on the battlefields ofUruguay, was forty years old at the very least.Several of them had poured their blood for thecause of freedom in America, and the first hehad ever known he remembered by the nameof Samuel; he commanded a negro company

under Garibaldi, during the famous siege ofMontevideo, and died heroically with his ne-groes at the fording of the Boyana. He, Giorgio,had reached the rank of ensign-alferez-andcooked for the general. Later, in Italy, he, withthe rank of lieutenant, rode with the staff andstill cooked for the general. He had cooked forhim in Lombardy through the whole campaign;on the march to Rome he had lassoed his beefin the Campagna after the American manner;he had been wounded in the defence of theRoman Republic; he was one of the four fugi-tives who, with the general, carried out of thewoods the inanimate body of the general's wifeinto the farmhouse where she died, exhaustedby the hardships of that terrible retreat. He hadsurvived that disastrous time to attend his gen-eral in Palermo when the Neapolitan shellsfrom the castle crashed upon the town. He hadcooked for him on the field of Volturno afterfighting all day. And everywhere he had seenEnglishmen in the front rank of the army of

freedom. He respected their nation becausethey loved Garibaldi. Their very countesses andprincesses had kissed the general's hands inLondon, it was said. He could well believe it;for the nation was noble, and the man was asaint. It was enough to look once at his face tosee the divine force of faith in him and his greatpity for all that was poor, suffering, and op-pressed in this world.

The spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devo-tion to a vast humanitarian idea which inspiredthe thought and stress of that revolutionarytime, had left its mark upon Giorgio in a sort ofaustere contempt for all personal advantage.This man, whom the lowest class in Sulaco sus-pected of having a buried hoard in his kitchen,had all his life despised money. The leaders ofhis youth had lived poor, had died poor. It hadbeen a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It was engendered partly by an exis-tence of excitement, adventure, and wild war-

fare. But mostly it was a matter of principle. Itdid not resemble the carelessness of a condotti-ere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born ofstern enthusiasm like the puritanism of relig-ion.

This stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloomupon Giorgio's old age. It cast a gloom becausethe cause seemed lost. Too many kings andemperors flourished yet in the world whichGod had meant for the people. He was sad be-cause of his simplicity. Though always ready tohelp his countrymen, and greatly respected bythe Italian emigrants wherever he lived (in hisexile he called it), he could not conceal fromhimself that they cared nothing for the wrongsof down-trodden nations. They listened to histales of war readily, but seemed to ask them-selves what he had got out of it after all. Therewas nothing that they could see. "We wantednothing, we suffered for the love of all human-ity!" he cried out furiously sometimes, and the

powerful voice, the blazing eyes, the shaking ofthe white mane, the brown, sinewy hand point-ing upwards as if to call heaven to witness,impressed his hearers. After the old man hadbroken off abruptly with a jerk of the head anda movement of the arm, meaning clearly, "Butwhat's the good of talking to you?" theynudged each other. There was in old Giorgio anenergy of feeling, a personal quality of convic-tion, something they called "terribilita"—"anold lion," they used to say of him. Some slightincident, a chance word would set him off talk-ing on the beach to the Italian fishermen ofMaldonado, in the little shop he kept after-wards (in Valparaiso) to his countrymen cus-tomers; of an evening, suddenly, in the cafe atone end of the Casa Viola (the other was re-served for the English engineers) to the selectclientele of engine-drivers and foremen of therailway shops.

With their handsome, bronzed, lean faces,shiny black ringlets, glistening eyes, broad-chested, bearded, sometimes a tiny gold ring inthe lobe of the ear, the aristocracy of the rail-way works listened to him, turning away fromtheir cards or dominoes. Here and there a fair-haired Basque studied his hand meantime,waiting without protest. No native of Costa-guana intruded there. This was the Italianstronghold. Even the Sulaco policemen on anight patrol let their horses pace softly by,bending low in the saddle to glance throughthe window at the heads in a fog of smoke; andthe drone of old Giorgio's declamatory narra-tive seemed to sink behind them into the plain.Only now and then the assistant of the chief ofpolice, some broad-faced, brown little gentle-man, with a great deal of Indian in him, wouldput in an appearance. Leaving his man outsidewith the horses he advanced with a confident,sly smile, and without a word up to the longtrestle table. He pointed to one of the bottles on

the shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his pipe into hismouth abruptly, served him in person. Nothingwould be heard but the slight jingle of thespurs. His glass emptied, he would take a lei-surely, scrutinizing look all round the room, goout, and ride away slowly, circling towards thetown.

CHAPTER FIVE

In this way only was the power of the local au-thorities vindicated amongst the great body ofstrong-limbed foreigners who dug the earth,blasted the rocks, drove the engines for the"progressive and patriotic undertaking." Inthese very words eighteen months before theExcellentissimo Senor don Vincente Ribiera, theDictator of Costaguana, had described the Na-

tional Central Railway in his great speech at theturning of the first sod.

He had come on purpose to Sulaco, and therewas a one-o'clock dinner-party, a convite of-fered by the O.S.N. Company on board theJuno after the function on shore. CaptainMitchell had himself steered the cargo lighter,all draped with flags, which, in tow of theJuno's steam launch, took the Excellentissimofrom the jetty to the ship. Everybody of note inSulaco had been invited—the one or two for-eign merchants, all the representatives of theold Spanish families then in town, the greatowners of estates on the plain, grave, courte-ous, simple men, caballeros of pure descent,with small hands and feet, conservative, hospi-table, and kind. The Occidental Province wastheir stronghold; their Blanco party had tri-umphed now; it was their President-Dictator, aBlanco of the Blancos, who sat smiling urbanelybetween the representatives of two friendly

foreign powers. They had come with him fromSta. Marta to countenance by their presence theenterprise in which the capital of their coun-tries was engaged. The only lady of that com-pany was Mrs. Gould, the wife of Don Carlos,the administrator of the San Tome silver mine.The ladies of Sulaco were not advanced enoughto take part in the public life to that extent.They had come out strongly at the great ball atthe Intendencia the evening before, but Mrs.Gould alone had appeared, a bright spot in thegroup of black coats behind the President-Dictator, on the crimson cloth-covered stageerected under a shady tree on the shore of theharbour, where the ceremony of turning thefirst sod had taken place. She had come off inthe cargo lighter, full of notabilities, sitting un-der the flutter of gay flags, in the place of hon-our by the side of Captain Mitchell, whosteered, and her clear dress gave the only trulyfestive note to the sombre gathering in the long,gorgeous saloon of the Juno.

The head of the chairman of the railway board(from London), handsome and pale in a silverymist of white hair and clipped beard, hoverednear her shoulder attentive, smiling, and fa-tigued. The journey from London to Sta. Martain mail boats and the special carriages of theSta. Marta coast-line (the only railway so far)had been tolerable—even pleasant—quite tol-erable. But the trip over the mountains to Su-laco was another sort of experience, in an olddiligencia over impassable roads skirting awfulprecipices.

"We have been upset twice in one day on thebrink of very deep ravines," he was telling Mrs.Gould in an undertone. "And when we arrivedhere at last I don't know what we should havedone without your hospitality. What an out-of-the-way place Sulaco is!—and for a harbour,too! Astonishing!"

"Ah, but we are very proud of it. It used to behistorically important. The highest ecclesiastical

court for two viceroyalties, sat here in the oldentime," she instructed him with animation.

"I am impressed. I didn't mean to be disparag-ing. You seem very patriotic."

"The place is lovable, if only by its situation.Perhaps you don't know what an old resident Iam."

"How old, I wonder," he murmured, looking ather with a slight smile. Mrs. Gould's appear-ance was made youthful by the mobile intelli-gence of her face. "We can't give you your ec-clesiastical court back again; but you shall havemore steamers, a railway, a telegraph-cable—afuture in the great world which is worth infi-nitely more than any amount of ecclesiasticalpast. You shall be brought in touch with some-thing greater than two viceroyalties. But I hadno notion that a place on a sea-coast could re-main so isolated from the world. If it had beena thousand miles inland now—most remark-

able! Has anything ever happened here for ahundred years before to-day?"

While he talked in a slow, humorous tone, shekept her little smile. Agreeing ironically, sheassured him that certainly not—nothing everhappened in Sulaco. Even the revolutions, ofwhich there had been two in her time, had re-spected the repose of the place. Their courseran in the more populous southern parts of theRepublic, and the great valley of Sta. Marta,which was like one great battlefield of the par-ties, with the possession of the capital for aprize and an outlet to another ocean. They weremore advanced over there. Here in Sulaco theyheard only the echoes of these great questions,and, of course, their official world changedeach time, coming to them over their rampartof mountains which he himself had traversed inan old diligencia, with such a risk to life andlimb.

The chairman of the railway had been enjoyingher hospitality for several days, and he wasreally grateful for it. It was only since he hadleft Sta. Marta that he had utterly lost touchwith the feeling of European life on the back-ground of his exotic surroundings. In the capi-tal he had been the guest of the Legation, andhad been kept busy negotiating with the mem-bers of Don Vincente's Government—culturedmen, men to whom the conditions of civilizedbusiness were not unknown.

What concerned him most at the time was theacquisition of land for the railway. In the Sta.Marta Valley, where there was already one linein existence, the people were tractable, and itwas only a matter of price. A commission hadbeen nominated to fix the values, and the diffi-culty resolved itself into the judicious influenc-ing of the Commissioners. But in Sulaco—theOccidental Province for whose very develop-ment the railway was intended—there had

been trouble. It had been lying for ages en-sconced behind its natural barriers, repellingmodern enterprise by the precipices of itsmountain range, by its shallow harbour open-ing into the everlasting calms of a gulf full ofclouds, by the benighted state of mind of theowners of its fertile territory—all these aristo-cratic old Spanish families, all those Don Am-brosios this and Don Fernandos that, whoseemed actually to dislike and distrust the com-ing of the railway over their lands. It had hap-pened that some of the surveying parties scat-tered all over the province had been warned offwith threats of violence. In other cases outra-geous pretensions as to price had been raised.But the man of railways prided himself on be-ing equal to every emergency. Since he was metby the inimical sentiment of blind conservatismin Sulaco he would meet it by sentiment, too,before taking his stand on his right alone. TheGovernment was bound to carry out its part ofthe contract with the board of the new railway

company, even if it had to use force for thepurpose. But he desired nothing less than anarmed disturbance in the smooth working ofhis plans. They were much too vast and far-reaching, and too promising to leave a stoneunturned; and so he imagined to get the Presi-dent-Dictator over there on a tour of ceremo-nies and speeches, culminating in a great func-tion at the turning of the first sod by the har-bour shore. After all he was their own crea-ture—that Don Vincente. He was the embodiedtriumph of the best elements in the State. Thesewere facts, and, unless facts meant nothing, SirJohn argued to himself, such a man's influencemust be real, and his personal action wouldproduce the conciliatory effect he required. Hehad succeeded in arranging the trip with thehelp of a very clever advocate, who was knownin Sta. Marta as the agent of the Gould silvermine, the biggest thing in Sulaco, and even inthe whole Republic. It was indeed a fabulouslyrich mine. Its so-called agent, evidently a man

of culture and ability, seemed, without officialposition, to possess an extraordinary influencein the highest Government spheres. He wasable to assure Sir John that the President-Dictator would make the journey. He regretted,however, in the course of the same conversa-tion, that General Montero insisted upon going,too.

General Montero, whom the beginning of thestruggle had found an obscure army captainemployed on the wild eastern frontier of theState, had thrown in his lot with the Ribieraparty at a moment when special circumstanceshad given that small adhesion a fortuitous im-portance. The fortunes of war served him mar-vellously, and the victory of Rio Seco (after aday of desperate fighting) put a seal to his suc-cess. At the end he emerged General, Ministerof War, and the military head of the Blancoparty, although there was nothing aristocraticin his descent. Indeed, it was said that he and

his brother, orphans, had been brought up bythe munificence of a famous European travel-ler, in whose service their father had lost hislife. Another story was that their father hadbeen nothing but a charcoal burner in thewoods, and their mother a baptised Indianwoman from the far interior.

However that might be, the Costaguana Presswas in the habit of styling Montero's forestmarch from his commandancia to join theBlanco forces at the beginning of the troubles,the "most heroic military exploit of moderntimes." About the same time, too, his brotherhad turned up from Europe, where he hadgone apparently as secretary to a consul. Hav-ing, however, collected a small band of out-laws, he showed some talent as guerilla chiefand had been rewarded at the pacification bythe post of Military Commandant of the capital.

The Minister of War, then, accompanied theDictator. The board of the O.S.N. Company,

working hand-in-hand with the railway peoplefor the good of the Republic, had on this impor-tant occasion instructed Captain Mitchell to putthe mail-boat Juno at the disposal of the distin-guished party. Don Vincente, journeying southfrom Sta. Marta, had embarked at Cayta, theprincipal port of Costaguana, and came to Su-laco by sea. But the chairman of the railwaycompany had courageously crossed the moun-tains in a ramshackle diligencia, mainly for thepurpose of meeting his engineer-in-chief en-gaged in the final survey of the road.

For all the indifference of a man of affairs tonature, whose hostility can always be overcomeby the resources of finance, he could not helpbeing impressed by his surroundings duringhis halt at the surveying camp established atthe highest point his railway was to reach. Hespent the night there, arriving just too late tosee the last dying glow of sunlight upon thesnowy flank of Higuerota. Pillared masses of

black basalt framed like an open portal a por-tion of the white field lying aslant against thewest. In the transparent air of the high altitudeseverything seemed very near, steeped in a clearstillness as in an imponderable liquid; and withhis ear ready to catch the first sound of the ex-pected diligencia the engineer-in-chief, at thedoor of a hut of rough stones, had contem-plated the changing hues on the enormous sideof the mountain, thinking that in this sight, asin a piece of inspired music, there could befound together the utmost delicacy of shadedexpression and a stupendous magnificence ofeffect.

Sir John arrived too late to hear the magnificentand inaudible strain sung by the sunsetamongst the high peaks of the Sierra. It hadsung itself out into the breathless pause of deepdusk before, climbing down the fore wheel ofthe diligencia with stiff limbs, he shook handswith the engineer.

They gave him his dinner in a stone hut like acubical boulder, with no door or windows in itstwo openings; a bright fire of sticks (brought onmuleback from the first valley below) burningoutside, sent in a wavering glare; and two can-dles in tin candlesticks—lighted, it was ex-plained to him, in his honour—stood on a sortof rough camp table, at which he sat on theright hand of the chief. He knew how to beamiable; and the young men of the engineeringstaff, for whom the surveying of the railwaytrack had the glamour of the first steps on thepath of life, sat there, too, listening modestly,with their smooth faces tanned by the weather,and very pleased to witness so much affabilityin so great a man.

Afterwards, late at night, pacing to and fro out-side, he had a long talk with his chief engineer.He knew him well of old. This was not the firstundertaking in which their gifts, as elementallydifferent as fire and water, had worked in con-

junction. From the contact of these two person-alities, who had not the same vision of theworld, there was generated a power for theworld's service—a subtle force that could set inmotion mighty machines, men's muscles, andawaken also in human breasts an unboundeddevotion to the task. Of the young fellows atthe table, to whom the survey of the track waslike the tracing of the path of life, more thanone would be called to meet death before thework was done. But the work would be done:the force would be almost as strong as a faith.Not quite, however. In the silence of the sleep-ing camp upon the moonlit plateau forming thetop of the pass like the floor of a vast arena sur-rounded by the basalt walls of precipices, twostrolling figures in thick ulsters stood still, andthe voice of the engineer pronounced distinctlythe words—

"We can't move mountains!"

Sir John, raising his head to follow the pointinggesture, felt the full force of the words. Thewhite Higuerota soared out of the shadows ofrock and earth like a frozen bubble under themoon. All was still, till near by, behind the wallof a corral for the camp animals, built roughlyof loose stones in the form of a circle, a packmule stamped his forefoot and blew heavilytwice.

The engineer-in-chief had used the phrase inanswer to the chairman's tentative suggestionthat the tracing of the line could, perhaps, bealtered in deference to the prejudices of theSulaco landowners. The chief engineer believedthat the obstinacy of men was the lesser obsta-cle. Moreover, to combat that they had thegreat influence of Charles Gould, whereas tun-nelling under Higuerota would have been acolossal undertaking.

"Ah, yes! Gould. What sort of a man is he?"

Sir John had heard much of Charles Gould inSta. Marta, and wanted to know more. The en-gineer-in-chief assured him that the administra-tor of the San Tome silver mine had an im-mense influence over all these Spanish Dons.He had also one of the best houses in Sulaco,and the Gould hospitality was beyond allpraise.

"They received me as if they had known me foryears," he said. "The little lady is kindness per-sonified. I stayed with them for a month. Hehelped me to organize the surveying parties.His practical ownership of the San Tome silvermine gives him a special position. He seems tohave the ear of every provincial authority ap-parently, and, as I said, he can wind all the hi-dalgos of the province round his little finger. Ifyou follow his advice the difficulties will fallaway, because he wants the railway. Of course,you must be careful in what you say. He's Eng-lish, and besides he must be immensely

wealthy. The Holroyd house is in with him inthat mine, so you may imagine—"

He interrupted himself as, from before one ofthe little fires burning outside the low wall ofthe corral, arose the figure of a man wrapped ina poncho up to the neck. The saddle which hehad been using for a pillow made a dark patchon the ground against the red glow of embers.

"I shall see Holroyd himself on my way backthrough the States," said Sir John. "I've ascer-tained that he, too, wants the railway."

The man who, perhaps disturbed by the prox-imity of the voices, had arisen from the ground,struck a match to light a cigarette. The flameshowed a bronzed, black-whiskered face, a pairof eyes gazing straight; then, rearranging hiswrappings, he sank full length and laid hishead again on the saddle.

"That's our camp-master, whom I must sendback to Sulaco now we are going to carry oursurvey into the Sta. Marta Valley," said the en-gineer. "A most useful fellow, lent me by Cap-tain Mitchell of the O.S.N. Company. It wasvery good of Mitchell. Charles Gould told me Icouldn't do better than take advantage of theoffer. He seems to know how to rule all thesemuleteers and peons. We had not the slightesttrouble with our people. He shall escort yourdiligencia right into Sulaco with some of ourrailway peons. The road is bad. To have him athand may save you an upset or two. He prom-ised me to take care of your person all the waydown as if you were his father."

This camp-master was the Italian sailor whomall the Europeans in Sulaco, following CaptainMitchell's mispronunciation, were in the habitof calling Nostromo. And indeed, taciturn andready, he did take excellent care of his charge at

the bad parts of the road, as Sir John himselfacknowledged to Mrs. Gould afterwards.

CHAPTER SIX

At that time Nostromo had been already longenough in the country to raise to the highestpitch Captain Mitchell's opinion of the extraor-dinary value of his discovery. Clearly he wasone of those invaluable subordinates whom topossess is a legitimate cause of boasting. Cap-tain Mitchell plumed himself upon his eye formen—but he was not selfish—and in the inno-cence of his pride was already developing thatmania for "lending you my Capataz de Car-gadores" which was to bring Nostromo intopersonal contact, sooner or later, with everyEuropean in Sulaco, as a sort of universal facto-

tum—a prodigy of efficiency in his own sphereof life.

"The fellow is devoted to me, body and soul!"Captain Mitchell was given to affirm; andthough nobody, perhaps, could have explainedwhy it should be so, it was impossible on a sur-vey of their relation to throw doubt on thatstatement, unless, indeed, one were a bitter,eccentric character like Dr. Monygham—forinstance—whose short, hopeless laugh ex-pressed somehow an immense mistrust ofmankind. Not that Dr. Monygham was aprodigal either of laughter or of words. He wasbitterly taciturn when at his best. At his worstpeople feared the open scornfulness of histongue. Only Mrs. Gould could keep his unbe-lief in men's motives within due bounds; buteven to her (on an occasion not connected withNostromo, and in a tone which for him wasgentle), even to her, he had said once, "Really, itis most unreasonable to demand that a man

should think of other people so much betterthan he is able to think of himself."

And Mrs. Gould had hastened to drop the sub-ject. There were strange rumours of the Englishdoctor. Years ago, in the time of Guzman Bento,he had been mixed up, it was whispered, in aconspiracy which was betrayed and, as peopleexpressed it, drowned in blood. His hair hadturned grey, his hairless, seamed face was of abrick-dust colour; the large check pattern of hisflannel shirt and his old stained Panama hatwere an established defiance to the convention-alities of Sulaco. Had it not been for the im-maculate cleanliness of his apparel he mighthave been taken for one of those shiftless Euro-peans that are a moral eyesore to the respect-ability of a foreign colony in almost every ex-otic part of the world. The young ladies of Su-laco, adorning with clusters of pretty faces thebalconies along the Street of the Constitution,when they saw him pass, with his limping gait

and bowed head, a short linen jacket drawn oncarelessly over the flannel check shirt, wouldremark to each other, "Here is the Senor doctorgoing to call on Dona Emilia. He has got hislittle coat on." The inference was true. Itsdeeper meaning was hidden from their simpleintelligence. Moreover, they expended no storeof thought on the doctor. He was old, ugly,learned—and a little "loco"—mad, if not a bit ofa sorcerer, as the common people suspectedhim of being. The little white jacket was in real-ity a concession to Mrs. Gould's humanizinginfluence. The doctor, with his habit of scepti-cal, bitter speech, had no other means of show-ing his profound respect for the character of thewoman who was known in the country as theEnglish Senora. He presented this tribute veryseriously indeed; it was no trifle for a man ofhis habits. Mrs. Gould felt that, too, perfectly.She would never have thought of imposingupon him this marked show of deference.

She kept her old Spanish house (one of the fin-est specimens in Sulaco) open for the dispensa-tion of the small graces of existence. She dis-pensed them with simplicity and charm be-cause she was guided by an alert perception ofvalues. She was highly gifted in the art of hu-man intercourse which consists in delicateshades of self-forgetfulness and in the sugges-tion of universal comprehension. CharlesGould (the Gould family, established in Costa-guana for three generations, always went toEngland for their education and for their wives)imagined that he had fallen in love with a girl'ssound common sense like any other man, butthese were not exactly the reasons why, forinstance, the whole surveying camp, from theyoungest of the young men to their maturechief, should have found occasion to allude toMrs. Gould's house so frequently amongst thehigh peaks of the Sierra. She would have pro-tested that she had done nothing for them, witha low laugh and a surprised widening of her

grey eyes, had anybody told her how convinc-ingly she was remembered on the edge of thesnow-line above Sulaco. But directly, with alittle capable air of setting her wits to work, shewould have found an explanation. "Of course,it was such a surprise for these boys to find anysort of welcome here. And I suppose they arehomesick. I suppose everybody must be alwaysjust a little homesick."

She was always sorry for homesick people.

Born in the country, as his father before him,spare and tall, with a flaming moustache, a neatchin, clear blue eyes, auburn hair, and a thin,fresh, red face, Charles Gould looked like anew arrival from over the sea. His grandfatherhad fought in the cause of independence underBolivar, in that famous English legion which onthe battlefield of Carabobo had been saluted bythe great Liberator as Saviours of his country.One of Charles Gould's uncles had been theelected President of that very province of Su-

laco (then called a State) in the days of Federa-tion, and afterwards had been put up againstthe wall of a church and shot by the order ofthe barbarous Unionist general, Guzman Bento.It was the same Guzman Bento who, becominglater Perpetual President, famed for his ruthlessand cruel tyranny, readied his apotheosis in thepopular legend of a sanguinary land-hauntingspectre whose body had been carried off by thedevil in person from the brick mausoleum inthe nave of the Church of Assumption in Sta.Marta. Thus, at least, the priests explained itsdisappearance to the barefooted multitude thatstreamed in, awestruck, to gaze at the hole inthe side of the ugly box of bricks before thegreat altar.

Guzman Bento of cruel memory had put todeath great numbers of people besides CharlesGould's uncle; but with a relative martyred inthe cause of aristocracy, the Sulaco Oligarchs(this was the phraseology of Guzman Bento's

time; now they were called Blancos, and hadgiven up the federal idea), which meant thefamilies of pure Spanish descent, consideredCharles as one of themselves. With such a fam-ily record, no one could be more of a Costa-guanero than Don Carlos Gould; but his aspectwas so characteristic that in the talk of commonpeople he was just the Inglez—the Englishmanof Sulaco. He looked more English than a cas-ual tourist, a sort of heretic pilgrim, however,quite unknown in Sulaco. He looked more Eng-lish than the last arrived batch of young rail-way engineers, than anybody out of the hunt-ing-field pictures in the numbers of Punchreaching his wife's drawing-room two monthsor so after date. It astonished you to hear himtalk Spanish (Castillan, as the natives say) orthe Indian dialect of the country-people sonaturally. His accent had never been English;but there was something so indelible in allthese ancestral Goulds—liberators, explorers,coffee planters, merchants, revolutionists—of

Costaguana, that he, the only representative ofthe third generation in a continent possessingits own style of horsemanship, went on lookingthoroughly English even on horseback. This isnot said of him in the mocking spirit of theLlaneros—men of the great plains—who thinkthat no one in the world knows how to sit ahorse but themselves. Charles Gould, to use thesuitably lofty phrase, rode like a centaur. Rid-ing for him was not a special form of exercise; itwas a natural faculty, as walking straight is toall men sound of mind and limb; but, all thesame, when cantering beside the rutty ox-carttrack to the mine he looked in his Englishclothes and with his imported saddlery asthough he had come this moment to Costa-guana at his easy swift pasotrote, straight out ofsome green meadow at the other side of theworld.

His way would lie along the old Spanishroad—the Camino Real of popular speech—the

only remaining vestige of a fact and name leftby that royalty old Giorgio Viola hated, andwhose very shadow had departed from theland; for the big equestrian statue of Charles IV.at the entrance of the Alameda, towering whiteagainst the trees, was only known to the folkfrom the country and to the beggars of thetown that slept on the steps around the pedes-tal, as the Horse of Stone. The other Carlos,turning off to the left with a rapid clatter ofhoofs on the disjointed pavement—Don CarlosGould, in his English clothes, looked as incon-gruous, but much more at home than thekingly cavalier reining in his steed on the ped-estal above the sleeping leperos, with his mar-ble arm raised towards the marble rim of aplumed hat.

The weather-stained effigy of the mountedking, with its vague suggestion of a salutinggesture, seemed to present an inscrutable breastto the political changes which had robbed it of

its very name; but neither did the other horse-man, well known to the people, keen and aliveon his well-shaped, slate-coloured beast with awhite eye, wear his heart on the sleeve of hisEnglish coat. His mind preserved its steadypoise as if sheltered in the passionless stabilityof private and public decencies at home inEurope. He accepted with a like calm theshocking manner in which the Sulaco ladiessmothered their faces with pearl powder tillthey looked like white plaster casts with beauti-ful living eyes, the peculiar gossip of the town,and the continuous political changes, the con-stant "saving of the country," which to his wifeseemed a puerile and bloodthirsty game ofmurder and rapine played with terrible ear-nestness by depraved children. In the earlydays of her Costaguana life, the little lady usedto clench her hands with exasperation at notbeing able to take the public affairs of the coun-try as seriously as the incidental atrocity ofmethods deserved. She saw in them a comedy

of naive pretences, but hardly anything genu-ine except her own appalled indignation.Charles, very quiet and twisting his long mous-taches, would decline to discuss them at all.Once, however, he observed to her gently—

"My dear, you seem to forget that I was bornhere." These few words made her pause as ifthey had been a sudden revelation. Perhaps themere fact of being born in the country did makea difference. She had a great confidence in herhusband; it had always been very great. He hadstruck her imagination from the first by hisunsentimentalism, by that very quietude ofmind which she had erected in her thought fora sign of perfect competency in the business ofliving. Don Jose Avellanos, their neighbouracross the street, a statesman, a poet, a man ofculture, who had represented his country atseveral European Courts (and had suffereduntold indignities as a state prisoner in the timeof the tyrant Guzman Bento), used to declare in

Dona Emilia's drawing-room that Carlos hadall the English qualities of character with atruly patriotic heart.

Mrs. Gould, raising her eyes to her husband'sthin, red and tan face, could not detect theslightest quiver of a feature at what he musthave heard said of his patriotism. Perhaps hehad just dismounted on his return from themine; he was English enough to disregard thehottest hours of the day. Basilio, in a livery ofwhite linen and a red sash, had squatted for amoment behind his heels to unstrap the heavy,blunt spurs in the patio; and then the SenorAdministrator would go up the staircase intothe gallery. Rows of plants in pots, ranged onthe balustrade between the pilasters of thearches, screened the corredor with their leavesand flowers from the quadrangle below, whosepaved space is the true hearthstone of a SouthAmerican house, where the quiet hours of do-

mestic life are marked by the shifting of lightand shadow on the flagstones.

Senor Avellanos was in the habit of crossing thepatio at five o'clock almost every day. Don Josechose to come over at tea-time because the Eng-lish rite at Dona Emilia's house reminded himof the time he lived in London as MinisterPlenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. Hedid not like tea; and, usually, rocking hisAmerican chair, his neat little shiny bootscrossed on the foot-rest, he would talk on andon with a sort of complacent virtuosity wonder-ful in a man of his age, while he held the cup inhis hands for a long time. His close-croppedhead was perfectly white; his eyes coalblack.

On seeing Charles Gould step into the sala hewould nod provisionally and go on to the endof the oratorial period. Only then he wouldsay—

"Carlos, my friend, you have ridden from SanTome in the heat of the day. Always the trueEnglish activity. No? What?"

He drank up all the tea at once in one draught.This performance was invariably followed by aslight shudder and a low, involuntary "br-r-r-r,"which was not covered by the hasty exclama-tion, "Excellent!"

Then giving up the empty cup into his youngfriend's hand, extended with a smile, he con-tinued to expatiate upon the patriotic nature ofthe San Tome mine for the simple pleasure oftalking fluently, it seemed, while his recliningbody jerked backwards and forwards in a rock-ing-chair of the sort exported from the UnitedStates. The ceiling of the largest drawing-roomof the Casa Gould extended its white level farabove his head. The loftiness dwarfed the mix-ture of heavy, straight-backed Spanish chairs ofbrown wood with leathern seats, and Europeanfurniture, low, and cushioned all over, like

squat little monsters gorged to bursting withsteel springs and horsehair. There were knick-knacks on little tables, mirrors let into the wallabove marble consoles, square spaces of carpetunder the two groups of armchairs, each pre-sided over by a deep sofa; smaller rugs scat-tered all over the floor of red tiles; three win-dows from the ceiling down to the ground,opening on a balcony, and flanked by the per-pendicular folds of the dark hangings. Thestateliness of ancient days lingered between thefour high, smooth walls, tinted a delicate prim-rose-colour; and Mrs. Gould, with her littlehead and shining coils of hair, sitting in a cloudof muslin and lace before a slender mahoganytable, resembled a fairy posed lightly beforedainty philtres dispensed out of vessels of sil-ver and porcelain.

Mrs. Gould knew the history of the San Tomemine. Worked in the early days mostly bymeans of lashes on the backs of slaves, its yield

had been paid for in its own weight of humanbones. Whole tribes of Indians had perished inthe exploitation; and then the mine was aban-doned, since with this primitive method it hadceased to make a profitable return, no matterhow many corpses were thrown into its maw.Then it became forgotten. It was rediscoveredafter the War of Independence. An Englishcompany obtained the right to work it, andfound so rich a vein that neither the exactionsof successive governments, nor the periodicalraids of recruiting officers upon the populationof paid miners they had created, could discour-age their perseverance. But in the end, duringthe long turmoil of pronunciamentos that fol-lowed the death of the famous Guzman Bento,the native miners, incited to revolt by the emis-saries sent out from the capital, had risen upontheir English chiefs and murdered them to aman. The decree of confiscation which ap-peared immediately afterwards in the DiarioOfficial, published in Sta. Marta, began with the

words: "Justly incensed at the grinding oppres-sion of foreigners, actuated by sordid motivesof gain rather than by love for a country wherethey come impoverished to seek their fortunes,the mining population of San Tome, etc. . . ."and ended with the declaration: "The chief ofthe State has resolved to exercise to the full hispower of clemency. The mine, which by everylaw, international, human, and divine, revertsnow to the Government as national property,shall remain closed till the sword drawn for thesacred defence of liberal principles has accom-plished its mission of securing the happiness ofour beloved country."

And for many years this was the last of the SanTome mine. What advantage that Governmenthad expected from the spoliation, it is impossi-ble to tell now. Costaguana was made withdifficulty to pay a beggarly money compensa-tion to the families of the victims, and then thematter dropped out of diplomatic despatches.

But afterwards another Government bethoughtitself of that valuable asset. It was an ordinaryCostaguana Government—the fourth in sixyears—but it judged of its opportunities sanely.It remembered the San Tome mine with a secretconviction of its worthlessness in their ownhands, but with an ingenious insight into thevarious uses a silver mine can be put to, apartfrom the sordid process of extracting the metalfrom under the ground. The father of CharlesGould, for a long time one of the most wealthymerchants of Costaguana, had already lost aconsiderable part of his fortune in forced loansto the successive Governments. He was a manof calm judgment, who never dreamed ofpressing his claims; and when, suddenly, theperpetual concession of the San Tome mine wasoffered to him in full settlement, his alarm be-came extreme. He was versed in the ways ofGovernments. Indeed, the intention of this af-fair, though no doubt deeply meditated in thecloset, lay open on the surface of the document

presented urgently for his signature. The thirdand most important clause stipulated that theconcession-holder should pay at once to theGovernment five years' royalties on the esti-mated output of the mine.

Mr. Gould, senior, defended himself from thisfatal favour with many arguments and entreat-ies, but without success. He knew nothing ofmining; he had no means to put his concessionon the European market; the mine as a workingconcern did not exist. The buildings had beenburnt down, the mining plant had been de-stroyed, the mining population had disap-peared from the neighbourhood years andyears ago; the very road had vanished under aflood of tropical vegetation as effectually as ifswallowed by the sea; and the main gallery hadfallen in within a hundred yards from the en-trance. It was no longer an abandoned mine; itwas a wild, inaccessible, and rocky gorge of theSierra, where vestiges of charred timber, some

heaps of smashed bricks, and a few shapelesspieces of rusty iron could have been found un-der the matted mass of thorny creepers cover-ing the ground. Mr. Gould, senior, did not de-sire the perpetual possession of that desolatelocality; in fact, the mere vision of it arisingbefore his mind in the still watches of the nighthad the power to exasperate him into hours ofhot and agitated insomnia.

It so happened, however, that the Finance Min-ister of the time was a man to whom, in yearsgone by, Mr. Gould had, unfortunately, de-clined to grant some small pecuniary assis-tance, basing his refusal on the ground that theapplicant was a notorious gambler and cheat,besides being more than half suspected of arobbery with violence on a wealthy ranchero ina remote country district, where he was actu-ally exercising the function of a judge. Now,after reaching his exalted position, that politi-cian had proclaimed his intention to repay evil

with good to Senor Gould—the poor man. Heaffirmed and reaffirmed this resolution in thedrawing-rooms of Sta. Marta, in a soft and im-placable voice, and with such malicious glancesthat Mr. Gould's best friends advised him ear-nestly to attempt no bribery to get the matterdropped. It would have been useless. Indeed, itwould not have been a very safe proceeding.Such was also the opinion of a stout, loud-voiced lady of French extraction, the daughter,she said, of an officer of high rank (officier su-perieur de l'armee), who was accommodatedwith lodgings within the walls of a secularizedconvent next door to the Ministry of Finance.That florid person, when approached on behalfof Mr. Gould in a proper manner, and with asuitable present, shook her head despondently.She was good-natured, and her despondencywas genuine. She imagined she could not takemoney in consideration of something she couldnot accomplish. The friend of Mr. Gould,charged with the delicate mission, used to say

afterwards that she was the only honest personclosely or remotely connected with the Gov-ernment he had ever met. "No go," she had saidwith a cavalier, husky intonation which wasnatural to her, and using turns of expressionmore suitable to a child of parents unknownthan to the orphaned daughter of a generalofficer. "No; it's no go. Pas moyen, mon garcon.C'est dommage, tout de meme. Ah! zut! Je ne volepas mon monde. Je ne suis pas ministre—moi! Vouspouvez emporter votre petit sac."

For a moment, biting her carmine lip, she de-plored inwardly the tyranny of the rigid prin-ciples governing the sale of her influence inhigh places. Then, significantly, and with atouch of impatience, "Allez," she added, "et ditesbien a votre bonhomme—entendez-vous?—qu'ilfaut avaler la pilule."

After such a warning there was nothing for itbut to sign and pay. Mr. Gould had swallowedthe pill, and it was as though it had been com-

pounded of some subtle poison that acted di-rectly on his brain. He became at once mine-ridden, and as he was well read in light litera-ture it took to his mind the form of the OldMan of the Sea fastened upon his shoulders. Healso began to dream of vampires. Mr. Gouldexaggerated to himself the disadvantages of hisnew position, because he viewed it emotion-ally. His position in Costaguana was no worsethan before. But man is a desperately conserva-tive creature, and the extravagant novelty ofthis outrage upon his purse distressed his sen-sibilities. Everybody around him was beingrobbed by the grotesque and murderous bandsthat played their game of governments andrevolutions after the death of Guzman Bento.His experience had taught him that, howevershort the plunder might fall of their legitimateexpectations, no gang in possession of thePresidential Palace would be so incompetent asto suffer itself to be baffled by the want of apretext. The first casual colonel of the bare-

footed army of scarecrows that came along wasable to expose with force and precision to anymere civilian his titles to a sum of 10,000 dol-lars; the while his hope would be immutablyfixed upon a gratuity, at any rate, of no lessthan a thousand. Mr. Gould knew that verywell, and, armed with resignation, had waitedfor better times. But to be robbed under theforms of legality and business was intolerableto his imagination. Mr. Gould, the father, hadone fault in his sagacious and honourable char-acter: he attached too much importance toform. It is a failing common to mankind, whoseviews are tinged by prejudices. There was forhim in that affair a malignancy of pervertedjustice which, by means of a moral shock, at-tacked his vigorous physique. "It will end bykilling me," he used to affirm many times aday. And, in fact, since that time he began tosuffer from fever, from liver pains, and mostlyfrom a worrying inability to think of anythingelse. The Finance Minister could have formed

no conception of the profound subtlety of hisrevenge. Even Mr. Gould's letters to his four-teen-year-old boy Charles, then away in Eng-land for his education, came at last to talk ofpractically nothing but the mine. He groanedover the injustice, the persecution, the outrageof that mine; he occupied whole pages in theexposition of the fatal consequences attachingto the possession of that mine from every pointof view, with every dismal inference, withwords of horror at the apparently eternal char-acter of that curse. For the Concession had beengranted to him and his descendants for ever.He implored his son never to return to Costa-guana, never to claim any part of his inheri-tance there, because it was tainted by the infa-mous Concession; never to touch it, never toapproach it, to forget that America existed, andpursue a mercantile career in Europe. And eachletter ended with bitter self-reproaches for hav-ing stayed too long in that cavern of thieves,intriguers, and brigands.

To be told repeatedly that one's future isblighted because of the possession of a silvermine is not, at the age of fourteen, a matter ofprime importance as to its main statement; butin its form it is calculated to excite a certainamount of wonder and attention. In course oftime the boy, at first only puzzled by the angryjeremiads, but rather sorry for his dad, began toturn the matter over in his mind in such mo-ments as he could spare from play and study.In about a year he had evolved from the lectureof the letters a definite conviction that therewas a silver mine in the Sulaco province of theRepublic of Costaguana, where poor UncleHarry had been shot by soldiers a great manyyears before. There was also connected closelywith that mine a thing called the "iniquitousGould Concession," apparently written on apaper which his father desired ardently to "tearand fling into the faces" of presidents, membersof judicature, and ministers of State. And thisdesire persisted, though the names of these

people, he noticed, seldom remained the samefor a whole year together. This desire (since thething was iniquitous) seemed quite natural tothe boy, though why the affair was iniquitoushe did not know. Afterwards, with advancingwisdom, he managed to clear the plain truth ofthe business from the fantastic intrusions of theOld Man of the Sea, vampires, and ghouls,which had lent to his father's correspondencethe flavour of a gruesome Arabian Nights tale.In the end, the growing youth attained to asclose an intimacy with the San Tome mine asthe old man who wrote these plaintive and en-raged letters on the other side of the sea. Hehad been made several times already to payheavy fines for neglecting to work the mine, hereported, besides other sums extracted fromhim on account of future royalties, on theground that a man with such a valuable con-cession in his pocket could not refuse his finan-cial assistance to the Government of the Repub-lic. The last of his fortune was passing away

from him against worthless receipts, he wrote,in a rage, whilst he was being pointed out as anindividual who had known how to secureenormous advantages from the necessities ofhis country. And the young man in Europegrew more and more interested in that thingwhich could provoke such a tumult of wordsand passion.

He thought of it every day; but he thought of itwithout bitterness. It might have been an unfor-tunate affair for his poor dad, and the wholestory threw a queer light upon the social andpolitical life of Costaguana. The view he took ofit was sympathetic to his father, yet calm andreflective. His personal feelings had not beenoutraged, and it is difficult to resent withproper and durable indignation the physical ormental anguish of another organism, even ifthat other organism is one's own father. By thetime he was twenty Charles Gould had, in histurn, fallen under the spell of the San Tome

mine. But it was another form of enchantment,more suitable to his youth, into whose magicformula there entered hope, vigour, and self-confidence, instead of weary indignation anddespair. Left after he was twenty to his ownguidance (except for the severe injunction notto return to Costaguana), he had pursued hisstudies in Belgium and France with the idea ofqualifying for a mining engineer. But this scien-tific aspect of his labours remained vague andimperfect in his mind. Mines had acquired forhim a dramatic interest. He studied their pecu-liarities from a personal point of view, too, asone would study the varied characters of men.He visited them as one goes with curiosity tocall upon remarkable persons. He visited minesin Germany, in Spain, in Cornwall. Abandonedworkings had for him strong fascination. Theirdesolation appealed to him like the sight ofhuman misery, whose causes are varied andprofound. They might have been worthless, butalso they might have been misunderstood. His

future wife was the first, and perhaps the onlyperson to detect this secret mood which gov-erned the profoundly sensible, almost voicelessattitude of this man towards the world of mate-rial things. And at once her delight in him, lin-gering with half-open wings like those birdsthat cannot rise easily from a flat level, found apinnacle from which to soar up into the skies.

They had become acquainted in Italy, wherethe future Mrs. Gould was staying with an oldand pale aunt who, years before, had married amiddle-aged, impoverished Italian marquis.She now mourned that man, who had knownhow to give up his life to the independence andunity of his country, who had known how to beas enthusiastic in his generosity as the youngestof those who fell for that very cause of whichold Giorgio Viola was a drifting relic, as a bro-ken spar is suffered to float away disregardedafter a naval victory. The Marchesa led a still,whispering existence, nun-like in her black

robes and a white band over the forehead, in acorner of the first floor of an ancient and ruin-ous palace, whose big, empty halls downstairssheltered under their painted ceilings the har-vests, the fowls, and even the cattle, togetherwith the whole family of the tenant farmer.

The two young people had met in Lucca. Afterthat meeting Charles Gould visited no mines,though they went together in a carriage, once,to see some marble quarries, where the workresembled mining in so far that it also was thetearing of the raw material of treasure from theearth. Charles Gould did not open his heart toher in any set speeches. He simply went onacting and thinking in her sight. This is the truemethod of sincerity. One of his frequent re-marks was, "I think sometimes that poor fathertakes a wrong view of that San Tome business."And they discussed that opinion long and ear-nestly, as if they could influence a mind acrosshalf the globe; but in reality they discussed it

because the sentiment of love can enter into anysubject and live ardently in remote phrases. Forthis natural reason these discussions were pre-cious to Mrs. Gould in her engaged state.Charles feared that Mr. Gould, senior, waswasting his strength and making himself ill byhis efforts to get rid of the Concession. "I fancythat this is not the kind of handling it requires,"he mused aloud, as if to himself. And when shewondered frankly that a man of charactershould devote his energies to plotting and in-trigues, Charles would remark, with a gentleconcern that understood her wonder, "Youmust not forget that he was born there."

She would set her quick mind to work uponthat, and then make the inconsequent retort,which he accepted as perfectly sagacious, be-cause, in fact, it was so—

"Well, and you? You were born there, too."

He knew his answer.

"That's different. I've been away ten years. Dadnever had such a long spell; and it was morethan thirty years ago."

She was the first person to whom he opened hislips after receiving the news of his father'sdeath.

"It has killed him!" he said.

He had walked straight out of town with thenews, straight out before him in the noondaysun on the white road, and his feet had broughthim face to face with her in the hall of the ru-ined palazzo, a room magnificent and naked,with here and there a long strip of damask,black with damp and age, hanging down on abare panel of the wall. It was furnished withexactly one gilt armchair, with a broken back,and an octagon columnar stand bearing aheavy marble vase ornamented with sculp-tured masks and garlands of flowers, andcracked from top to bottom. Charles Gould was

dusty with the white dust of the road lying onhis boots, on his shoulders, on his cap with twopeaks. Water dripped from under it all over hisface, and he grasped a thick oaken cudgel in hisbare right hand.

She went very pale under the roses of her bigstraw hat, gloved, swinging a clear sunshade,caught just as she was going out to meet him atthe bottom of the hill, where three poplarsstand near the wall of a vineyard.

"It has killed him!" he repeated. "He ought tohave had many years yet. We are a long-livedfamily."

She was too startled to say anything; he wascontemplating with a penetrating and mo-tionless stare the cracked marble urn as thoughhe had resolved to fix its shape for ever in hismemory. It was only when, turning suddenlyto her, he blurted out twice, "I've come to you—I've come straight to you—," without being able

to finish his phrase, that the great pitifulness ofthat lonely and tormented death in Costaguanacame to her with the full force of its misery. Hecaught hold of her hand, raised it to his lips,and at that she dropped her parasol to pat himon the cheek, murmured "Poor boy," and beganto dry her eyes under the downward curve ofher hat-brim, very small in her simple, whitefrock, almost like a lost child crying in the de-graded grandeur of the noble hall, while hestood by her, again perfectly motionless in thecontemplation of the marble urn.

Afterwards they went out for a long walk,which was silent till he exclaimed suddenly—

"Yes. But if he had only grappled with it in aproper way!"

And then they stopped. Everywhere there werelong shadows lying on the hills, on the roads,on the enclosed fields of olive trees; the shad-ows of poplars, of wide chestnuts, of farm

buildings, of stone walls; and in mid-air thesound of a bell, thin and alert, was like thethrobbing pulse of the sunset glow. Her lipswere slightly parted as though in surprise thathe should not be looking at her with his usualexpression. His usual expression was uncondi-tionally approving and attentive. He was in histalks with her the most anxious and deferentialof dictators, an attitude that pleased her im-mensely. It affirmed her power without detract-ing from his dignity. That slight girl, with herlittle feet, little hands, little face attractivelyoverweighted by great coils of hair; with arather large mouth, whose mere partingseemed to breathe upon you the fragrance offrankness and generosity, had the fastidioussoul of an experienced woman. She was, beforeall things and all flatteries, careful of her pridein the object of her choice. But now he was ac-tually not looking at her at all; and his expres-sion was tense and irrational, as is natural in a

man who elects to stare at nothing past a younggirl's head.

"Well, yes. It was iniquitous. They corruptedhim thoroughly, the poor old boy. Oh! whywouldn't he let me go back to him? But now Ishall know how to grapple with this."

After pronouncing these words with immenseassurance, he glanced down at her, and at oncefell a prey to distress, incertitude, and fear.

The only thing he wanted to know now, hesaid, was whether she did love him enough—whether she would have the courage to go withhim so far away? He put these questions to herin a voice that trembled with anxiety—for hewas a determined man.

She did. She would. And immediately the fu-ture hostess of all the Europeans in Sulaco hadthe physical experience of the earth fallingaway from under her. It vanished completely,

even to the very sound of the bell. When herfeet touched the ground again, the bell was stillringing in the valley; she put her hands up toher hair, breathing quickly, and glanced up anddown the stony lane. It was reassuringlyempty. Meantime, Charles, stepping with onefoot into a dry and dusty ditch, picked up theopen parasol, which had bounded away fromthem with a martial sound of drum taps. Hehanded it to her soberly, a little crestfallen.

They turned back, and after she had slippedher hand on his arm, the first words he pro-nounced were—

"It's lucky that we shall be able to settle in acoast town. You've heard its name. It is Sulaco.I am so glad poor father did get that house. Hebought a big house there years ago, in orderthat there should always be a Casa Gould in theprincipal town of what used to be called theOccidental Province. I lived there once, as asmall boy, with my dear mother, for a whole

year, while poor father was away in the UnitedStates on business. You shall be the new mis-tress of the Casa Gould."

And later, in the inhabited corner of the Pa-lazzo above the vineyards, the marble hills, thepines and olives of Lucca, he also said—

"The name of Gould has been always highlyrespected in Sulaco. My uncle Harry was chiefof the State for some time, and has left a greatname amongst the first families. By this I meanthe pure Creole families, who take no part inthe miserable farce of governments. UncleHarry was no adventurer. In Costaguana weGoulds are no adventurers. He was of thecountry, and he loved it, but he remained es-sentially an Englishman in his ideas. He madeuse of the political cry of his time. It was Fed-eration. But he was no politician. He simplystood up for social order out of pure love forrational liberty and from his hate of oppression.There was no nonsense about him. He went to

work in his own way because it seemed right,just as I feel I must lay hold of that mine."

In such words he talked to her because hismemory was very full of the country of hischildhood, his heart of his life with that girl,and his mind of the San Tome Concession. Headded that he would have to leave her for a fewdays to find an American, a man from SanFrancisco, who was still somewhere in Europe.A few months before he had made his ac-quaintance in an old historic German town,situated in a mining district. The American hadhis womankind with him, but seemed lonelywhile they were sketching all day long the olddoorways and the turreted corners of the medi-aeval houses. Charles Gould had with him theinseparable companionship of the mine. Theother man was interested in mining enterprises,knew something of Costaguana, and was nostranger to the name of Gould. They had talkedtogether with some intimacy which was made

possible by the difference of their ages. Charleswanted now to find that capitalist of shrewdmind and accessible character. His father's for-tune in Costaguana, which he had supposed tobe still considerable, seemed to have melted inthe rascally crucible of revolutions. Apart fromsome ten thousand pounds deposited in Eng-land, there appeared to be nothing left exceptthe house in Sulaco, a vague right of forest ex-ploitation in a remote and savage district, andthe San Tome Concession, which had attendedhis poor father to the very brink of the grave.

He explained those things. It was late whenthey parted. She had never before given himsuch a fascinating vision of herself. All the ea-gerness of youth for a strange life, for greatdistances, for a future in which there was an airof adventure, of combat—a subtle thought ofredress and conquest, had filled her with anintense excitement, which she returned to the

giver with a more open and exquisite display oftenderness.

He left her to walk down the hill, and directlyhe found himself alone he became sober. Thatirreparable change a death makes in the courseof our daily thoughts can be felt in a vague andpoignant discomfort of mind. It hurt CharlesGould to feel that never more, by no effort ofwill, would he be able to think of his father inthe same way he used to think of him when thepoor man was alive. His breathing image wasno longer in his power. This consideration,closely affecting his own identity, filled hisbreast with a mournful and angry desire foraction. In this his instinct was unerring. Actionis consolatory. It is the enemy of thought andthe friend of flattering illusions. Only in theconduct of our action can we find the sense ofmastery over the Fates. For his action, the minewas obviously the only field. It was imperativesometimes to know how to disobey the solemn

wishes of the dead. He resolved firmly to makehis disobedience as thorough (by way ofatonement) as it well could be. The mine hadbeen the cause of an absurd moral disaster; itsworking must be made a serious and moralsuccess. He owed it to the dead man's memory.Such were the—properly speaking—emotionsof Charles Gould. His thoughts ran upon themeans of raising a large amount of capital inSan Francisco or elsewhere; and incidentallythere occurred to him also the general reflectionthat the counsel of the departed must be anunsound guide. Not one of them could beaware beforehand what enormous changes thedeath of any given individual may produce inthe very aspect of the world.

The latest phase in the history of the mine Mrs.Gould knew from personal experience. It wasin essence the history of her married life. Themantle of the Goulds' hereditary position inSulaco had descended amply upon her little

person; but she would not allow the peculiari-ties of the strange garment to weigh down thevivacity of her character, which was the sign ofno mere mechanical sprightliness, but of aneager intelligence. It must not be supposed thatMrs. Gould's mind was masculine. A womanwith a masculine mind is not a being of supe-rior efficiency; she is simply a phenomenon ofimperfect differentiation—interestingly barrenand without importance. Dona Emilia's intelli-gence being feminine led her to achieve theconquest of Sulaco, simply by lighting the wayfor her unselfishness and sympathy. She couldconverse charmingly, but she was not talkative.The wisdom of the heart having no concernwith the erection or demolition of theories anymore than with the defence of prejudices, hasno random words at its command. The words itpronounces have the value of acts of integrity,tolerance, and compassion. A woman's truetenderness, like the true virility of man, is ex-pressed in action of a conquering kind. The

ladies of Sulaco adored Mrs. Gould. "They stilllook upon me as something of a monster," Mrs.Gould had said pleasantly to one of the threegentlemen from San Francisco she had to enter-tain in her new Sulaco house just about a yearafter her marriage.

They were her first visitors from abroad, andthey had come to look at the San Tome mine.She jested most agreeably, they thought; andCharles Gould, besides knowing thoroughlywhat he was about, had shown himself a realhustler. These facts caused them to be well dis-posed towards his wife. An unmistakable en-thusiasm, pointed by a slight flavour of irony,made her talk of the mine absolutely fascinat-ing to her visitors, and provoked them to graveand indulgent smiles in which there was agood deal of deference. Perhaps had theyknown how much she was inspired by an ide-alistic view of success they would have beenamazed at the state of her mind as the Spanish-

American ladies had been amazed at the tire-less activity of her body. She would—in herown words—have been for them "something ofa monster." However, the Goulds were in es-sentials a reticent couple, and their guests de-parted without the suspicion of any other pur-pose but simple profit in the working of a silvermine. Mrs. Gould had out her own carriage,with two white mules, to drive them down tothe harbour, whence the Ceres was to carrythem off into the Olympus of plutocrats. Cap-tain Mitchell had snatched at the occasion ofleave-taking to remark to Mrs. Gould, in a low,confidential mutter, "This marks an epoch."

Mrs. Gould loved the patio of her Spanishhouse. A broad flight of stone steps was over-looked silently from a niche in the wall by aMadonna in blue robes with the crowned childsitting on her arm. Subdued voices ascended inthe early mornings from the paved well of thequadrangle, with the stamping of horses and

mules led out in pairs to drink at the cistern. Atangle of slender bamboo stems drooped itsnarrow, blade-like leaves over the square poolof water, and the fat coachman sat muffled upon the edge, holding lazily the ends of haltersin his hand. Barefooted servants passed to andfro, issuing from dark, low doorways below;two laundry girls with baskets of washed linen;the baker with the tray of bread made for theday; Leonarda—her own camerista—bearinghigh up, swung from her hand raised above herraven black head, a bunch of starched under-skirts dazzlingly white in the slant of sunshine.Then the old porter would hobble in, sweepingthe flagstones, and the house was ready for theday. All the lofty rooms on three sides of thequadrangle opened into each other and into thecorredor, with its wrought-iron railings and aborder of flowers, whence, like the lady of themediaeval castle, she could witness from aboveall the departures and arrivals of the Casa, to

which the sonorous arched gateway lent an airof stately importance.

She had watched her carriage roll away withthe three guests from the north. She smiled.Their three arms went up simultaneously totheir three hats. Captain Mitchell, the fourth, inattendance, had already begun a pompous dis-course. Then she lingered. She lingered, ap-proaching her face to the clusters of flowershere and there as if to give time to her thoughtsto catch up with her slow footsteps along thestraight vista of the corredor.

A fringed Indian hammock from Aroa, gaywith coloured featherwork, had been swungjudiciously in a corner that caught the earlysun; for the mornings are cool in Sulaco. Thecluster of flor de noche buena blazed in greatmasses before the open glass doors of the re-ception rooms. A big green parrot, brilliant likean emerald in a cage that flashed like gold,screamed out ferociously, "Viva Costaguana!"

then called twice mellifluously, "Leonarda!Leonarda!" in imitation of Mrs. Gould's voice,and suddenly took refuge in immobility andsilence. Mrs. Gould reached the end of the gal-lery and put her head through the door of herhusband's room.

Charles Gould, with one foot on a low woodenstool, was already strapping his spurs. Hewanted to hurry back to the mine. Mrs. Gould,without coming in, glanced about the room.One tall, broad bookcase, with glass doors, wasfull of books; but in the other, without shelves,and lined with red baize, were arranged fire-arms: Winchester carbines, revolvers, a coupleof shot-guns, and even two pairs of double-barrelled holster pistols. Between them, by it-self, upon a strip of scarlet velvet, hung an oldcavalry sabre, once the property of Don Enri-que Gould, the hero of the Occidental Province,presented by Don Jose Avellanos, the heredi-tary friend of the family.

Otherwise, the plastered white walls werecompletely bare, except for a water-coloursketch of the San Tome mountain—the work ofDona Emilia herself. In the middle of the red-tiled floor stood two long tables littered withplans and papers, a few chairs, and a glassshow-case containing specimens of ore fromthe mine. Mrs. Gould, looking at all thesethings in turn, wondered aloud why the talk ofthese wealthy and enterprising men discussingthe prospects, the working, and the safety ofthe mine rendered her so impatient and un-easy, whereas she could talk of the mine by thehour with her husband with unwearied interestand satisfaction. And dropping her eyelids ex-pressively, she added—

"What do you feel about it, Charley?"

Then, surprised at her husband's silence, sheraised her eyes, opened wide, as pretty as paleflowers. He had done with the spurs, and,twisting his moustache with both hands, hori-

zontally, he contemplated her from the heightof his long legs with a visible appreciation ofher appearance. The consciousness of beingthus contemplated pleased Mrs. Gould.

"They are considerable men," he said.

"I know. But have you listened to their conver-sation? They don't seem to have understoodanything they have seen here."

"They have seen the mine. They have under-stood that to some purpose," Charles Gouldinterjected, in defence of the visitors; and thenhis wife mentioned the name of the most con-siderable of the three. He was considerable infinance and in industry. His name was familiarto many millions of people. He was so consid-erable that he would never have travelled so faraway from the centre of his activity if the doc-tors had not insisted, with veiled menaces, onhis taking a long holiday.

"Mr. Holroyd's sense of religion," Mrs. Gouldpursued, "was shocked and disgusted at thetawdriness of the dressed-up saints in the ca-thedral—the worship, he called it, of wood andtinsel. But it seemed to me that he looked uponhis own God as a sort of influential partner,who gets his share of profits in the endowmentof churches. That's a sort of idolatry. He toldme he endowed churches every year, Charley."

"No end of them," said Mr. Gould, marvellinginwardly at the mobility of her physiognomy."All over the country. He's famous for that sortof munificence." "Oh, he didn't boast," Mrs.Gould declared, scrupulously. "I believe he'sreally a good man, but so stupid! A poor Chulowho offers a little silver arm or leg to thank hisgod for a cure is as rational and more touch-ing."

"He's at the head of immense silver and ironinterests," Charles Gould observed.

"Ah, yes! The religion of silver and iron. He's avery civil man, though he looked awfully sol-emn when he first saw the Madonna on thestaircase, who's only wood and paint; but hesaid nothing to me. My dear Charley, I heardthose men talk among themselves. Can it bethat they really wish to become, for an im-mense consideration, drawers of water andhewers of wood to all the countries and nationsof the earth?"

"A man must work to some end," CharlesGould said, vaguely.

Mrs. Gould, frowning, surveyed him from headto foot. With his riding breeches, leather leg-gings (an article of apparel never before seen inCostaguana), a Norfolk coat of grey flannel,and those great flaming moustaches, he sug-gested an officer of cavalry turned gentlemanfarmer. This combination was gratifying toMrs. Gould's tastes. "How thin the poor boy is!"she thought. "He overworks himself." But there

was no denying that his fine-drawn, keen redface, and his whole, long-limbed, lank personhad an air of breeding and distinction. AndMrs. Gould relented.

"I only wondered what you felt," she mur-mured, gently.

During the last few days, as it happened,Charles Gould had been kept too busy thinkingtwice before he spoke to have paid much atten-tion to the state of his feelings. But theirs was asuccessful match, and he had no difficulty infinding his answer.

"The best of my feelings are in your keeping,my dear," he said, lightly; and there was somuch truth in that obscure phrase that he ex-perienced towards her at the moment a greatincrease of gratitude and tenderness.

Mrs. Gould, however, did not seem to find thisanswer in the least obscure. She brightened updelicately; already he had changed his tone.

"But there are facts. The worth of the mine—asa mine—is beyond doubt. It shall make us verywealthy. The mere working of it is a matter oftechnical knowledge, which I have—which tenthousand other men in the world have. But itssafety, its continued existence as an enterprise,giving a return to men—to strangers, compara-tive strangers—who invest money in it, is leftaltogether in my hands. I have inspired confi-dence in a man of wealth and position. Youseem to think this perfectly natural—do you?Well, I don't know. I don't know why I have;but it is a fact. This fact makes everything pos-sible, because without it I would never havethought of disregarding my father's wishes. Iwould never have disposed of the Concessionas a speculator disposes of a valuable right to acompany—for cash and shares, to grow rich

eventually if possible, but at any rate to putsome money at once in his pocket. No. Even ifit had been feasible—which I doubt—I wouldnot have done so. Poor father did not under-stand. He was afraid I would hang on to theruinous thing, waiting for just some suchchance, and waste my life miserably. That wasthe true sense of his prohibition, which we havedeliberately set aside."

They were walking up and down the corredor.Her head just reached to his shoulder. His arm,extended downwards, was about her waist. Hisspurs jingled slightly.

"He had not seen me for ten years. He did notknow me. He parted from me for my sake, andhe would never let me come back. He was al-ways talking in his letters of leaving Costa-guana, of abandoning everything and makinghis escape. But he was too valuable a prey.They would have thrown him into one of theirprisons at the first suspicion."

His spurred feet clinked slowly. He was bend-ing over his wife as they walked. The big par-rot, turning its head askew, followed their pac-ing figures with a round, unblinking eye.

"He was a lonely man. Ever since I was tenyears old he used to talk to me as if I had beengrown up. When I was in Europe he wrote tome every month. Ten, twelve pages everymonth of my life for ten years. And, after all, hedid not know me! Just think of it—ten wholeyears away; the years I was growing up into aman. He could not know me. Do you think hecould?"

Mrs. Gould shook her head negatively; whichwas just what her husband had expected fromthe strength of the argument. But she shook herhead negatively only because she thought thatno one could know her Charles—really knowhim for what he was but herself. The thing wasobvious. It could be felt. It required no argu-ment. And poor Mr. Gould, senior, who had

died too soon to ever hear of their engagement,remained too shadowy a figure for her to becredited with knowledge of any sort whatever.

"No, he did not understand. In my view thismine could never have been a thing to sell.Never! After all his misery I simply could nothave touched it for money alone," CharlesGould pursued: and she pressed her head to hisshoulder approvingly.

These two young people remembered the lifewhich had ended wretchedly just when theirown lives had come together in that splendourof hopeful love, which to the most sensibleminds appears like a triumph of good over allthe evils of the earth. A vague idea of rehabili-tation had entered the plan of their life. That itwas so vague as to elude the support of argu-ment made it only the stronger. It had pre-sented itself to them at the instant when thewoman's instinct of devotion and the man'sinstinct of activity receive from the strongest of

illusions their most powerful impulse. The veryprohibition imposed the necessity of success. Itwas as if they had been morally bound to makegood their vigorous view of life against theunnatural error of weariness and despair. If theidea of wealth was present to them it was onlyin so far as it was bound with that other suc-cess. Mrs. Gould, an orphan from early child-hood and without fortune, brought up in anatmosphere of intellectual interests, had neverconsidered the aspects of great wealth. Theywere too remote, and she had not learned thatthey were desirable. On the other hand, shehad not known anything of absolute want.Even the very poverty of her aunt, theMarchesa, had nothing intolerable to a refinedmind; it seemed in accord with a great grief: ithad the austerity of a sacrifice offered to a no-ble ideal. Thus even the most legitimate touchof materialism was wanting in Mrs. Gould'scharacter. The dead man of whom she thoughtwith tenderness (because he was Charley's fa-

ther) and with some impatience (because hehad been weak), must be put completely in thewrong. Nothing else would do to keep theirprosperity without a stain on its only real, onits immaterial side!

Charles Gould, on his part, had been obliged tokeep the idea of wealth well to the fore; but hebrought it forward as a means, not as an end.Unless the mine was good business it could notbe touched. He had to insist on that aspect ofthe enterprise. It was his lever to move menwho had capital. And Charles Gould believedin the mine. He knew everything that could beknown of it. His faith in the mine was conta-gious, though it was not served by a great elo-quence; but business men are frequently assanguine and imaginative as lovers. They areaffected by a personality much oftener thanpeople would suppose; and Charles Gould, inhis unshaken assurance, was absolutely con-vincing. Besides, it was a matter of common

knowledge to the men to whom he addressedhimself that mining in Costaguana was a gamethat could be made considerably more thanworth the candle. The men of affairs knew thatvery well. The real difficulty in touching it waselsewhere. Against that there was an implica-tion of calm and implacable resolution inCharles Gould's very voice. Men of affairs ven-ture sometimes on acts that the common judg-ment of the world would pronounce absurd;they make their decisions on apparently impul-sive and human grounds. "Very well," had saidthe considerable personage to whom CharlesGould on his way out through San Franciscohad lucidly exposed his point of view. "Let ussuppose that the mining affairs of Sulaco aretaken in hand. There would then be in it: first,the house of Holroyd, which is all right; then,Mr. Charles Gould, a citizen of Costaguana,who is also all right; and, lastly, the Govern-ment of the Republic. So far this resembles thefirst start of the Atacama nitrate fields, where

there was a financing house, a gentleman of thename of Edwards, and—a Government; or,rather, two Governments—two South Ameri-can Governments. And you know what came ofit. War came of it; devastating and prolongedwar came of it, Mr. Gould. However, here wepossess the advantage of having only oneSouth American Government hanging aroundfor plunder out of the deal. It is an advantage;but then there are degrees of badness, and thatGovernment is the Costaguana Government."

Thus spoke the considerable personage, themillionaire endower of churches on a scale be-fitting the greatness of his native land—thesame to whom the doctors used the language ofhorrid and veiled menaces. He was a big-limbed, deliberate man, whose quiet burlinesslent to an ample silk-faced frock-coat a super-fine dignity. His hair was iron grey, his eye-brows were still black, and his massive profilewas the profile of a Caesar's head on an old

Roman coin. But his parentage was Germanand Scotch and English, with remote strains ofDanish and French blood, giving him the tem-perament of a Puritan and an insatiable imagi-nation of conquest. He was completely unbend-ing to his visitor, because of the warm introduc-tion the visitor had brought from Europe, andbecause of an irrational liking for earnestnessand determination wherever met, to whateverend directed.

"The Costaguana Government shall play itshand for all it's worth—and don't you forget it,Mr. Gould. Now, what is Costaguana? It is thebottomless pit of 10 per cent. loans and otherfool investments. European capital has beenflung into it with both hands for years. Notours, though. We in this country know justabout enough to keep indoors when it rains.We can sit and watch. Of course, some day weshall step in. We are bound to. But there's nohurry. Time itself has got to wait on the great-

est country in the whole of God's Universe. Weshall be giving the word for everything: indus-try, trade, law, journalism, art, politics, andreligion, from Cape Horn clear over to Smith'sSound, and beyond, too, if anything worth tak-ing hold of turns up at the North Pole. Andthen we shall have the leisure to take in handthe outlying islands and continents of the earth.We shall run the world's business whether theworld likes it or not. The world can't help it—and neither can we, I guess."

By this he meant to express his faith in destinyin words suitable to his intelligence, which wasunskilled in the presentation of general ideas.His intelligence was nourished on facts; andCharles Gould, whose imagination had beenpermanently affected by the one great fact of asilver mine, had no objection to this theory ofthe world's future. If it had seemed distastefulfor a moment it was because the sudden state-ment of such vast eventualities dwarfed almost

to nothingness the actual matter in hand. Heand his plans and all the mineral wealth of theOccidental Province appeared suddenly robbedof every vestige of magnitude. The sensationwas disagreeable; but Charles Gould was notdull. Already he felt that he was producing afavourable impression; the consciousness ofthat flattering fact helped him to a vague smile,which his big interlocutor took for a smile ofdiscreet and admiring assent. He smiled qui-etly, too; and immediately Charles Gould, withthat mental agility mankind will display in de-fence of a cherished hope, reflected that thevery apparent insignificance of his aim wouldhelp him to success. His personality and hismine would be taken up because it was a mat-ter of no great consequence, one way or an-other, to a man who referred his action to sucha prodigious destiny. And Charles Gould wasnot humiliated by this consideration, becausethe thing remained as big as ever for him. No-body else's vast conceptions of destiny could

diminish the aspect of his desire for the re-demption of the San Tome mine. In comparisonto the correctness of his aim, definite in spaceand absolutely attainable within a limited time,the other man appeared for an instant as adreamy idealist of no importance.

The great man, massive and benignant, hadbeen looking at him thoughtfully; when hebroke the short silence it was to remark thatconcessions flew about thick in the air of Co-staguana. Any simple soul that just yearned tobe taken in could bring down a concession atthe first shot.

"Our consuls get their mouths stopped withthem," he continued, with a twinkle of genialscorn in his eyes. But in a moment he becamegrave. "A conscientious, upright man, that caresnothing for boodle, and keeps clear of theirintrigues, conspiracies, and factions, soon getshis passports. See that, Mr. Gould? Persona nongrata. That's the reason our Government is

never properly informed. On the other hand,Europe must be kept out of this continent, andfor proper interference on our part the time isnot yet ripe, I dare say. But we here—we arenot this country's Government, neither are wesimple souls. Your affair is all right. The mainquestion for us is whether the second partner,and that's you, is the right sort to hold his ownagainst the third and unwelcome partner,which is one or another of the high and mightyrobber gangs that run the Costaguana Gov-ernment. What do you think, Mr. Gould, eh?"

He bent forward to look steadily into the un-flinching eyes of Charles Gould, who, remem-bering the large box full of his father's letters,put the accumulated scorn and bitterness ofmany years into the tone of his answer—

"As far as the knowledge of these men and theirmethods and their politics is concerned, I cananswer for myself. I have been fed on that sort

of knowledge since I was a boy. I am not likelyto fall into mistakes from excess of optimism."

"Not likely, eh? That's all right. Tact and a stiffupper lip is what you'll want; and you couldbluff a little on the strength of your backing.Not too much, though. We will go with you aslong as the thing runs straight. But we won't bedrawn into any large trouble. This is the ex-periment which I am willing to make. There issome risk, and we will take it; but if you can'tkeep up your end, we will stand our loss, ofcourse, and then—we'll let the thing go. Thismine can wait; it has been shut up before, asyou know. You must understand that under nocircumstances will we consent to throw goodmoney after bad."

Thus the great personage had spoken then, inhis own private office, in a great city whereother men (very considerable in the eyes of avain populace) waited with alacrity upon awave of his hand. And rather more than a year

later, during his unexpected appearance in Su-laco, he had emphasized his uncompromisingattitude with a freedom of sincerity permittedto his wealth and influence. He did this withthe less reserve, perhaps, because the inspec-tion of what had been done, and more still theway in which successive steps had been taken,had impressed him with the conviction thatCharles Gould was perfectly capable of keepingup his end.

"This young fellow," he thought to himself,"may yet become a power in the land."

This thought flattered him, for hitherto the onlyaccount of this young man he could give to hisintimates was—

"My brother-in-law met him in one of theseone-horse old German towns, near some mines,and sent him on to me with a letter. He's one ofthe Costaguana Goulds, pure-bred Englishmen,but all born in the country. His uncle went into

politics, was the last Provincial President ofSulaco, and got shot after a battle. His fatherwas a prominent business man in Sta. Marta,tried to keep clear of their politics, and diedruined after a lot of revolutions. And that'syour Costaguana in a nutshell."

Of course, he was too great a man to be ques-tioned as to his motives, even by his intimates.The outside world was at liberty to wonderrespectfully at the hidden meaning of his ac-tions. He was so great a man that his lavishpatronage of the "purer forms of Christianity"(which in its naive form of church-buildingamused Mrs. Gould) was looked upon by hisfellow-citizens as the manifestation of a piousand humble spirit. But in his own circles of thefinancial world the taking up of such a thing asthe San Tome mine was regarded with respect,indeed, but rather as a subject for discreet jocu-larity. It was a great man's caprice. In the greatHolroyd building (an enormous pile of iron,

glass, and blocks of stone at the corner of twostreets, cobwebbed aloft by the radiation oftelegraph wires) the heads of principal depart-ments exchanged humorous glances, whichmeant that they were not let into the secrets ofthe San Tome business. The Costaguana mail (itwas never large—one fairly heavy envelope)was taken unopened straight into the greatman's room, and no instructions dealing with ithad ever been issued thence. The office whis-pered that he answered personally—and not bydictation either, but actually writing in his ownhand, with pen and ink, and, it was to be sup-posed, taking a copy in his own private presscopy-book, inaccessible to profane eyes. Somescornful young men, insignificant pieces of mi-nor machinery in that eleven-storey-high work-shop of great affairs, expressed frankly theirprivate opinion that the great chief had done atlast something silly, and was ashamed of hisfolly; others, elderly and insignificant, but fullof romantic reverence for the business that had

devoured their best years, used to mutterdarkly and knowingly that this was a porten-tous sign; that the Holroyd connection meantby-and-by to get hold of the whole Republic ofCostaguana, lock, stock, and barrel. But, in fact,the hobby theory was the right one. It inter-ested the great man to attend personally to theSan Tome mine; it interested him so much thathe allowed this hobby to give a direction to thefirst complete holiday he had taken for quite astartling number of years. He was not runninga great enterprise there; no mere railway boardor industrial corporation. He was running aman! A success would have pleased him verymuch on refreshingly novel grounds; but, onthe other side of the same feeling, it was in-cumbent upon him to cast it off utterly at thefirst sign of failure. A man may be thrown off.The papers had unfortunately trumpeted allover the land his journey to Costaguana. If hewas pleased at the way Charles Gould was go-ing on, he infused an added grimness into his

assurances of support. Even at the very lastinterview, half an hour or so before he rolledout of the patio, hat in hand, behind Mrs.Gould's white mules, he had said in Charles'sroom—

"You go ahead in your own way, and I shallknow how to help you as long as you hold yourown. But you may rest assured that in a givencase we shall know how to drop you in time."

To this Charles Gould's only answer had been:"You may begin sending out the machinery assoon as you like."

And the great man had liked this imperturb-able assurance. The secret of it was that toCharles Gould's mind these uncompromisingterms were agreeable. Like this the mine pre-served its identity, with which he had endowedit as a boy; and it remained dependent on him-self alone. It was a serious affair, and he, too,took it grimly.

"Of course," he said to his wife, alluding to thislast conversation with the departed guest,while they walked slowly up and down thecorredor, followed by the irritated eye of theparrot—"of course, a man of that sort can takeup a thing or drop it when he likes. He willsuffer from no sense of defeat. He may have togive in, or he may have to die to-morrow, butthe great silver and iron interests will survive,and some day will get hold of Costaguanaalong with the rest of the world."

They had stopped near the cage. The parrot,catching the sound of a word belonging to hisvocabulary, was moved to interfere. Parrots arevery human.

"Viva Costaguana!" he shrieked, with intenseself-assertion, and, instantly ruffling up hisfeathers, assumed an air of puffed-up somno-lence behind the glittering wires.

"And do you believe that, Charley?" Mrs.Gould asked. "This seems to me most awfulmaterialism, and—"

"My dear, it's nothing to me," interrupted herhusband, in a reasonable tone. "I make use ofwhat I see. What's it to me whether his talk isthe voice of destiny or simply a bit of clap-trapeloquence? There's a good deal of eloquence ofone sort or another produced in both Americas.The air of the New World seems favourable tothe art of declamation. Have you forgotten howdear Avellanos can hold forth for hours here—?"

"Oh, but that's different," protested Mrs. Gould,almost shocked. The allusion was not to thepoint. Don Jose was a dear good man, whotalked very well, and was enthusiastic aboutthe greatness of the San Tome mine. "How canyou compare them, Charles?" she exclaimed,reproachfully. "He has suffered—and yet hehopes."

The working competence of men—which shenever questioned—was very surprising to Mrs.Gould, because upon so many obvious issuesthey showed themselves strangely muddle-headed.

Charles Gould, with a careworn calmnesswhich secured for him at once his wife's anx-ious sympathy, assured her that he was notcomparing. He was an American himself, afterall, and perhaps he could understand bothkinds of eloquence—"if it were worth while totry," he added, grimly. But he had breathed theair of England longer than any of his peoplehad done for three generations, and really hebegged to be excused. His poor father could beeloquent, too. And he asked his wife whethershe remembered a passage in one of his father'slast letters where Mr. Gould had expressed theconviction that "God looked wrathfully at thesecountries, or else He would let some ray ofhope fall through a rift in the appalling dark-

ness of intrigue, bloodshed, and crime thathung over the Queen of Continents."

Mrs. Gould had not forgotten. "You read it tome, Charley," she murmured. "It was a strikingpronouncement. How deeply your father musthave felt its terrible sadness!"

"He did not like to be robbed. It exasperatedhim," said Charles Gould. "But the image willserve well enough. What is wanted here is law,good faith, order, security. Any one can de-claim about these things, but I pin my faith tomaterial interests. Only let the material inter-ests once get a firm footing, and they are boundto impose the conditions on which alone theycan continue to exist. That's how your money-making is justified here in the face of lawless-ness and disorder. It is justified because thesecurity which it demands must be shared withan oppressed people. A better justice will comeafterwards. That's your ray of hope." His armpressed her slight form closer to his side for a

moment. "And who knows whether in thatsense even the San Tome mine may not becomethat little rift in the darkness which poor fatherdespaired of ever seeing?"

She glanced up at him with admiration. He wascompetent; he had given a vast shape to thevagueness of her unselfish ambitions.

"Charley," she said, "you are splendidly dis-obedient."

He left her suddenly in the corredor to go andget his hat, a soft, grey sombrero, an article ofnational costume which combined unexpect-edly well with his English get-up. He cameback, a riding-whip under his arm, buttoningup a dogskin glove; his face reflected the reso-lute nature of his thoughts. His wife had waitedfor him at the head of the stairs, and before hegave her the parting kiss he finished the con-versation—

"What should be perfectly clear to us," he said,"is the fact that there is no going back. Wherecould we begin life afresh? We are in now forall that there is in us."

He bent over her upturned face very tenderlyand a little remorsefully. Charles Gould wascompetent because he had no illusions. TheGould Concession had to fight for life withsuch weapons as could be found at once in themire of a corruption that was so universal asalmost to lose its significance. He was preparedto stoop for his weapons. For a moment he feltas if the silver mine, which had killed his fa-ther, had decoyed him further than he meant togo; and with the roundabout logic of emotions,he felt that the worthiness of his life was boundup with success. There was no going back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mrs. Gould was too intelligently sympatheticnot to share that feeling. It made life exciting,and she was too much of a woman not to likeexcitement. But it frightened her, too, a little;and when Don Jose Avellanos, rocking in theAmerican chair, would go so far as to say,"Even, my dear Carlos, if you had failed; even ifsome untoward event were yet to destroy yourwork—which God forbid!—you would havedeserved well of your country," Mrs. Gouldwould look up from the tea-table profoundly ather unmoved husband stirring the spoon in thecup as though he had not heard a word.

Not that Don Jose anticipated anything of thesort. He could not praise enough dear Carlos'stact and courage. His English, rock-like qualityof character was his best safeguard, Don Joseaffirmed; and, turning to Mrs. Gould, "As to

you, Emilia, my soul"—he would address herwith the familiarity of his age and old friend-ship—"you are as true a patriot as though youhad been born in our midst."

This might have been less or more than thetruth. Mrs. Gould, accompanying her husbandall over the province in the search for labour,had seen the land with a deeper glance than atrueborn Costaguanera could have done. In hertravel-worn riding habit, her face powderedwhite like a plaster cast, with a further protec-tion of a small silk mask during the heat of theday, she rode on a well-shaped, light-footedpony in the centre of a little cavalcade. Twomozos de campo, picturesque in great hats,with spurred bare heels, in white embroideredcalzoneras, leather jackets and striped ponchos,rode ahead with carbines across their shoul-ders, swaying in unison to the pace of thehorses. A tropilla of pack mules brought up therear in charge of a thin brown muleteer, sitting

his long-eared beast very near the tail, legsthrust far forward, the wide brim of his hat setfar back, making a sort of halo for his head. Anold Costaguana officer, a retired senior major ofhumble origin, but patronized by the first fami-lies on account of his Blanco opinions, had beenrecommended by Don Jose for commissary andorganizer of that expedition. The points of hisgrey moustache hung far below his chin, and,riding on Mrs. Gould's left hand, he lookedabout with kindly eyes, pointing out the fea-tures of the country, telling the names of thelittle pueblos and of the estates, of the smooth-walled haciendas like long fortresses crowningthe knolls above the level of the Sulaco Valley.It unrolled itself, with green young crops,plains, woodland, and gleams of water, park-like, from the blue vapour of the distant sierrato an immense quivering horizon of grass andsky, where big white clouds seemed to fallslowly into the darkness of their own shadows.

Men ploughed with wooden ploughs andyoked oxen, small on a boundless expanse, as ifattacking immensity itself. The mounted fig-ures of vaqueros galloped in the distance, andthe great herds fed with all their horned headsone way, in one single wavering line as far aseye could reach across the broad potreros. Aspreading cotton-wool tree shaded a thatchedranche by the road; the trudging files of bur-dened Indians taking off their hats, would liftsad, mute eyes to the cavalcade raising the dustof the crumbling camino real made by thehands of their enslaved forefathers. And Mrs.Gould, with each day's journey, seemed tocome nearer to the soul of the land in the tre-mendous disclosure of this interior unaffectedby the slight European veneer of the coasttowns, a great land of plain and mountain andpeople, suffering and mute, waiting for thefuture in a pathetic immobility of patience.

She knew its sights and its hospitality, dis-pensed with a sort of slumbrous dignity inthose great houses presenting long, blind wallsand heavy portals to the wind-swept pastures.She was given the head of the tables, wheremasters and dependants sat in a simple andpatriarchal state. The ladies of the house wouldtalk softly in the moonlight under the orangetrees of the courtyards, impressing upon herthe sweetness of their voices and the somethingmysterious in the quietude of their lives. In themorning the gentlemen, well mounted inbraided sombreros and embroidered ridingsuits, with much silver on the trappings of theirhorses, would ride forth to escort the departingguests before committing them, with gravegood-byes, to the care of God at the boundarypillars of their estates. In all these householdsshe could hear stories of political outrage;friends, relatives, ruined, imprisoned, killed inthe battles of senseless civil wars, barbarouslyexecuted in ferocious proscriptions, as though

the government of the country had been astruggle of lust between bands of absurd devilslet loose upon the land with sabres and uni-forms and grandiloquent phrases. And on allthe lips she found a weary desire for peace, thedread of officialdom with its nightmarish par-ody of administration without law, withoutsecurity, and without justice.

She bore a whole two months of wanderingvery well; she had that power of resistance tofatigue which one discovers here and there insome quite frail-looking women with sur-prise—like a state of possession by a remarka-bly stubborn spirit. Don Pepe—the old Costa-guana major—after much display of solicitudefor the delicate lady, had ended by conferringupon her the name of the "Never-tired Senora."Mrs. Gould was indeed becoming a Costa-guanera. Having acquired in Southern Europea knowledge of true peasantry, she was able toappreciate the great worth of the people. She

saw the man under the silent, sad-eyed beast ofburden. She saw them on the road carryingloads, lonely figures upon the plain, toilingunder great straw hats, with their white cloth-ing flapping about their limbs in the wind; sheremembered the villages by some group of In-dian women at the fountain impressed uponher memory, by the face of some young Indiangirl with a melancholy and sensual profile, rais-ing an earthenware vessel of cool water at thedoor of a dark hut with a wooden porch cum-bered with great brown jars. The solid woodenwheels of an ox-cart, halted with its shafts inthe dust, showed the strokes of the axe; and aparty of charcoal carriers, with each man's loadresting above his head on the top of the lowmud wall, slept stretched in a row within thestrip of shade.

The heavy stonework of bridges and churchesleft by the conquerors proclaimed the disregardof human labour, the tribute-labour of vanished

nations. The power of king and church wasgone, but at the sight of some heavy ruinouspile overtopping from a knoll the low mudwalls of a village, Don Pepe would interruptthe tale of his campaigns to exclaim—

"Poor Costaguana! Before, it was everything forthe Padres, nothing for the people; and now itis everything for those great politicos in Sta.Marta, for negroes and thieves."

Charles talked with the alcaldes, with the fis-cales, with the principal people in towns, andwith the caballeros on the estates. The com-mandantes of the districts offered him escorts—for he could show an authorization from theSulaco political chief of the day. How much thedocument had cost him in gold twenty-dollarpieces was a secret between himself, a greatman in the United States (who condescended toanswer the Sulaco mail with his own hand),and a great man of another sort, with a darkolive complexion and shifty eyes, inhabiting

then the Palace of the Intendencia in Sulaco,and who piqued himself on his culture andEuropeanism generally in a rather French stylebecause he had lived in Europe for someyears—in exile, he said. However, it was prettywell known that just before this exile he hadincautiously gambled away all the cash in theCustom House of a small port where a friend inpower had procured for him the post of subcol-lector. That youthful indiscretion had, amongstother inconveniences, obliged him to earn hisliving for a time as a cafe waiter in Madrid; buthis talents must have been great, after all, sincethey had enabled him to retrieve his politicalfortunes so splendidly. Charles Gould, expos-ing his business with an imperturbable steadi-ness, called him Excellency.

The provincial Excellency assumed a wearysuperiority, tilting his chair far back near anopen window in the true Costaguana manner.The military band happened to be braying op-

eratic selections on the plaza just then, andtwice he raised his hand imperatively for si-lence in order to listen to a favourite passage.

"Exquisite, delicious!" he murmured; whileCharles Gould waited, standing by with inscru-table patience. "Lucia, Lucia di Lammermoor! Iam passionate for music. It transports me. Ha!the divine—ha!—Mozart. Si! divine . . . What isit you were saying?"

Of course, rumours had reached him already ofthe newcomer's intentions. Besides, he had re-ceived an official warning from Sta. Marta. Hismanner was intended simply to conceal hiscuriosity and impress his visitor. But after hehad locked up something valuable in thedrawer of a large writing-desk in a distant partof the room, he became very affable, andwalked back to his chair smartly.

"If you intend to build villages and assemble apopulation near the mine, you shall require a

decree of the Minister of the Interior for that,"he suggested in a business-like manner.

"I have already sent a memorial," said CharlesGould, steadily, "and I reckon now confidentlyupon your Excellency's favourable conclu-sions."

The Excellency was a man of many moods.With the receipt of the money a great mellow-ness had descended upon his simple soul. Un-expectedly he fetched a deep sigh.

"Ah, Don Carlos! What we want is advancedmen like you in the province. The lethargy—thelethargy of these aristocrats! The want of publicspirit! The absence of all enterprise! I, with myprofound studies in Europe, you understand—"

With one hand thrust into his swelling bosom,he rose and fell on his toes, and for ten minutes,almost without drawing breath, went on hurl-ing himself intellectually to the assault of

Charles Gould's polite silence; and when, stop-ping abruptly, he fell back into his chair, it wasas though he had been beaten off from a for-tress. To save his dignity he hastened to dis-miss this silent man with a solemn inclinationof the head and the words, pronounced withmoody, fatigued condescension—

"You may depend upon my enlightened good-will as long as your conduct as a good citizendeserves it."

He took up a paper fan and began to cool him-self with a consequential air, while CharlesGould bowed and withdrew. Then he droppedthe fan at once, and stared with an appearanceof wonder and perplexity at the closed door forquite a long time. At last he shrugged hisshoulders as if to assure himself of his disdain.Cold, dull. No intellectuality. Red hair. A trueEnglishman. He despised him.

His face darkened. What meant this unim-pressed and frigid behaviour? He was the firstof the successive politicians sent out from thecapital to rule the Occidental Province whomthe manner of Charles Gould in official inter-course was to strike as offensively independent.

Charles Gould assumed that if the appearanceof listening to deplorable balderdash must formpart of the price he had to pay for being leftunmolested, the obligation of uttering balder-dash personally was by no means included inthe bargain. He drew the line there. To theseprovincial autocrats, before whom the peace-able population of all classes had been accus-tomed to tremble, the reserve of that English-looking engineer caused an uneasiness whichswung to and fro between cringing and trucu-lence. Gradually all of them discovered that, nomatter what party was in power, that man re-mained in most effective touch with the higherauthorities in Sta. Marta.

This was a fact, and it accounted perfectly forthe Goulds being by no means so wealthy asthe engineer-in-chief on the new railway couldlegitimately suppose. Following the advice ofDon Jose Avellanos, who was a man of goodcounsel (though rendered timid by his horribleexperiences of Guzman Bento's time), CharlesGould had kept clear of the capital; but in thecurrent gossip of the foreign residents there hewas known (with a good deal of seriousnessunderlying the irony) by the nickname of "Kingof Sulaco." An advocate of the Costaguana Bar,a man of reputed ability and good character,member of the distinguished Moraga familypossessing extensive estates in the Sulaco Val-ley, was pointed out to strangers, with a shadeof mystery and respect, as the agent of the SanTome mine—"political, you know." He was tall,black-whiskered, and discreet. It was knownthat he had easy access to ministers, and thatthe numerous Costaguana generals were al-ways anxious to dine at his house. Presidents

granted him audience with facility. He corre-sponded actively with his maternal uncle, DonJose Avellanos; but his letters—unless thoseexpressing formally his dutiful affection—wereseldom entrusted to the Costaguana Post Of-fice. There the envelopes are opened, indis-criminately, with the frankness of a brazen andchildish impudence characteristic of someSpanish-American Governments. But it must benoted that at about the time of the re-openingof the San Tome mine the muleteer who hadbeen employed by Charles Gould in his pre-liminary travels on the Campo added his smalltrain of animals to the thin stream of traffic car-ried over the mountain passes between the Sta.Marta upland and the Valley of Sulaco. Thereare no travellers by that arduous and unsaferoute unless under very exceptional circum-stances, and the state of inland trade did notvisibly require additional transport facilities;but the man seemed to find his account in it. Afew packages were always found for him

whenever he took the road. Very brown andwooden, in goatskin breeches with the hairoutside, he sat near the tail of his own smartmule, his great hat turned against the sun, anexpression of blissful vacancy on his long face,humming day after day a love-song in a plain-tive key, or, without a change of expression,letting out a yell at his small tropilla in front. Around little guitar hung high up on his back;and there was a place scooped out artistically inthe wood of one of his pack-saddles where atightly rolled piece of paper could be slippedin, the wooden plug replaced, and the coarsecanvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco it washis practice to smoke and doze all day long (asthough he had no care in the world) on a stonebench outside the doorway of the Casa Gouldand facing the windows of the Avellanoshouse. Years and years ago his mother hadbeen chief laundry-woman in that family—veryaccomplished in the matter of clear-starching.He himself had been born on one of their haci-

endas. His name was Bonifacio, and Don Jose,crossing the street about five o'clock to call onDona Emilia, always acknowledged his humblesalute by some movement of hand or head. Theporters of both houses conversed lazily withhim in tones of grave intimacy. His evenings hedevoted to gambling and to calls in a spirit ofgenerous festivity upon the peyne d'oro girls inthe more remote side-streets of the town. Buthe, too, was a discreet man.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Those of us whom business or curiosity took toSulaco in these years before the first advent ofthe railway can remember the steadying effectof the San Tome mine upon the life of that re-mote province. The outward appearances had

not changed then as they have changed since,as I am told, with cable cars running along thestreets of the Constitution, and carriage roadsfar into the country, to Rincon and other vil-lages, where the foreign merchants and theRicos generally have their modern villas, and avast railway goods yard by the harbour, whichhas a quay-side, a long range of warehouses,and quite serious, organized labour troubles ofits own.

Nobody had ever heard of labour troubles then.The Cargadores of the port formed, indeed, anunruly brotherhood of all sorts of scum, with apatron saint of their own. They went on strikeregularly (every bull-fight day), a form of trou-ble that even Nostromo at the height of hisprestige could never cope with efficiently; butthe morning after each fiesta, before the Indianmarket-women had opened their mat parasolson the plaza, when the snows of Higuerotagleamed pale over the town on a yet black sky,

the appearance of a phantom-like horsemanmounted on a silver-grey mare solved the prob-lem of labour without fail. His steed paced thelanes of the slums and the weed-grown enclo-sures within the old ramparts, between theblack, lightless cluster of huts, like cow-byres,like dog-kennels. The horseman hammeredwith the butt of a heavy revolver at the doors oflow pulperias, of obscene lean-to sheds slopingagainst the tumble-down piece of a noble wall,at the wooden sides of dwellings so flimsy thatthe sound of snores and sleepy mutters withincould be heard in the pauses of the thunderingclatter of his blows. He called out men's namesmenacingly from the saddle, once, twice. Thedrowsy answers—grumpy, conciliating, sav-age, jocular, or deprecating—came out into thesilent darkness in which the horseman sat still,and presently a dark figure would flit outcoughing in the still air. Sometimes a low-tonedwoman cried through the window-hole softly,"He's coming directly, senor," and the horse-

man waited silent on a motionless horse. But ifperchance he had to dismount, then, after awhile, from the door of that hovel or of thatpulperia, with a ferocious scuffle and stifledimprecations, a cargador would fly out headfirst and hands abroad, to sprawl under theforelegs of the silver-grey mare, who onlypricked forward her sharp little ears. She wasused to that work; and the man, picking him-self up, would walk away hastily from Nos-tromo's revolver, reeling a little along the streetand snarling low curses. At sunrise CaptainMitchell, coming out anxiously in his night at-tire on to the wooden balcony running thewhole length of the O.S.N. Company's lonelybuilding by the shore, would see the lightersalready under way, figures moving busilyabout the cargo cranes, perhaps hear the in-valuable Nostromo, now dismounted and inthe checked shirt and red sash of a Mediterra-nean sailor, bawling orders from the end of the

jetty in a stentorian voice. A fellow in a thou-sand!

The material apparatus of perfected civilizationwhich obliterates the individuality of old townsunder the stereotyped conveniences of modernlife had not intruded as yet; but over the worn-out antiquity of Sulaco, so characteristic with itsstuccoed houses and barred windows, with thegreat yellowy-white walls of abandoned con-vents behind the rows of sombre green cy-presses, that fact—very modern in its spirit—the San Tome mine had already thrown its sub-tle influence. It had altered, too, the outwardcharacter of the crowds on feast days on theplaza before the open portal of the cathedral, bythe number of white ponchos with a greenstripe affected as holiday wear by the San Tomeminers. They had also adopted white hats withgreen cord and braid—articles of good quality,which could be obtained in the storehouse ofthe administration for very little money. A

peaceable Cholo wearing these colours (un-usual in Costaguana) was somehow very sel-dom beaten to within an inch of his life on acharge of disrespect to the town police; neitherran he much risk of being suddenly lassoed onthe road by a recruiting party of lanceros—amethod of voluntary enlistment looked upon asalmost legal in the Republic. Whole villageswere known to have volunteered for the armyin that way; but, as Don Pepe would say with ahopeless shrug to Mrs. Gould, "What wouldyou! Poor people! Pobrecitos! Pobrecitos! Butthe State must have its soldiers."

Thus professionally spoke Don Pepe, thefighter, with pendent moustaches, a nut-brown,lean face, and a clean run of a cast-iron jaw,suggesting the type of a cattle-herd horsemanfrom the great Llanos of the South. "If you willlisten to an old officer of Paez, senores," was theexordium of all his speeches in the AristocraticClub of Sulaco, where he was admitted on ac-

count of his past services to the extinct cause ofFederation. The club, dating from the days ofthe proclamation of Costaguana's independ-ence, boasted many names of liberatorsamongst its first founders. Suppressed arbitrar-ily innumerable times by various Governments,with memories of proscriptions and of at leastone wholesale massacre of its members, sadlyassembled for a banquet by the order of a zeal-ous military commandante (their bodies wereafterwards stripped naked and flung into theplaza out of the windows by the lowest scum ofthe populace), it was again flourishing, at thatperiod, peacefully. It extended to strangers thelarge hospitality of the cool, big rooms of itshistoric quarters in the front part of a house,once the residence of a high official of the HolyOffice. The two wings, shut up, crumbled be-hind the nailed doors, and what may be de-scribed as a grove of young orange trees grownin the unpaved patio concealed the utter ruin ofthe back part facing the gate. You turned in

from the street, as if entering a secluded or-chard, where you came upon the foot of a dis-jointed staircase, guarded by a moss-stainedeffigy of some saintly bishop, mitred andstaffed, and bearing the indignity of a brokennose meekly, with his fine stone hands crossedon his breast. The chocolate-coloured faces ofservants with mops of black hair peeped at youfrom above; the click of billiard balls came toyour ears, and ascending the steps, you wouldperhaps see in the first sala, very stiff upon astraight-backed chair, in a good light, Don Pepemoving his long moustaches as he spelt hisway, at arm's length, through an old Sta. Martanewspaper. His horse—a stony-hearted butpersevering black brute with a hammer head—you would have seen in the street dozing mo-tionless under an immense saddle, with its nosealmost touching the curbstone of the sidewalk.

Don Pepe, when "down from the mountain," asthe phrase, often heard in Sulaco, went, could

also be seen in the drawing-room of the CasaGould. He sat with modest assurance at somedistance from the tea-table. With his kneesclose together, and a kindly twinkle of drolleryin his deep-set eyes, he would throw his smalland ironic pleasantries into the current of con-versation. There was in that man a sort of sane,humorous shrewdness, and a vein of genuinehumanity so often found in simple old soldiersof proved courage who have seen much des-perate service. Of course he knew nothingwhatever of mining, but his employment wasof a special kind. He was in charge of the wholepopulation in the territory of the mine, whichextended from the head of the gorge to wherethe cart track from the foot of the mountainenters the plain, crossing a stream over a littlewooden bridge painted green—green, the col-our of hope, being also the colour of the mine.

It was reported in Sulaco that up there "at themountain" Don Pepe walked about precipitous

paths, girt with a great sword and in a shabbyuniform with tarnished bullion epaulettes of asenior major. Most miners being Indians, withbig wild eyes, addressed him as Taita (father),as these barefooted people of Costaguana willaddress anybody who wears shoes; but it wasBasilio, Mr. Gould's own mozo and the headservant of the Casa, who, in all good faith andfrom a sense of propriety, announced him oncein the solemn words, "El Senor Gobernador hasarrived."

Don Jose Avellanos, then in the drawing-room,was delighted beyond measure at the aptnessof the title, with which he greeted the old majorbanteringly as soon as the latter's soldierly fig-ure appeared in the doorway. Don Pepe onlysmiled in his long moustaches, as much as tosay, "You might have found a worse name foran old soldier."

And El Senor Gobernador he had remained,with his small jokes upon his function and

upon his domain, where he affirmed with hu-morous exaggeration to Mrs. Gould—

"No two stones could come together anywherewithout the Gobernador hearing the click, sen-ora."

And he would tap his ear with the tip of hisforefinger knowingly. Even when the numberof the miners alone rose to over six hundred heseemed to know each of them individually, allthe innumerable Joses, Manuels, Ignacios, fromthe villages primero—segundo—or tercero (therewere three mining villages) under his govern-ment. He could distinguish them not only bytheir flat, joyless faces, which to Mrs. Gouldlooked all alike, as if run into the same ances-tral mould of suffering and patience, but ap-parently also by the infinitely graduated shadesof reddish-brown, of blackish-brown, of cop-pery-brown backs, as the two shifts, stripped tolinen drawers and leather skull-caps, mingledtogether with a confusion of naked limbs, of

shouldered picks, swinging lamps, in a greatshuffle of sandalled feet on the open plateaubefore the entrance of the main tunnel. It was atime of pause. The Indian boys leaned idlyagainst the long line of little cradle wagonsstanding empty; the screeners and ore-breakerssquatted on their heels smoking long cigars; thegreat wooden shoots slanting over the edge ofthe tunnel plateau were silent; and only theceaseless, violent rush of water in the openflumes could be heard, murmuring fiercely,with the splash and rumble of revolving tur-bine-wheels, and the thudding march of thestamps pounding to powder the treasure rockon the plateau below. The heads of gangs, dis-tinguished by brass medals hanging on theirbare breasts, marshalled their squads; and atlast the mountain would swallow one-half ofthe silent crowd, while the other half wouldmove off in long files down the zigzag pathsleading to the bottom of the gorge. It was deep;and, far below, a thread of vegetation winding

between the blazing rock faces resembled aslender green cord, in which three lumpy knotsof banana patches, palm-leaf roots, and shadytrees marked the Village One, Village Two,Village Three, housing the miners of the GouldConcession.

Whole families had been moving from the firsttowards the spot in the Higuerota range,whence the rumour of work and safety hadspread over the pastoral Campo, forcing itsway also, even as the waters of a high flood,into the nooks and crannies of the distant bluewalls of the Sierras. Father first, in a pointedstraw hat, then the mother with the bigger chil-dren, generally also a diminutive donkey, allunder burdens, except the leader himself, orperhaps some grown girl, the pride of the fam-ily, stepping barefooted and straight as an ar-row, with braids of raven hair, a thick, haughtyprofile, and no load to carry but the small gui-tar of the country and a pair of soft leather san-

dals tied together on her back. At the sight ofsuch parties strung out on the cross trails be-tween the pastures, or camped by the side ofthe royal road, travellers on horseback wouldremark to each other—

"More people going to the San Tome mine. Weshall see others to-morrow."

And spurring on in the dusk they would dis-cuss the great news of the province, the news ofthe San Tome mine. A rich Englishman wasgoing to work it—and perhaps not an English-man, Quien sabe! A foreigner with muchmoney. Oh, yes, it had begun. A party of menwho had been to Sulaco with a herd of blackbulls for the next corrida had reported thatfrom the porch of the posada in Rincon, only ashort league from the town, the lights on themountain were visible, twinkling above thetrees. And there was a woman seen riding ahorse sideways, not in the chair seat, but upona sort of saddle, and a man's hat on her head.

She walked about, too, on foot up the mountainpaths. A woman engineer, it seemed she was.

"What an absurdity! Impossible, senor!"

"Si! Si! Una Americana del Norte."

"Ah, well! if your worship is informed. UnaAmericana; it need be something of that sort."

And they would laugh a little with astonish-ment and scorn, keeping a wary eye on theshadows of the road, for one is liable to meetbad men when travelling late on the Campo.

And it was not only the men that Don Pepeknew so well, but he seemed able, with oneattentive, thoughtful glance, to classify eachwoman, girl, or growing youth of his domain.It was only the small fry that puzzled himsometimes. He and the padre could be seenfrequently side by side, meditative and gazingacross the street of a village at a lot of sedate

brown children, trying to sort them out, as itwere, in low, consulting tones, or else theywould together put searching questions as tothe parentage of some small, staid urchin metwandering, naked and grave, along the roadwith a cigar in his baby mouth, and perhaps hismother's rosary, purloined for purposes of or-namentation, hanging in a loop of beads lowdown on his rotund little stomach. The spiritualand temporal pastors of the mine flock werevery good friends. With Dr. Monygham, themedical pastor, who had accepted the chargefrom Mrs. Gould, and lived in the hospitalbuilding, they were on not so intimate terms.But no one could be on intimate terms with ElSenor Doctor, who, with his twisted shoulders,drooping head, sardonic mouth, and side-longbitter glance, was mysterious and uncanny. Theother two authorities worked in harmony. Fa-ther Roman, dried-up, small, alert, wrinkled,with big round eyes, a sharp chin, and a greatsnuff-taker, was an old campaigner, too; he had

shriven many simple souls on the battlefields ofthe Republic, kneeling by the dying on hill-sides, in the long grass, in the gloom of the for-ests, to hear the last confession with the smellof gunpowder smoke in his nostrils, the rattleof muskets, the hum and spatter of bullets inhis ears. And where was the harm if, at thepresbytery, they had a game with a pack ofgreasy cards in the early evening, before DonPepe went his last rounds to see that all thewatchmen of the mine—a body organized byhimself—were at their posts? For that last dutybefore he slept Don Pepe did actually gird hisold sword on the verandah of an unmistakableAmerican white frame house, which FatherRoman called the presbytery. Near by, a long,low, dark building, steeple-roofed, like a vastbarn with a wooden cross over the gable, wasthe miners' chapel. There Father Roman saidMass every day before a sombre altar-piecerepresenting the Resurrection, the grey slab ofthe tombstone balanced on one corner, a figure

soaring upwards, long-limbed and livid, in anoval of pallid light, and a helmeted brown le-gionary smitten down, right across the bitumi-nous foreground. "This picture, my children,muy linda e maravillosa," Father Roman wouldsay to some of his flock, "which you beholdhere through the munificence of the wife of ourSenor Administrador, has been painted inEurope, a country of saints and miracles, andmuch greater than our Costaguana." And hewould take a pinch of snuff with unction. Butwhen once an inquisitive spirit desired to knowin what direction this Europe was situated,whether up or down the coast, Father Roman,to conceal his perplexity, became very reservedand severe. "No doubt it is extremely far away.But ignorant sinners like you of the San Tomemine should think earnestly of everlasting pun-ishment instead of inquiring into the magni-tude of the earth, with its countries and popula-tions altogether beyond your understanding."

With a "Good-night, Padre," "Good-night, DonPepe," the Gobernador would go off, holdingup his sabre against his side, his body bentforward, with a long, plodding stride in thedark. The jocularity proper to an innocent cardgame for a few cigars or a bundle of yerba wasreplaced at once by the stern duty mood of anofficer setting out to visit the outposts of anencamped army. One loud blast of the whistlethat hung from his neck provoked instantly agreat shrilling of responding whistles, mingledwith the barking of dogs, that would calmdown slowly at last, away up at the head of thegorge; and in the stillness two serenos, onguard by the bridge, would appear walkingnoiselessly towards him. On one side of theroad a long frame building—the store—wouldbe closed and barricaded from end to end; fac-ing it another white frame house, still longer,and with a verandah—the hospital—wouldhave lights in the two windows of Dr. Mony-gham's quarters. Even the delicate foliage of a

clump of pepper trees did not stir, so breathlesswould be the darkness warmed by the radia-tion of the over-heated rocks. Don Pepe wouldstand still for a moment with the two mo-tionless serenos before him, and, abruptly, highup on the sheer face of the mountain, dottedwith single torches, like drops of fire fallenfrom the two great blazing clusters of lightsabove, the ore shoots would begin to rattle. Thegreat clattering, shuffling noise, gatheringspeed and weight, would be caught up by thewalls of the gorge, and sent upon the plain in agrowl of thunder. The pasadero in Rinconswore that on calm nights, by listening intently,he could catch the sound in his doorway as of astorm in the mountains.

To Charles Gould's fancy it seemed that thesound must reach the uttermost limits of theprovince. Riding at night towards the mine, itwould meet him at the edge of a little wood justbeyond Rincon. There was no mistaking the

growling mutter of the mountain pouring itsstream of treasure under the stamps; and itcame to his heart with the peculiar force of aproclamation thundered forth over the landand the marvellousness of an accomplished factfulfilling an audacious desire. He had heardthis very sound in his imagination on that far-off evening when his wife and himself, after atortuous ride through a strip of forest, hadreined in their horses near the stream, and hadgazed for the first time upon the jungle-grownsolitude of the gorge. The head of a palm rosehere and there. In a high ravine round the cor-ner of the San Tome mountain (which is squarelike a blockhouse) the thread of a slender wa-terfall flashed bright and glassy through thedark green of the heavy fronds of tree-ferns.Don Pepe, in attendance, rode up, and, stretch-ing his arm up the gorge, had declared withmock solemnity, "Behold the very paradise ofsnakes, senora."

And then they had wheeled their horses andridden back to sleep that night at Rincon. Thealcalde—an old, skinny Moreno, a sergeant ofGuzman Bento's time—had cleared respectfullyout of his house with his three pretty daugh-ters, to make room for the foreign senora andtheir worships the Caballeros. All he askedCharles Gould (whom he took for a mysteriousand official person) to do for him was to re-mind the supreme Government—El Gobiernosupreme—of a pension (amounting to about adollar a month) to which he believed himselfentitled. It had been promised to him, he af-firmed, straightening his bent back martially,"many years ago, for my valour in the warswith the wild Indios when a young man,senor."

The waterfall existed no longer. The tree-fernsthat had luxuriated in its spray had diedaround the dried-up pool, and the high ravinewas only a big trench half filled up with the

refuse of excavations and tailings. The torrent,dammed up above, sent its water rushing alongthe open flumes of scooped tree trunks stridingon trestle-legs to the turbines working thestamps on the lower plateau—the mesa grandeof the San Tome mountain. Only the memory ofthe waterfall, with its amazing fernery, like ahanging garden above the rocks of the gorge,was preserved in Mrs. Gould's water-coloursketch; she had made it hastily one day from acleared patch in the bushes, sitting in the shadeof a roof of straw erected for her on three roughpoles under Don Pepe's direction.

Mrs. Gould had seen it all from the beginning:the clearing of the wilderness, the making ofthe road, the cutting of new paths up the cliffface of San Tome. For weeks together she hadlived on the spot with her husband; and shewas so little in Sulaco during that year that theappearance of the Gould carriage on the Ala-meda would cause a social excitement. From

the heavy family coaches full of stately senorasand black-eyed senoritas rolling solemnly inthe shaded alley white hands were waved to-wards her with animation in a flutter of greet-ings. Dona Emilia was "down from the moun-tain."

But not for long. Dona Emilia would be gone"up to the mountain" in a day or two, and hersleek carriage mules would have an easy timeof it for another long spell. She had watched theerection of the first frame-house put up on thelower mesa for an office and Don Pepe's quar-ters; she heard with a thrill of thankful emotionthe first wagon load of ore rattle down the thenonly shoot; she had stood by her husband's sideperfectly silent, and gone cold all over withexcitement at the instant when the first batteryof only fifteen stamps was put in motion for thefirst time. On the occasion when the fires underthe first set of retorts in their shed had glowedfar into the night she did not retire to rest on

the rough cadre set up for her in the as yet bareframe-house till she had seen the first spongylump of silver yielded to the hazards of theworld by the dark depths of the Gould Conces-sion; she had laid her unmercenary hands, withan eagerness that made them tremble, upon thefirst silver ingot turned out still warm from themould; and by her imaginative estimate of itspower she endowed that lump of metal with ajustificative conception, as though it were not amere fact, but something far-reaching and im-palpable, like the true expression of an emotionor the emergence of a principle.

Don Pepe, extremely interested, too, lookedover her shoulder with a smile that, makinglongitudinal folds on his face, caused it to re-semble a leathern mask with a benignantly dia-bolic expression.

"Would not the muchachos of Hernandez liketo get hold of this insignificant object, that

looks, por Dios, very much like a piece of tin?"he remarked, jocularly.

Hernandez, the robber, had been an inoffen-sive, small ranchero, kidnapped with circum-stances of peculiar atrocity from his home dur-ing one of the civil wars, and forced to serve inthe army. There his conduct as soldier was ex-emplary, till, watching his chance, he killed hiscolonel, and managed to get clear away. With aband of deserters, who chose him for theirchief, he had taken refuge beyond the wild andwaterless Bolson de Tonoro. The haciendaspaid him blackmail in cattle and horses; ex-traordinary stories were told of his powers andof his wonderful escapes from capture. He usedto ride, single-handed, into the villages and thelittle towns on the Campo, driving a pack mulebefore him, with two revolvers in his belt, gostraight to the shop or store, select what hewanted, and ride away unopposed because ofthe terror his exploits and his audacity in-

spired. Poor country people he usually leftalone; the upper class were often stopped onthe roads and robbed; but any unlucky officialthat fell into his hands was sure to get a severeflogging. The army officers did not like hisname to be mentioned in their presence. Hisfollowers, mounted on stolen horses, laughedat the pursuit of the regular cavalry sent tohunt them down, and whom they took pleasureto ambush most scientifically in the brokenground of their own fastness. Expeditions hadbeen fitted out; a price had been put upon hishead; even attempts had been made, treacher-ously of course, to open negotiations with him,without in the slightest way affecting the eventenor of his career. At last, in true Costaguanafashion, the Fiscal of Tonoro, who was ambi-tious of the glory of having reduced the famousHernandez, offered him a sum of money and asafe conduct out of the country for the betrayalof his band. But Hernandez evidently was notof the stuff of which the distinguished military

politicians and conspirators of Costaguana aremade. This clever but common device (whichfrequently works like a charm in putting downrevolutions) failed with the chief of vulgar Sal-teadores. It promised well for the Fiscal at first,but ended very badly for the squadron oflanceros posted (by the Fiscal's directions) in afold of the ground into which Hernandez hadpromised to lead his unsuspecting followersThey came, indeed, at the appointed time, butcreeping on their hands and knees through thebush, and only let their presence be known by ageneral discharge of firearms, which emptiedmany saddles. The troopers who escaped cameriding very hard into Tonoro. It is said thattheir commanding officer (who, being bettermounted, rode far ahead of the rest) afterwardsgot into a state of despairing intoxication andbeat the ambitious Fiscal severely with the flatof his sabre in the presence of his wife anddaughters, for bringing this disgrace upon theNational Army. The highest civil official of

Tonoro, falling to the ground in a swoon, wasfurther kicked all over the body and rowelledwith sharp spurs about the neck and face be-cause of the great sensitiveness of his militarycolleague. This gossip of the inland Campo, socharacteristic of the rulers of the country withits story of oppression, inefficiency, fatuousmethods, treachery, and savage brutality, wasperfectly known to Mrs. Gould. That it shouldbe accepted with no indignant comment bypeople of intelligence, refinement, and charac-ter as something inherent in the nature ofthings was one of the symptoms of degradationthat had the power to exasperate her almost tothe verge of despair. Still looking at the ingot ofsilver, she shook her head at Don Pepe's re-mark—

"If it had not been for the lawless tyranny ofyour Government, Don Pepe, many an outlawnow with Hernandez would be living peace-

ably and happy by the honest work of hishands."

"Senora," cried Don Pepe, with enthusiasm, "itis true! It is as if God had given you the powerto look into the very breasts of people. Youhave seen them working round you, DonaEmilia—meek as lambs, patient like their ownburros, brave like lions. I have led them to thevery muzzles of guns—I, who stand here beforeyou, senora—in the time of Paez, who was fullof generosity, and in courage only approachedby the uncle of Don Carlos here, as far as Iknow. No wonder there are bandits in theCampo when there are none but thieves, swin-dlers, and sanguinary macaques to rule us inSta. Marta. However, all the same, a bandit is abandit, and we shall have a dozen goodstraight Winchesters to ride with the silverdown to Sulaco."

Mrs. Gould's ride with the first silver escort toSulaco was the closing episode of what she

called "my camp life" before she had settled inher town-house permanently, as was properand even necessary for the wife of the adminis-trator of such an important institution as theSan Tome mine. For the San Tome mine was tobecome an institution, a rallying point for eve-rything in the province that needed order andstability to live. Security seemed to flow uponthis land from the mountain-gorge. The au-thorities of Sulaco had learned that the SanTome mine could make it worth their while toleave things and people alone. This was thenearest approach to the rule of common-senseand justice Charles Gould felt it possible to se-cure at first. In fact, the mine, with its organiza-tion, its population growing fiercely attached totheir position of privileged safety, with its ar-moury, with its Don Pepe, with its armed bodyof serenos (where, it was said, many an outlawand deserter—and even some members of Her-nandez's band—had found a place), the minewas a power in the land. As a certain promi-

nent man in Sta. Marta had exclaimed with ahollow laugh, once, when discussing the line ofaction taken by the Sulaco authorities at a timeof political crisis—

"You call these men Government officials?They? Never! They are officials of the mine—officials of the Concession—I tell you."

The prominent man (who was then a person inpower, with a lemon-coloured face and a veryshort and curly, not to say woolly, head of hair)went so far in his temporary discontent as toshake his yellow fist under the nose of his inter-locutor, and shriek—

"Yes! All! Silence! All! I tell you! The politicalGefe, the chief of the police, the chief of thecustoms, the general, all, all, are the officials ofthat Gould."

Thereupon an intrepid but low and argumenta-tive murmur would flow on for a space in the

ministerial cabinet, and the prominent man'spassion would end in a cynical shrug of theshoulders. After all, he seemed to say, what didit matter as long as the minister himself was notforgotten during his brief day of authority? Butall the same, the unofficial agent of the SanTome mine, working for a good cause, had hismoments of anxiety, which were reflected in hisletters to Don Jose Avellanos, his maternal un-cle.

"No sanguinary macaque from Sta. Marta shallset foot on that part of Costaguana which liesbeyond the San Tome bridge," Don Pepe usedto assure Mrs. Gould. "Except, of course, as anhonoured guest—for our Senor Administradoris a deep politico." But to Charles Gould, in hisown room, the old Major would remark with agrim and soldierly cheeriness, "We are all play-ing our heads at this game."

Don Jose Avellanos would mutter "Imperiumin imperio, Emilia, my soul," with an air of pro-

found self-satisfaction which, somehow, in acurious way, seemed to contain a queer admix-ture of bodily discomfort. But that, perhaps,could only be visible to the initiated. And forthe initiated it was a wonderful place, thisdrawing-room of the Casa Gould, with its mo-mentary glimpses of the master—El Senor Ad-ministrador—older, harder, mysteriously si-lent, with the lines deepened on his English,ruddy, out-of-doors complexion; flitting on histhin cavalryman's legs across the doorways,either just "back from the mountain" or withjingling spurs and riding-whip under his arm,on the point of starting "for the mountain."Then Don Pepe, modestly martial in his chair,the llanero who seemed somehow to havefound his martial jocularity, his knowledge ofthe world, and his manner perfect for his sta-tion, in the midst of savage armed contests withhis kind; Avellanos, polished and familiar, thediplomatist with his loquacity covering muchcaution and wisdom in delicate advice, with his

manuscript of a historical work on Costaguana,entitled "Fifty Years of Misrule," which, at pre-sent, he thought it was not prudent (even if itwere possible) "to give to the world"; thesethree, and also Dona Emilia amongst them,gracious, small, and fairy-like, before the glit-tering tea-set, with one common master-thought in their heads, with one common feel-ing of a tense situation, with one ever-presentaim to preserve the inviolable character of themine at every cost. And there was also to beseen Captain Mitchell, a little apart, near one ofthe long windows, with an air of old-fashionedneat old bachelorhood about him, slightlypompous, in a white waistcoat, a little disre-garded and unconscious of it; utterly in thedark, and imagining himself to be in the thickof things. The good man, having spent a clearthirty years of his life on the high seas beforegetting what he called a "shore billet," was as-tonished at the importance of transactions(other than relating to shipping) which take

place on dry land. Almost every event out ofthe usual daily course "marked an epoch" forhim or else was "history"; unless with his pom-posity struggling with a discomfited droop ofhis rubicund, rather handsome face, set off bysnow-white close hair and short whiskers, hewould mutter—

"Ah, that! That, sir, was a mistake."

The reception of the first consignment of SanTome silver for shipment to San Francisco inone of the O.S.N. Co.'s mail-boats had, ofcourse, "marked an epoch" for CaptainMitchell. The ingots packed in boxes of stiff ox-hide with plaited handles, small enough to becarried easily by two men, were brought downby the serenos of the mine walking in carefulcouples along the half-mile or so of steep, zig-zag paths to the foot of the mountain. Therethey would be loaded into a string of two-wheeled carts, resembling roomy coffers with adoor at the back, and harnessed tandem with

two mules each, waiting under the guard ofarmed and mounted serenos. Don Pepe pad-locked each door in succession, and at the sig-nal of his whistle the string of carts wouldmove off, closely surrounded by the clank ofspur and carbine, with jolts and cracking ofwhips, with a sudden deep rumble over theboundary bridge ("into the land of thieves andsanguinary macaques," Don Pepe defined thatcrossing); hats bobbing in the first light of thedawn, on the heads of cloaked figures; Win-chesters on hip; bridle hands protruding leanand brown from under the falling folds of theponchos. The convoy skirting a little wood,along the mine trail, between the mud huts andlow walls of Rincon, increased its pace on thecamino real, mules urged to speed, escort gal-loping, Don Carlos riding alone ahead of a duststorm affording a vague vision of long ears ofmules, of fluttering little green and white flagsstuck upon each cart; of raised arms in a mob ofsombreros with the white gleam of ranging

eyes; and Don Pepe, hardly visible in the rear ofthat rattling dust trail, with a stiff seat and im-passive face, rising and falling rhythmically onan ewe-necked silver-bitted black brute with ahammer head.

The sleepy people in the little clusters of huts,in the small ranches near the road, recognizedby the headlong sound the charge of the SanTome silver escort towards the crumbling wallof the city on the Campo side. They came to thedoors to see it dash by over ruts and stones,with a clatter and clank and cracking of whips,with the reckless rush and precise driving of afield battery hurrying into action, and the soli-tary English figure of the Senor Administradorriding far ahead in the lead.

In the fenced roadside paddocks loose horsesgalloped wildly for a while; the heavy cattlestood up breast deep in the grass, lowing mut-teringly at the flying noise; a meek Indian vil-lager would glance back once and hasten to

shove his loaded little donkey bodily against awall, out of the way of the San Tome silver es-cort going to the sea; a small knot of chilly lep-eros under the Stone Horse of the Alamedawould mutter: "Caramba!" on seeing it take awide curve at a gallop and dart into the emptyStreet of the Constitution; for it was consideredthe correct thing, the only proper style by themule-drivers of the San Tome mine to gothrough the waking town from end to endwithout a check in the speed as if chased by adevil.

The early sunshine glowed on the delicateprimrose, pale pink, pale blue fronts of the bighouses with all their gates shut yet, and no facebehind the iron bars of the windows. In thewhole sunlit range of empty balconies alongthe street only one white figure would be visi-ble high up above the clear pavement—the wifeof the Senor Administrador—leaning over tosee the escort go by to the harbour, a mass of

heavy, fair hair twisted up negligently on herlittle head, and a lot of lace about the neck ofher muslin wrapper. With a smile to her hus-band's single, quick, upward glance, she wouldwatch the whole thing stream past below herfeet with an orderly uproar, till she answeredby a friendly sign the salute of the gallopingDon Pepe, the stiff, deferential inclination witha sweep of the hat below the knee.

The string of padlocked carts lengthened, thesize of the escort grew bigger as the years wenton. Every three months an increasing stream oftreasure swept through the streets of Sulaco onits way to the strong room in the O.S.N. Co.'sbuilding by the harbour, there to await ship-ment for the North. Increasing in volume, andof immense value also; for, as Charles Gouldtold his wife once with some exultation, therehad never been seen anything in the world toapproach the vein of the Gould Concession. Forthem both, each passing of the escort under the

balconies of the Casa Gould was like anothervictory gained in the conquest of peace for Su-laco.

No doubt the initial action of Charles Gouldhad been helped at the beginning by a period ofcomparative peace which occurred just aboutthat time; and also by the general softening ofmanners as compared with the epoch of civilwars whence had emerged the iron tyranny ofGuzman Bento of fearful memory. In the con-tests that broke out at the end of his rule (whichhad kept peace in the country for a whole fif-teen years) there was more fatuous imbecility,plenty of cruelty and suffering still, but muchless of the old-time fierce and blindly ferociouspolitical fanaticism. It was all more vile, morebase, more contemptible, and infinitely moremanageable in the very outspoken cynicism ofmotives. It was more clearly a brazen-facedscramble for a constantly diminishing quantityof booty; since all enterprise had been stupidly

killed in the land. Thus it came to pass that theprovince of Sulaco, once the field of cruel partyvengeances, had become in a way one of theconsiderable prizes of political career. The greatof the earth (in Sta. Marta) reserved the posts inthe old Occidental State to those nearest anddearest to them: nephews, brothers, husbandsof favourite sisters, bosom friends, trusty sup-porters—or prominent supporters of whomperhaps they were afraid. It was the blessedprovince of great opportunities and of largestsalaries; for the San Tome mine had its ownunofficial pay list, whose items and amounts,fixed in consultation by Charles Gould andSenor Avellanos, were known to a prominentbusiness man in the United States, who fortwenty minutes or so in every month gave hisundivided attention to Sulaco affairs. At thesame time the material interests of all sorts,backed up by the influence of the San Tomemine, were quietly gathering substance in thatpart of the Republic. If, for instance, the Sulaco

Collectorship was generally understood, in thepolitical world of the capital, to open the wayto the Ministry of Finance, and so on for everyofficial post, then, on the other hand, the de-spondent business circles of the Republic hadcome to consider the Occidental Province as thepromised land of safety, especially if a manmanaged to get on good terms with the ad-ministration of the mine. "Charles Gould; excel-lent fellow! Absolutely necessary to make sureof him before taking a single step. Get an intro-duction to him from Moraga if you can—theagent of the King of Sulaco, don't you know."

No wonder, then, that Sir John, coming fromEurope to smooth the path for his railway, hadbeen meeting the name (and even the nick-name) of Charles Gould at every turn in Costa-guana. The agent of the San Tome Administra-tion in Sta. Marta (a polished, well-informedgentleman, Sir John thought him) had certainlyhelped so greatly in bringing about the presi-

dential tour that he began to think that therewas something in the faint whispers hinting atthe immense occult influence of the GouldConcession. What was currently whisperedwas this—that the San Tome Administrationhad, in part, at least, financed the last revolu-tion, which had brought into a five-year dicta-torship Don Vincente Ribiera, a man of cultureand of unblemished character, invested with amandate of reform by the best elements of theState. Serious, well-informed men seemed tobelieve the fact, to hope for better things, forthe establishment of legality, of good faith andorder in public life. So much the better, then,thought Sir John. He worked always on a greatscale; there was a loan to the State, and a pro-ject for systematic colonization of the Occiden-tal Province, involved in one vast scheme withthe construction of the National Central Rail-way. Good faith, order, honesty, peace, werebadly wanted for this great development ofmaterial interests. Anybody on the side of these

things, and especially if able to help, had animportance in Sir John's eyes. He had not beendisappointed in the "King of Sulaco." The localdifficulties had fallen away, as the engineer-in-chief had foretold they would, before CharlesGould's mediation. Sir John had been extremelyfeted in Sulaco, next to the President-Dictator, afact which might have accounted for the evi-dent ill-humour General Montero displayed atlunch given on board the Juno just before shewas to sail, taking away from Sulaco the Presi-dent-Dictator and the distinguished foreignguests in his train.

The Excellentissimo ("the hope of honest men,"as Don Jose had addressed him in a publicspeech delivered in the name of the ProvincialAssembly of Sulaco) sat at the head of the longtable; Captain Mitchell, positively stony-eyedand purple in the face with the solemnity ofthis "historical event," occupied the foot as therepresentative of the O.S.N. Company in Su-

laco, the hosts of that informal function, withthe captain of the ship and some minor officialsfrom the shore around him. Those cheery,swarthy little gentlemen cast jovial side-glancesat the bottles of champagne beginning to popbehind the guests' backs in the hands of theship's stewards. The amber wine creamed up tothe rims of the glasses.

Charles Gould had his place next to a foreignenvoy, who, in a listless undertone, had beentalking to him fitfully of hunting and shooting.The well-nourished, pale face, with an eyeglassand drooping yellow moustache, made theSenor Administrador appear by contrast twiceas sunbaked, more flaming red, a hundredtimes more intensely and silently alive. DonJose Avellanos touched elbows with the otherforeign diplomat, a dark man with a quiet,watchful, self-confident demeanour, and atouch of reserve. All etiquette being laid asideon the occasion, General Montero was the only

one there in full uniform, so stiff with embroi-deries in front that his broad chest seemed pro-tected by a cuirass of gold. Sir John at the be-ginning had got away from high places for thesake of sitting near Mrs. Gould.

The great financier was trying to express to herhis grateful sense of her hospitality and of hisobligation to her husband's "enormous influ-ence in this part of the country," when she in-terrupted him by a low "Hush!" The Presidentwas going to make an informal pronounce-ment.

The Excellentissimo was on his legs. He saidonly a few words, evidently deeply felt, andmeant perhaps mostly for Avellanos—his oldfriend—as to the necessity of unremitting effortto secure the lasting welfare of the countryemerging after this last struggle, he hoped, intoa period of peace and material prosperity.

Mrs. Gould, listening to the mellow, slightlymournful voice, looking at this rotund, dark,spectacled face, at the short body, obese to thepoint of infirmity, thought that this man of de-licate and melancholy mind, physically almosta cripple, coming out of his retirement into adangerous strife at the call of his fellows, hadthe right to speak with the authority of his self-sacrifice. And yet she was made uneasy. Hewas more pathetic than promising, this firstcivilian Chief of the State Costaguana had everknown, pronouncing, glass in hand, his simplewatchwords of honesty, peace, respect for law,political good faith abroad and at home—thesafeguards of national honour.

He sat down. During the respectful, apprecia-tive buzz of voices that followed the speech,General Montero raised a pair of heavy, droop-ing eyelids and rolled his eyes with a sort ofuneasy dullness from face to face. The militarybackwoods hero of the party, though secretly

impressed by the sudden novelties and splen-dours of his position (he had never been onboard a ship before, and had hardly ever seenthe sea except from a distance), understood bya sort of instinct the advantage his surly, unpo-lished attitude of a savage fighter gave himamongst all these refined Blanco aristocrats.But why was it that nobody was looking athim? he wondered to himself angrily. He wasable to spell out the print of newspapers, andknew that he had performed the "greatest mili-tary exploit of modern times."

"My husband wanted the railway," Mrs. Gouldsaid to Sir John in the general murmur of re-sumed conversations. "All this brings nearerthe sort of future we desire for the country,which has waited for it in sorrow long enough,God knows. But I will confess that the otherday, during my afternoon drive when I sud-denly saw an Indian boy ride out of a woodwith the red flag of a surveying party in his

hand, I felt something of a shock. The futuremeans change—an utter change. And yet evenhere there are simple and picturesque thingsthat one would like to preserve."

Sir John listened, smiling. But it was his turnnow to hush Mrs. Gould.

"General Montero is going to speak," he whis-pered, and almost immediately added, in comicalarm, "Heavens! he's going to propose my ownhealth, I believe."

General Montero had risen with a jingle of steelscabbard and a ripple of glitter on his gold-embroidered breast; a heavy sword-hilt ap-peared at his side above the edge of the table.In this gorgeous uniform, with his bull neck,his hooked nose flattened on the tip upon ablue-black, dyed moustache, he looked like adisguised and sinister vaquero. The drone ofhis voice had a strangely rasping, soulless ring.He floundered, lowering, through a few vague

sentences; then suddenly raising his big headand his voice together, burst out harshly—

"The honour of the country is in the hands ofthe army. I assure you I shall be faithful to it."He hesitated till his roaming eyes met Sir John'sface upon which he fixed a lurid, sleepy glance;and the figure of the lately negotiated loancame into his mind. He lifted his glass. "I drinkto the health of the man who brings us a mil-lion and a half of pounds."

He tossed off his champagne, and sat downheavily with a half-surprised, half-bullyinglook all round the faces in the profound, as ifappalled, silence which succeeded the felicitoustoast. Sir John did not move.

"I don't think I am called upon to rise," hemurmured to Mrs. Gould. "That sort of thingspeaks for itself." But Don Jose Avellanos cameto the rescue with a short oration, in which healluded pointedly to England's goodwill to-

wards Costaguana—"a goodwill," he contin-ued, significantly, "of which I, having been inmy time accredited to the Court of St. James,am able to speak with some knowledge."

Only then Sir John thought fit to respond,which he did gracefully in bad French, punc-tuated by bursts of applause and the "Hear!Hears!" of Captain Mitchell, who was able tounderstand a word now and then. Directly hehad done, the financier of railways turned toMrs. Gould—

"You were good enough to say that you in-tended to ask me for something," he remindedher, gallantly. "What is it? Be assured that anyrequest from you would be considered in thelight of a favour to myself."

She thanked him by a gracious smile. Every-body was rising from the table.

"Let us go on deck," she proposed, "where I'llbe able to point out to you the very object of myrequest."

An enormous national flag of Costaguana, di-agonal red and yellow, with two green palmtrees in the middle, floated lazily at the main-mast head of the Juno. A multitude of fire-works being let off in their thousands at thewater's edge in honour of the President kept upa mysterious crepitating noise half round theharbour. Now and then a lot of rockets, swish-ing upwards invisibly, detonated overheadwith only a puff of smoke in the bright sky.Crowds of people could be seen between thetown gate and the harbour, under the bunchesof multicoloured flags fluttering on tall poles.Faint bursts of military music would be heardsuddenly, and the remote sound of shouting. Aknot of ragged negroes at the end of the wharfkept on loading and firing a small iron cannon

time after time. A greyish haze of dust hungthin and motionless against the sun.

Don Vincente Ribiera made a few steps underthe deck-awning, leaning on the arm of SenorAvellanos; a wide circle was formed roundhim, where the mirthless smile of his dark lipsand the sightless glitter of his spectacles couldbe seen turning amiably from side to side. Theinformal function arranged on purpose onboard the Juno to give the President-Dictator anopportunity to meet intimately some of hismost notable adherents in Sulaco was drawingto an end. On one side, General Montero, hisbald head covered now by a plumed cockedhat, remained motionless on a skylight seat, apair of big gauntleted hands folded on the hiltof the sabre standing upright between his legs.The white plume, the coppery tint of his broadface, the blue-black of the moustaches underthe curved beak, the mass of gold on sleevesand breast, the high shining boots with enorm-

ous spurs, the working nostrils, the imbecileand domineering stare of the glorious victor ofRio Seco had in them something ominous andincredible; the exaggeration of a cruel carica-ture, the fatuity of solemn masquerading, theatrocious grotesqueness of some military idolof Aztec conception and European bedecking,awaiting the homage of worshippers. Don Joseapproached diplomatically this weird and in-scrutable portent, and Mrs. Gould turned herfascinated eyes away at last.

Charles, coming up to take leave of Sir John,heard him say, as he bent over his wife's hand,"Certainly. Of course, my dear Mrs. Gould, fora protege of yours! Not the slightest difficulty.Consider it done."

Going ashore in the same boat with the Goulds,Don Jose Avellanos was very silent. Even in theGould carriage he did not open his lips for along time. The mules trotted slowly away fromthe wharf between the extended hands of the

beggars, who for that day seemed to haveabandoned in a body the portals of churches.Charles Gould sat on the back seat and lookedaway upon the plain. A multitude of boothsmade of green boughs, of rushes, of odd piecesof plank eked out with bits of canvas had beenerected all over it for the sale of cana, of dulces,of fruit, of cigars. Over little heaps of glowingcharcoal Indian women, squatting on mats,cooked food in black earthen pots, and boiledthe water for the mate gourds, which they of-fered in soft, caressing voices to the countrypeople. A racecourse had been staked out forthe vaqueros; and away to the left, from wherethe crowd was massed thickly about a hugetemporary erection, like a circus tent of woodwith a conical grass roof, came the resonanttwanging of harp strings, the sharp ping of gui-tars, with the grave drumming throb of an In-dian gombo pulsating steadily through theshrill choruses of the dancers.

Charles Gould said presently—

"All this piece of land belongs now to the Rail-way Company. There will be no more popularfeasts held here."

Mrs. Gould was rather sorry to think so. Shetook this opportunity to mention how she hadjust obtained from Sir John the promise that thehouse occupied by Giorgio Viola should not beinterfered with. She declared she could neverunderstand why the survey engineers evertalked of demolishing that old building. It wasnot in the way of the projected harbour branchof the line in the least.

She stopped the carriage before the door toreassure at once the old Genoese, who came outbare-headed and stood by the carriage step. Shetalked to him in Italian, of course, and hethanked her with calm dignity. An old Garibal-dino was grateful to her from the bottom of hisheart for keeping the roof over the heads of his

wife and children. He was too old to wanderany more.

"And is it for ever, signora?" he asked.

"For as long as you like."

"Bene. Then the place must be named, It wasnot worth while before."

He smiled ruggedly, with a running together ofwrinkles at the corners of his eyes. "I shall setabout the painting of the name to-morrow."

"And what is it going to be, Giorgio?"

"Albergo d'Italia Una," said the old Garibaldi-no, looking away for a moment. "More inmemory of those who have died," he added,"than for the country stolen from us soldiers ofliberty by the craft of that accursed Piedmon-tese race of kings and ministers."

Mrs. Gould smiled slightly, and, bending overa little, began to inquire about his wife andchildren. He had sent them into town on thatday. The padrona was better in health; manythanks to the signora for inquiring.

People were passing in twos and threes, inwhole parties of men and women attended bytrotting children. A horseman mounted on asilver-grey mare drew rein quietly in the shadeof the house after taking off his hat to the partyin the carriage, who returned smiles and famil-iar nods. Old Viola, evidently very pleasedwith the news he had just heard, interruptedhimself for a moment to tell him rapidly thatthe house was secured, by the kindness of theEnglish signora, for as long as he liked to keepit. The other listened attentively, but made noresponse.

When the carriage moved on he took off his hatagain, a grey sombrero with a silver cord andtassels. The bright colours of a Mexican serape

twisted on the cantle, the enormous silver but-tons on the embroidered leather jacket, the rowof tiny silver buttons down the seam of thetrousers, the snowy linen, a silk sash with em-broidered ends, the silver plates on headstalland saddle, proclaimed the unapproachablestyle of the famous Capataz de Cargadores—aMediterranean sailor—got up with more fi-nished splendour than any well-to-do youngranchero of the Campo had ever displayed on ahigh holiday.

"It is a great thing for me," murmured oldGiorgio, still thinking of the house, for now hehad grown weary of change. "The signora justsaid a word to the Englishman."

"The old Englishman who has enough moneyto pay for a railway? He is going off in anhour," remarked Nostromo, carelessly. "Buonviaggio, then. I've guarded his bones all the wayfrom the Entrada pass down to the plain and

into Sulaco, as though he had been my ownfather."

Old Giorgio only moved his head sidewaysabsently. Nostromo pointed after the Goulds'carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in theold town wall that was like a wall of mattedjungle.

"And I have sat alone at night with my revolverin the Company's warehouse time and again bythe side of that other Englishman's heap of sil-ver, guarding it as though it had been myown."

Viola seemed lost in thought. "It is a great thingfor me," he repeated again, as if to himself.

"It is," agreed the magnificent Capataz de Car-gadores, calmly. "Listen, Vecchio—go in andbring me, out a cigar, but don't look for it in myroom. There's nothing there."

Viola stepped into the cafe and came out direct-ly, still absorbed in his idea, and tendered hima cigar, mumbling thoughtfully in his mous-tache, "Children growing up—and girls, too!Girls!" He sighed and fell silent.

"What, only one?" remarked Nostromo, lookingdown with a sort of comic inquisitiveness at theunconscious old man. "No matter," he added,with lofty negligence; "one is enough till anoth-er is wanted."

He lit it and let the match drop from his passivefingers. Giorgio Viola looked up, and said ab-ruptly—

"My son would have been just such a fineyoung man as you, Gian' Battista, if he hadlived."

"What? Your son? But you are right, padrone. Ifhe had been like me he would have been aman."

He turned his horse slowly, and paced on be-tween the booths, checking the mare almost toa standstill now and then for children, for thegroups of people from the distant Campo, whostared after him with admiration. The Compa-ny's lightermen saluted him from afar; and thegreatly envied Capataz de Cargadores ad-vanced, amongst murmurs of recognition andobsequious greetings, towards the huge circus-like erection. The throng thickened; the guitarstinkled louder; other horsemen sat motionless,smoking calmly above the heads of the crowd;it eddied and pushed before the doors of thehigh-roofed building, whence issued a shuffleand thumping of feet in time to the dance mu-sic vibrating and shrieking with a rackingrhythm, overhung by the tremendous, sus-tained, hollow roar of the gombo. The barbar-ous and imposing noise of the big drum, thatcan madden a crowd, and that even Europeanscannot hear without a strange emotion, seemedto draw Nostromo on to its source, while a

man, wrapped up in a faded, torn poncho,walked by his stirrup, and, buffeted right andleft, begged "his worship" insistently for em-ployment on the wharf. He whined, offeringthe Senor Capataz half his daily pay for theprivilege of being admitted to the swaggeringfraternity of Cargadores; the other half wouldbe enough for him, he protested. But CaptainMitchell's right-hand man—"invaluable for ourwork—a perfectly incorruptible fellow"—afterlooking down critically at the ragged mozo,shook his head without a word in the uproargoing on around.

The man fell back; and a little further on No-stromo had to pull up. From the doors of thedance hall men and women emerged tottering,streaming with sweat, trembling in every limb,to lean, panting, with staring eyes and partedlips, against the wall of the structure, where theharps and guitars played on with mad speed inan incessant roll of thunder. Hundreds of

hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, andthen all at once would sink low, chanting inunison the refrain of a love song, with a dyingfall. A red flower, flung with a good aim fromsomewhere in the crowd, struck the resplen-dent Capataz on the cheek.

He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some timedid not turn his head. When at last he condes-cended to look round, the throng near him hadparted to make way for a pretty Morenita, herhair held up by a small golden comb, who waswalking towards him in the open space.

Her arms and neck emerged plump and barefrom a snowy chemisette; the blue woollenskirt, with all the fullness gathered in front,scanty on the hips and tight across the back,disclosed the provoking action of her walk. Shecame straight on and laid her hand on themare's neck with a timid, coquettish look up-wards out of the corner of her eyes.

"Querido," she murmured, caressingly, "why doyou pretend not to see me when I pass?"

"Because I don't love thee any more," said No-stromo, deliberately, after a moment of reflec-tive silence.

The hand on the mare's neck trembled sudden-ly. She dropped her head before all the eyes inthe wide circle formed round the generous, theterrible, the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores,and his Morenita.

Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginningto fall down her face.

"Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?"she whispered. "Is it true?"

"No," said Nostromo, looking away carelessly."It was a lie. I love thee as much as ever."

"Is that true?" she cooed, joyously, her cheeksstill wet with tears.

"It is true."

"True on the life?"

"As true as that; but thou must not ask me toswear it on the Madonna that stands in thyroom." And the Capataz laughed a little in re-sponse to the grins of the crowd.

She pouted—very pretty—a little uneasy.

"No, I will not ask for that. I can see love inyour eyes." She laid her hand on his knee."Why are you trembling like this? From love?"she continued, while the cavernous thunderingof the gombo went on without a pause. "But ifyou love her as much as that, you must giveyour Paquita a gold-mounted rosary of beadsfor the neck of her Madonna."

"No," said Nostromo, looking into her uplifted,begging eyes, which suddenly turned stonywith surprise.

"No? Then what else will your worship give meon the day of the fiesta?" she asked, angrily; "soas not to shame me before all these people."

"There is no shame for thee in getting nothingfrom thy lover for once."

"True! The shame is your worship's—my poorlover's," she flared up, sarcastically.

Laughs were heard at her anger, at her retort.What an audacious spitfire she was! The peopleaware of this scene were calling out urgently toothers in the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare narrowed slowly.

The girl went off a pace or two, confronting themocking curiosity of the eyes, then flung backto the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged faceturned up to Nostromo with a pair of blazingeyes. He bent low to her in the saddle.

"Juan," she hissed, "I could stab thee to theheart!"

The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnifi-cent and carelessly public in his amours, flunghis arm round her neck and kissed her splutter-ing lips. A murmur went round.

"A knife!" he demanded at large, holding herfirmly by the shoulder.

Twenty blades flashed out together in the cir-cle. A young man in holiday attire, boundingin, thrust one in Nostromo's hand and boundedback into the ranks, very proud of himself. No-stromo had not even looked at him.

"Stand on my foot," he commanded the girl,who, suddenly subdued, rose lightly, and whenhe had her up, encircling her waist, her facenear to his, he pressed the knife into her littlehand.

"No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,"he said. "You shall have your present; and sothat everyone should know who is your loverto-day, you may cut all the silver buttons offmy coat."

There were shouts of laughter and applause atthis witty freak, while the girl passed the keenblade, and the impassive rider jingled in hispalm the increasing hoard of silver buttons. Heeased her to the ground with both her handsfull. After whispering for a while with a verystrenuous face, she walked away, staringhaughtily, and vanished into the crowd.

The circle had broken up, and the lordly Capa-taz de Cargadores, the indispensable man, thetried and trusty Nostromo, the Mediterraneansailor come ashore casually to try his luck inCostaguana, rode slowly towards the harbour.The Juno was just then swinging round; andeven as Nostromo reined up again to look on, aflag ran up on the improvised flagstaff erected

in an ancient and dismantled little fort at theharbour entrance. Half a battery of field gunshad been hurried over there from the Sulacobarracks for the purpose of firing the regulationsalutes for the President-Dictator and the WarMinister. As the mail-boat headed through thepass, the badly timed reports announced theend of Don Vincente Ribiera's first official visitto Sulaco, and for Captain Mitchell the end ofanother "historic occasion." Next time when the"Hope of honest men" was to come that way, ayear and a half later, it was unofficially, overthe mountain tracks, fleeing after a defeat on alame mule, to be only just saved by Nostromofrom an ignominious death at the hands of amob. It was a very different event, of whichCaptain Mitchell used to say—

"It was history—history, sir! And that fellow ofmine, Nostromo, you know, was right in it.Absolutely making history, sir."

But this event, creditable to Nostromo, was tolead immediately to another, which could notbe classed either as "history" or as "a mistake"in Captain Mitchell's phraseology. He hadanother word for it.

"Sir" he used to say afterwards, "that was nomistake. It was a fatality. A misfortune, pureand simple, sir. And that poor fellow of minewas right in it—right in the middle of it! A fa-tality, if ever there was one—and to my mindhe has never been the same man since."

PART SECOND THE ISABELS

CHAPTER ONE

Through good and evil report in the varyingfortune of that struggle which Don Jose hadcharacterized in the phrase, "the fate of nationalhonesty trembles in the balance," the GouldConcession, "Imperium in Imperio," had goneon working; the square mountain had gone onpouring its treasure down the wooden shootsto the unresting batteries of stamps; the lightsof San Tome had twinkled night after nightupon the great, limitless shadow of the Campo;every three months the silver escort had gonedown to the sea as if neither the war nor itsconsequences could ever affect the ancient Oc-cidental State secluded beyond its high barrierof the Cordillera. All the fighting took place onthe other side of that mighty wall of serratedpeaks lorded over by the white dome of Higue-rota and as yet unbreached by the railway, ofwhich only the first part, the easy Campo part

from Sulaco to the Ivie Valley at the foot of thepass, had been laid. Neither did the telegraphline cross the mountains yet; its poles, likeslender beacons on the plain, penetrated intothe forest fringe of the foot-hills cut by the deepavenue of the track; and its wire ended abrupt-ly in the construction camp at a white deal tablesupporting a Morse apparatus, in a long hut ofplanks with a corrugated iron roof oversha-dowed by gigantic cedar trees—the quarters ofthe engineer in charge of the advance section.

The harbour was busy, too, with the traffic inrailway material, and with the movements oftroops along the coast. The O.S.N. Companyfound much occupation for its fleet. Costagua-na had no navy, and, apart from a few coast-guard cutters, there were no national ships ex-cept a couple of old merchant steamers used astransports.

Captain Mitchell, feeling more and more in thethick of history, found time for an hour or so

during an afternoon in the drawing-room of theCasa Gould, where, with a strange ignorance ofthe real forces at work around him, he pro-fessed himself delighted to get away from thestrain of affairs. He did not know what hewould have done without his invaluable No-stromo, he declared. Those confounded Costa-guana politics gave him more work—he con-fided to Mrs. Gould—than he had bargainedfor.

Don Jose Avellanos had displayed in the ser-vice of the endangered Ribiera Government anorganizing activity and an eloquence of whichthe echoes reached even Europe. For, after thenew loan to the Ribiera Government, Europehad become interested in Costaguana. The Salaof the Provincial Assembly (in the MunicipalBuildings of Sulaco), with its portraits of theLiberators on the walls and an old flag of Cor-tez preserved in a glass case above the Presi-dent's chair, had heard all these speeches—the

early one containing the impassioned declara-tion "Militarism is the enemy," the famous oneof the "trembling balance" delivered on the oc-casion of the vote for the raising of a secondSulaco regiment in the defence of the reformingGovernment; and when the provinces againdisplayed their old flags (proscribed in Guz-man Bento's time) there was another of thosegreat orations, when Don Jose greeted these oldemblems of the war of Independence, broughtout again in the name of new Ideals. The oldidea of Federalism had disappeared. For hispart he did not wish to revive old political doc-trines. They were perishable. They died. But thedoctrine of political rectitude was immortal.The second Sulaco regiment, to whom he waspresenting this flag, was going to show its va-lour in a contest for order, peace, progress; forthe establishment of national self-respect with-out which—he declared with energy—"we area reproach and a byword amongst the powersof the world."

Don Jose Avellanos loved his country. He hadserved it lavishly with his fortune during hisdiplomatic career, and the later story of his cap-tivity and barbarous ill-usage under GuzmanBento was well known to his listeners. It was awonder that he had not been a victim of theferocious and summary executions whichmarked the course of that tyranny; for Guzmanhad ruled the country with the sombre imbecil-ity of political fanaticism. The power of Su-preme Government had become in his dullmind an object of strange worship, as if it weresome sort of cruel deity. It was incarnated inhimself, and his adversaries, the Federalists,were the supreme sinners, objects of hate, ab-horrence, and fear, as heretics would be to aconvinced Inquisitor. For years he had carriedabout at the tail of the Army of Pacification, allover the country, a captive band of such atro-cious criminals, who considered themselvesmost unfortunate at not having been summari-ly executed. It was a diminishing company of

nearly naked skeletons, loaded with irons, cov-ered with dirt, with vermin, with raw wounds,all men of position, of education, of wealth,who had learned to fight amongst themselvesfor scraps of rotten beef thrown to them by sol-diers, or to beg a negro cook for a drink ofmuddy water in pitiful accents. Don Jose Avel-lanos, clanking his chains amongst the others,seemed only to exist in order to prove howmuch hunger, pain, degradation, and cruel tor-ture a human body can stand without partingwith the last spark of life. Sometimes interroga-tories, backed by some primitive method oftorture, were administered to them by a com-mission of officers hastily assembled in a hut ofsticks and branches, and made pitiless by thefear for their own lives. A lucky one or two ofthat spectral company of prisoners would per-haps be led tottering behind a bush to be shotby a file of soldiers. Always an army chaplain—some unshaven, dirty man, girt with a swordand with a tiny cross embroidered in white

cotton on the left breast of a lieutenant's uni-form—would follow, cigarette in the corner ofthe mouth, wooden stool in hand, to hear theconfession and give absolution; for the CitizenSaviour of the Country (Guzman Bento wascalled thus officially in petitions) was notaverse from the exercise of rational clemency.The irregular report of the firing squad wouldbe heard, followed sometimes by a single fi-nishing shot; a little bluish cloud of smokewould float up above the green bushes, and theArmy of Pacification would move on over thesavannas, through the forests, crossing rivers,invading rural pueblos, devastating the ha-ciendas of the horrid aristocrats, occupying theinland towns in the fulfilment of its patrioticmission, and leaving behind a united landwherein the evil taint of Federalism could nolonger be detected in the smoke of burninghouses and the smell of spilt blood. Don JoseAvellanos had survived that time. Perhaps,when contemptuously signifying to him his

release, the Citizen Saviour of the Countrymight have thought this benighted aristocrattoo broken in health and spirit and fortune tobe any longer dangerous. Or, perhaps, it mayhave been a simple caprice. Guzman Bento,usually full of fanciful fears and brooding sus-picions, had sudden accesses of unreasonableself-confidence when he perceived himself ele-vated on a pinnacle of power and safetybeyond the reach of mere mortal plotters. Atsuch times he would impulsively command thecelebration of a solemn Mass of thanksgiving,which would be sung in great pomp in the ca-thedral of Sta. Marta by the trembling, subser-vient Archbishop of his creation. He heard itsitting in a gilt armchair placed before the highaltar, surrounded by the civil and militaryheads of his Government. The unofficial worldof Sta. Marta would crowd into the cathedral,for it was not quite safe for anybody of mark tostay away from these manifestations of presi-dential piety. Having thus acknowledged the

only power he was at all disposed to recognizeas above himself, he would scatter acts of polit-ical grace in a sardonic wantonness of clemen-cy. There was no other way left now to enjoyhis power but by seeing his crushed adversa-ries crawl impotently into the light of day outof the dark, noisome cells of the Collegio. Theirharmlessness fed his insatiable vanity, and theycould always be got hold of again. It was therule for all the women of their families topresent thanks afterwards in a special au-dience. The incarnation of that strange god, ElGobierno Supremo, received them standing,cocked hat on head, and exhorted them in amenacing mutter to show their gratitude bybringing up their children in fidelity to thedemocratic form of government, "which I haveestablished for the happiness of our country."His front teeth having been knocked out insome accident of his former herdsman's life, hisutterance was spluttering and indistinct. Hehad been working for Costaguana alone in the

midst of treachery and opposition. Let it ceasenow lest he should become weary of forgiving!

Don Jose Avellanos had known this forgive-ness.

He was broken in health and fortune deplora-bly enough to present a truly gratifying spec-tacle to the supreme chief of democratic institu-tions. He retired to Sulaco. His wife had an es-tate in that province, and she nursed him backto life out of the house of death and captivity.When she died, their daughter, an only child,was old enough to devote herself to "poor pa-pa."

Miss Avellanos, born in Europe and educatedpartly in England, was a tall, grave girl, with aself-possessed manner, a wide, white forehead,a wealth of rich brown hair, and blue eyes.

The other young ladies of Sulaco stood in aweof her character and accomplishments. She was

reputed to be terribly learned and serious. Asto pride, it was well known that all the Corbe-lans were proud, and her mother was a Corbe-lan. Don Jose Avellanos depended very muchupon the devotion of his beloved Antonia. Heaccepted it in the benighted way of men, who,though made in God's image, are like stoneidols without sense before the smoke of certainburnt offerings. He was ruined in every way,but a man possessed of passion is not a bank-rupt in life. Don Jose Avellanos desired passio-nately for his country: peace, prosperity, and(as the end of the preface to "Fifty Years of Mi-srule" has it) "an honourable place in the comityof civilized nations." In this last phrase the Mi-nister Plenipotentiary, cruelly humiliated bythe bad faith of his Government towards theforeign bondholders, stands disclosed in thepatriot.

The fatuous turmoil of greedy factions succeed-ing the tyranny of Guzman Bento seemed to

bring his desire to the very door of opportuni-ty. He was too old to descend personally intothe centre of the arena at Sta. Marta. But themen who acted there sought his advice at everystep. He himself thought that he could be mostuseful at a distance, in Sulaco. His name, hisconnections, his former position, his experiencecommanded the respect of his class. The dis-covery that this man, living in dignified pover-ty in the Corbelan town residence (opposite theCasa Gould), could dispose of material meanstowards the support of the cause increased hisinfluence. It was his open letter of appeal thatdecided the candidature of Don Vincente Ribie-ra for the Presidency. Another of these informalState papers drawn up by Don Jose (this time inthe shape of an address from the Province) in-duced that scrupulous constitutionalist to ac-cept the extraordinary powers conferred uponhim for five years by an overwhelming vote ofcongress in Sta. Marta. It was a specificmandate to establish the prosperity of the

people on the basis of firm peace at home, andto redeem the national credit by the satisfactionof all just claims abroad.

On the afternoon the news of that vote hadreached Sulaco by the usual roundabout postalway through Cayta, and up the coast by stea-mer. Don Jose, who had been waiting for themail in the Goulds' drawing-room, got out ofthe rocking-chair, letting his hat fall off hisknees. He rubbed his silvery, short hair withboth hands, speechless with the excess of joy.

"Emilia, my soul," he had burst out, "let meembrace you! Let me—"

Captain Mitchell, had he been there, would nodoubt have made an apt remark about thedawn of a new era; but if Don Jose thoughtsomething of the kind, his eloquence failed himon this occasion. The inspirer of that revival ofthe Blanco party tottered where he stood. Mrs.Gould moved forward quickly and, as she of-

fered her cheek with a smile to her old friend,managed very cleverly to give him the supportof her arm he really needed.

Don Jose had recovered himself at once, but fora time he could do no more than murmur, "Oh,you two patriots! Oh, you two patriots!"—looking from one to the other. Vague plans ofanother historical work, wherein all the devo-tions to the regeneration of the country heloved would be enshrined for the reverent wor-ship of posterity, flitted through his mind. Thehistorian who had enough elevation of soul towrite of Guzman Bento: "Yet this monster, im-brued in the blood of his countrymen, must notbe held unreservedly to the execration of futureyears. It appears to be true that he, too, lovedhis country. He had given it twelve years ofpeace; and, absolute master of lives and for-tunes as he was, he died poor. His worst fault,perhaps, was not his ferocity, but his ignor-ance;" the man who could write thus of a cruel

persecutor (the passage occurs in his "Historyof Misrule") felt at the foreshadowing of suc-cess an almost boundless affection for his twohelpers, for these two young people from overthe sea.

Just as years ago, calmly, from the conviction ofpractical necessity, stronger than any abstractpolitical doctrine, Henry Gould had drawn thesword, so now, the times being changed,Charles Gould had flung the silver of the SanTome into the fray. The Inglez of Sulaco, the"Costaguana Englishman" of the third genera-tion, was as far from being a political intrigueras his uncle from a revolutionary swashbuck-ler. Springing from the instinctive uprightnessof their natures their action was reasoned. Theysaw an opportunity and used the weapon tohand.

Charles Gould's position—a commanding posi-tion in the background of that attempt to re-trieve the peace and the credit of the Repub-

lic—was very clear. At the beginning he hadhad to accommodate himself to existing cir-cumstances of corruption so naively brazen asto disarm the hate of a man courageous enoughnot to be afraid of its irresponsible potency toruin everything it touched. It seemed to himtoo contemptible for hot anger even. He madeuse of it with a cold, fearless scorn, manifestedrather than concealed by the forms of stonycourtesy which did away with much of the ig-nominy of the situation. At bottom, perhaps, hesuffered from it, for he was not a man of co-wardly illusions, but he refused to discuss theethical view with his wife. He trusted that,though a little disenchanted, she would be in-telligent enough to understand that his charac-ter safeguarded the enterprise of their lives asmuch or more than his policy. The extraordi-nary development of the mine had put a greatpower into his hands. To feel that prosperityalways at the mercy of unintelligent greed hadgrown irksome to him. To Mrs. Gould it was

humiliating. At any rate, it was dangerous. Inthe confidential communications passing be-tween Charles Gould, the King of Sulaco, andthe head of the silver and steel interests faraway in California, the conviction was growingthat any attempt made by men of educationand integrity ought to be discreetly supported."You may tell your friend Avellanos that I thinkso," Mr. Holroyd had written at the propermoment from his inviolable sanctuary withinthe eleven-storey high factory of great affairs.And shortly afterwards, with a credit openedby the Third Southern Bank (located next doorbut one to the Holroyd Building), the Ribieristparty in Costaguana took a practical shape un-der the eye of the administrator of the SanTome mine. And Don Jose, the hereditaryfriend of the Gould family, could say: "Perhaps,my dear Carlos, I shall not have believed invain."

CHAPTER TWO

After another armed struggle, decided by Mon-tero's victory of Rio Seco, had been added tothe tale of civil wars, the "honest men," as DonJose called them, could breathe freely for thefirst time in half a century. The Five-Year-Mandate law became the basis of that regenera-tion, the passionate desire and hope for whichhad been like the elixir of everlasting youth forDon Jose Avellanos.

And when it was suddenly—and not quite un-expectedly—endangered by that "brute Monte-ro," it was a passionate indignation that gavehim a new lease of life, as it were. Already, atthe time of the President-Dictator's visit to Su-

laco, Moraga had sounded a note of warningfrom Sta. Marta about the War Minister. Mon-tero and his brother made the subject of anearnest talk between the Dictator-President andthe Nestor-inspirer of the party. But Don Vin-cente, a doctor of philosophy from the CordovaUniversity, seemed to have an exaggeratedrespect for military ability, whose mysterious-ness—since it appeared to be altogether inde-pendent of intellect—imposed upon his imagi-nation. The victor of Rio Seco was a popularhero. His services were so recent that the Presi-dent-Dictator quailed before the obvious chargeof political ingratitude. Great regeneratingtransactions were being initiated—the freshloan, a new railway line, a vast colonizationscheme. Anything that could unsettle the pub-lic opinion in the capital was to be avoided.Don Jose bowed to these arguments and triedto dismiss from his mind the gold-laced portentin boots, and with a sabre, made meaningless

now at last, he hoped, in the new order ofthings.

Less than six months after the President-Dictator's visit, Sulaco learned with stupefac-tion of the military revolt in the name of na-tional honour. The Minister of War, in a bar-rack-square allocution to the officers of the ar-tillery regiment he had been inspecting, haddeclared the national honour sold to foreigners.The Dictator, by his weak compliance with thedemands of the European powers—for the set-tlement of long outstanding money claims—had showed himself unfit to rule. A letter fromMoraga explained afterwards that the initiative,and even the very text, of the incendiary allocu-tion came, in reality, from the other Montero,the ex-guerillero, the Commandante de Plaza. Theenergetic treatment of Dr. Monygham, sent forin haste "to the mountain," who came gallopingthree leagues in the dark, saved Don Jose froma dangerous attack of jaundice.

After getting over the shock, Don Jose refusedto let himself be prostrated. Indeed, better newssucceeded at first. The revolt in the capital hadbeen suppressed after a night of fighting in thestreets. Unfortunately, both the Monteros hadbeen able to make their escape south, to theirnative province of Entre-Montes. The hero ofthe forest march, the victor of Rio Seco, hadbeen received with frenzied acclamations inNicoya, the provincial capital. The troops ingarrison there had gone to him in a body. Thebrothers were organizing an army, gatheringmalcontents, sending emissaries primed withpatriotic lies to the people, and with promisesof plunder to the wild llaneros. Even a Monter-ist press had come into existence, speaking ora-cularly of the secret promises of support givenby "our great sister Republic of the North"against the sinister land-grabbing designs ofEuropean powers, cursing in every issue the"miserable Ribiera," who had plotted to deliver

his country, bound hand and foot, for a prey toforeign speculators.

Sulaco, pastoral and sleepy, with its opulentCampo and the rich silver mine, heard the dinof arms fitfully in its fortunate isolation. It wasnevertheless in the very forefront of the defencewith men and money; but the very rumoursreached it circuitously—from abroad even, somuch was it cut off from the rest of the Repub-lic, not only by natural obstacles, but also bythe vicissitudes of the war. The Monteristoswere besieging Cayta, an important postal link.The overland couriers ceased to come acrossthe mountains, and no muleteer would consentto risk the journey at last; even Bonifacio on oneoccasion failed to return from Sta. Marta, eithernot daring to start, or perhaps captured by theparties of the enemy raiding the country be-tween the Cordillera and the capital. Monteristpublications, however, found their way into theprovince, mysteriously enough; and also Mon-

terist emissaries preaching death to aristocratsin the villages and towns of the Campo. Veryearly, at the beginning of the trouble, Hernan-dez, the bandit, had proposed (through theagency of an old priest of a village in the wilds)to deliver two of them to the Ribierist authori-ties in Tonoro. They had come to offer him afree pardon and the rank of colonel from Gen-eral Montero in consideration of joining therebel army with his mounted band. No noticewas taken at the time of the proposal. It wasjoined, as an evidence of good faith, to a peti-tion praying the Sulaco Assembly for permis-sion to enlist, with all his followers, in theforces being then raised in Sulaco for the de-fence of the Five-Year Mandate of regeneration.The petition, like everything else, had found itsway into Don Jose's hands. He had showed toMrs. Gould these pages of dirty-greyish roughpaper (perhaps looted in some village store),covered with the crabbed, illiterate handwrit-ing of the old padre, carried off from his hut by

the side of a mud-walled church to be the secre-tary of the dreaded Salteador. They had bothbent in the lamplight of the Gould drawing-room over the document containing the fierceand yet humble appeal of the man against theblind and stupid barbarity turning an honestranchero into a bandit. A postscript of thepriest stated that, but for being deprived of hisliberty for ten days, he had been treated withhumanity and the respect due to his sacredcalling. He had been, it appears, confessing andabsolving the chief and most of the band, andhe guaranteed the sincerity of their good dispo-sition. He had distributed heavy penances, nodoubt in the way of litanies and fasts; but heargued shrewdly that it would be difficult forthem to make their peace with God durably tillthey had made peace with men.

Never before, perhaps, had Hernandez's headbeen in less jeopardy than when he petitionedhumbly for permission to buy a pardon for

himself and his gang of deserters by armedservice. He could range afar from the wastelands protecting his fastness, unchecked, be-cause there were no troops left in the wholeprovince. The usual garrison of Sulaco hadgone south to the war, with its brass band play-ing the Bolivar march on the bridge of one ofthe O.S.N. Company's steamers. The greatfamily coaches drawn up along the shore of theharbour were made to rock on the high lea-thern springs by the enthusiasm of the senorasand the senoritas standing up to wave their lacehandkerchiefs, as lighter after lighter packedfull of troops left the end of the jetty.

Nostromo directed the embarkation, under thesuperintendendence of Captain Mitchell, red-faced in the sun, conspicuous in a white waist-coat, representing the allied and anxiousgoodwill of all the material interests of civiliza-tion. General Barrios, who commanded thetroops, assured Don Jose on parting that in

three weeks he would have Montero in awooden cage drawn by three pair of oxenready for a tour through all the towns of theRepublic.

"And then, senora," he continued, baring hiscurly iron-grey head to Mrs. Gould in her lan-dau—"and then, senora, we shall convert ourswords into plough-shares and grow rich. EvenI, myself, as soon as this little business is set-tled, shall open a fundacion on some land Ihave on the llanos and try to make a little mon-ey in peace and quietness. Senora, you know,all Costaguana knows—what do I say?—thiswhole South American continent knows, thatPablo Barrios has had his fill of military glory."

Charles Gould was not present at the anxiousand patriotic send-off. It was not his part to seethe soldiers embark. It was neither his part, norhis inclination, nor his policy. His part, his in-clination, and his policy were united in oneendeavour to keep unchecked the flow of trea-

sure he had started single-handed from the re-opened scar in the flank of the mountain. Asthe mine developed he had trained for himselfsome native help. There were foremen, artific-ers and clerks, with Don Pepe for the goberna-dor of the mining population. For the rest hisshoulders alone sustained the whole weight ofthe "Imperium in Imperio," the great GouldConcession whose mere shadow had beenenough to crush the life out of his father.

Mrs. Gould had no silver mine to look after. Inthe general life of the Gould Concession shewas represented by her two lieutenants, thedoctor and the priest, but she fed her woman'slove of excitement on events whose significancewas purified to her by the fire of her imagina-tive purpose. On that day she had brought theAvellanos, father and daughter, down to theharbour with her.

Amongst his other activities of that stirringtime, Don Jose had become the chairman of a

Patriotic Committee which had armed a greatproportion of troops in the Sulaco commandwith an improved model of a military rifle. Ithad been just discarded for something stillmore deadly by one of the great Europeanpowers. How much of the market-price forsecond-hand weapons was covered by the vo-luntary contributions of the principal families,and how much came from those funds DonJose was understood to command abroad, re-mained a secret which he alone could have dis-closed; but the Ricos, as the populace calledthem, had contributed under the pressure oftheir Nestor's eloquence. Some of the more en-thusiastic ladies had been moved to bring offer-ings of jewels into the hands of the man whowas the life and soul of the party.

There were moments when both his life and hissoul seemed overtaxed by so many years ofundiscouraged belief in regeneration. He ap-peared almost inanimate, sitting rigidly by the

side of Mrs. Gould in the landau, with his fine,old, clean-shaven face of a uniform tint as ifmodelled in yellow wax, shaded by a soft felthat, the dark eyes looking out fixedly. Antonia,the beautiful Antonia, as Miss Avellanos wascalled in Sulaco, leaned back, facing them; andher full figure, the grave oval of her face withfull red lips, made her look more mature thanMrs. Gould, with her mobile expression andsmall, erect person under a slightly swayingsunshade.

Whenever possible Antonia attended her fa-ther; her recognized devotion weakened theshocking effect of her scorn for the rigid con-ventions regulating the life of Spanish-American girlhood. And, in truth, she was nolonger girlish. It was said that she often wroteState papers from her father's dictation, andwas allowed to read all the books in his library.At the receptions—where the situation wassaved by the presence of a very decrepit old

lady (a relation of the Corbelans), quite deafand motionless in an armchair—Antonia couldhold her own in a discussion with two or threemen at a time. Obviously she was not the girl tobe content with peeping through a barred win-dow at a cloaked figure of a lover ensconced ina doorway opposite—which is the correct formof Costaguana courtship. It was generally be-lieved that with her foreign upbringing andforeign ideas the learned and proud Antoniawould never marry—unless, indeed, she mar-ried a foreigner from Europe or North America,now that Sulaco seemed on the point of beinginvaded by all the world.

CHAPTER THREE

When General Barrios stopped to address Mrs.Gould, Antonia raised negligently her handholding an open fan, as if to shade from the sunher head, wrapped in a light lace shawl. Theclear gleam of her blue eyes gliding behind theblack fringe of eyelashes paused for a momentupon her father, then travelled further to thefigure of a young man of thirty at most, of me-dium height, rather thick-set, wearing a lightovercoat. Bearing down with the open palm ofhis hand upon the knob of a flexible cane, hehad been looking on from a distance; but di-rectly he saw himself noticed, he approachedquietly and put his elbow over the door of thelandau.

The shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the bigbow of his cravat, the style of his clothing, fromthe round hat to the varnished shoes, suggested

an idea of French elegance; but otherwise hewas the very type of a fair Spanish creole. Thefluffy moustache and the short, curly, goldenbeard did not conceal his lips, rosy, fresh, al-most pouting in expression. His full, round facewas of that warm, healthy creole white which isnever tanned by its native sunshine. MartinDecoud was seldom exposed to the Costaguanasun under which he was born. His people hadbeen long settled in Paris, where he had stu-died law, had dabbled in literature, had hopednow and then in moments of exaltation to be-come a poet like that other foreigner of Spanishblood, Jose Maria Heredia. In other momentshe had, to pass the time, condescended to writearticles on European affairs for the Semenario,the principal newspaper in Sta. Marta, whichprinted them under the heading "From ourspecial correspondent," though the authorshipwas an open secret. Everybody in Costaguana,where the tale of compatriots in Europe is jeal-ously kept, knew that it was "the son Decoud,"

a talented young man, supposed to be movingin the higher spheres of Society. As a matter offact, he was an idle boulevardier, in touch withsome smart journalists, made free of a fewnewspaper offices, and welcomed in the plea-sure haunts of pressmen. This life, whosedreary superficiality is covered by the glitter ofuniversal blague, like the stupid clowning of aharlequin by the spangles of a motley costume,induced in him a Frenchified—but most un-French—cosmopolitanism, in reality a merebarren indifferentism posing as intellectualsuperiority. Of his own country he used to sayto his French associates: "Imagine an atmos-phere of opera-bouffe in which all the comicbusiness of stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc.,all their farcical stealing, intriguing, and stab-bing is done in dead earnest. It is screaminglyfunny, the blood flows all the time, and theactors believe themselves to be influencing thefate of the universe. Of course, government ingeneral, any government anywhere, is a thing

of exquisite comicality to a discerning mind;but really we Spanish-Americans do overstepthe bounds. No man of ordinary intelligencecan take part in the intrigues of une farce ma-cabre. However, these Ribierists, of whom wehear so much just now, are really trying in theirown comical way to make the country habita-ble, and even to pay some of its debts. Myfriends, you had better write up Senor Ribieraall you can in kindness to your own bondhold-ers. Really, if what I am told in my letters istrue, there is some chance for them at last."

And he would explain with railing verve whatDon Vincente Ribiera stood for—a mournfullittle man oppressed by his own good inten-tions, the significance of battles won, who Mon-tero was (un grotesque vaniteux et feroce), and themanner of the new loan connected with railwaydevelopment, and the colonization of vasttracts of land in one great financial scheme.

And his French friends would remark that evi-dently this little fellow Decoud connaissait laquestion a fond. An important Parisian reviewasked him for an article on the situation. It wascomposed in a serious tone and in a spirit oflevity. Afterwards he asked one of his inti-mates—

"Have you read my thing about the regenera-tion of Costaguana—une bonne blague, hein?"

He imagined himself Parisian to the tips of hisfingers. But far from being that he was in dan-ger of remaining a sort of nondescript dilettanteall his life. He had pushed the habit of univer-sal raillery to a point where it blinded him tothe genuine impulses of his own nature. To besuddenly selected for the executive member ofthe patriotic small-arms committee of Sulacoseemed to him the height of the unexpected,one of those fantastic moves of which only his"dear countrymen" were capable.

"It's like a tile falling on my head. I—I—executive member! It's the first I hear of it!What do I know of military rifles? C'est funam-bulesque!" he had exclaimed to his favouritesister; for the Decoud family—except the oldfather and mother—used the French languageamongst themselves. "And you should see theexplanatory and confidential letter! Eight pagesof it—no less!"

This letter, in Antonia's handwriting, wassigned by Don Jose, who appealed to the"young and gifted Costaguanero" on publicgrounds, and privately opened his heart to histalented god-son, a man of wealth and leisure,with wide relations, and by his parentage andbringing-up worthy of all confidence.

"Which means," Martin commented, cynically,to his sister, "that I am not likely to misappro-priate the funds, or go blabbing to our Charged'Affaires here."

The whole thing was being carried out behindthe back of the War Minister, Montero, a mi-strusted member of the Ribiera Government,but difficult to get rid of at once. He was not toknow anything of it till the troops under Bar-rios's command had the new rifle in theirhands. The President-Dictator, whose positionwas very difficult, was alone in the secret.

"How funny!" commented Martin's sister andconfidante; to which the brother, with an air ofbest Parisian blague, had retorted:

"It's immense! The idea of that Chief of theState engaged, with the help of private citizens,in digging a mine under his own indispensableWar Minister. No! We are unapproachable!"And he laughed immoderately.

Afterwards his sister was surprised at the ear-nestness and ability he displayed in carryingout his mission, which circumstances madedelicate, and his want of special knowledge

rendered difficult. She had never seen Martintake so much trouble about anything in hiswhole life.

"It amuses me," he had explained, briefly. "I ambeset by a lot of swindlers trying to sell all sortsof gaspipe weapons. They are charming; theyinvite me to expensive luncheons; I keep uptheir hopes; it's extremely entertaining. Mean-while, the real affair is being carried through inquite another quarter."

When the business was concluded he declaredsuddenly his intention of seeing the preciousconsignment delivered safely in Sulaco. Thewhole burlesque business, he thought, wasworth following up to the end. He mumbledhis excuses, tugging at his golden beard, beforethe acute young lady who (after the first widestare of astonishment) looked at him with nar-rowed eyes, and pronounced slowly—

"I believe you want to see Antonia."

"What Antonia?" asked the Costaguana boule-vardier, in a vexed and disdainful tone. Heshrugged his shoulders, and spun round on hisheel. His sister called out after him joyously—

"The Antonia you used to know when she woreher hair in two plaits down her back."

He had known her some eight years since,shortly before the Avellanos had left Europe forgood, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully aus-tere, and of a character already so formed thatshe ventured to treat slightingly his pose ofdisabused wisdom. On one occasion, as thoughshe had lost all patience, she flew out at himabout the aimlessness of his life and the levityof his opinions. He was twenty then, an onlyson, spoiled by his adoring family. This attackdisconcerted him so greatly that he had falteredin his affectation of amused superiority beforethat insignificant chit of a school-girl. But theimpression left was so strong that ever since allthe girl friends of his sisters recalled to him

Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance,or by the great force of contrast. It was, he toldhimself, like a ridiculous fatality. And, ofcourse, in the news the Decouds received regu-larly from Costaguana, the name of theirfriends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequent-ly—the arrest and the abominable treatment ofthe ex-Minister, the dangers and hardships en-dured by the family, its withdrawal in povertyto Sulaco, the death of the mother.

The Monterist pronunciamento had taken placebefore Martin Decoud reached Costaguana. Hecame out in a roundabout way, through Magel-lan's Straits by the main line and the WestCoast Service of the O.S.N. Company. His pre-cious consignment arrived just in time to con-vert the first feelings of consternation into amood of hope and resolution. Publicly he wasmade much of by the familias principales. Pri-vately Don Jose, still shaken and weak, em-braced him with tears in his eyes.

"You have come out yourself! No less could beexpected from a Decoud. Alas! our worst fearshave been realized," he moaned, affectionately.And again he hugged his god-son. This wasindeed the time for men of intellect and con-science to rally round the endangered cause.

It was then that Martin Decoud, the adoptedchild of Western Europe, felt the absolutechange of atmosphere. He submitted to beingembraced and talked to without a word. Hewas moved in spite of himself by that note ofpassion and sorrow unknown on the more re-fined stage of European politics. But when thetall Antonia, advancing with her light step inthe dimness of the big bare Sala of the Avella-nos house, offered him her hand (in her eman-cipated way), and murmured, "I am glad to seeyou here, Don Martin," he felt how impossibleit would be to tell these two people that he hadintended to go away by the next month's pack-et. Don Jose, meantime, continued his praises.

Every accession added to public confidence,and, besides, what an example to the youngmen at home from the brilliant defender of thecountry's regeneration, the worthy expounderof the party's political faith before the world!Everybody had read the magnificent article inthe famous Parisian Review. The world wasnow informed: and the author's appearance atthis moment was like a public act of faith.Young Decoud felt overcome by a feeling ofimpatient confusion. His plan had been to re-turn by way of the United States through Cali-fornia, visit Yellowstone Park, see Chicago,Niagara, have a look at Canada, perhaps makea short stay in New York, a longer one in New-port, use his letters of introduction. The pres-sure of Antonia's hand was so frank, the tone ofher voice was so unexpectedly unchanged in itsapproving warmth, that all he found to sayafter his low bow was—

"I am inexpressibly grateful for your welcome;but why need a man be thanked for returningto his native country? I am sure Dona Antoniadoes not think so."

"Certainly not, senor," she said, with that per-fectly calm openness of manner which charac-terized all her utterances. "But when he returns,as you return, one may be glad—for the sake ofboth."

Martin Decoud said nothing of his plans. Henot only never breathed a word of them to anyone, but only a fortnight later asked the mi-stress of the Casa Gould (where he had ofcourse obtained admission at once), leaningforward in his chair with an air of well-bredfamiliarity, whether she could not detect in himthat day a marked change—an air, he ex-plained, of more excellent gravity. At this Mrs.Gould turned her face full towards him withthe silent inquiry of slightly widened eyes andthe merest ghost of a smile, an habitual move-

ment with her, which was very fascinating tomen by something subtly devoted, finely self-forgetful in its lively readiness of attention.Because, Decoud continued imperturbably, hefelt no longer an idle cumberer of the earth. Shewas, he assured her, actually beholding at thatmoment the Journalist of Sulaco. At once Mrs.Gould glanced towards Antonia, posed uprightin the corner of a high, straight-backed Spanishsofa, a large black fan waving slowly againstthe curves of her fine figure, the tips of crossedfeet peeping from under the hem of the blackskirt. Decoud's eyes also remained fixed there,while in an undertone he added that Miss Avel-lanos was quite aware of his new and unex-pected vocation, which in Costaguana wasgenerally the speciality of half-educated ne-groes and wholly penniless lawyers. Then, con-fronting with a sort of urbane effrontery Mrs.Gould's gaze, now turned sympatheticallyupon himself, he breathed out the words, "ProPatria!"

What had happened was that he had all at onceyielded to Don Jose's pressing entreaties to takethe direction of a newspaper that would "voicethe aspirations of the province." It had beenDon Jose's old and cherished idea. The neces-sary plant (on a modest scale) and a large con-signment of paper had been received fromAmerica some time before; the right man alonewas wanted. Even Senor Moraga in Sta. Martahad not been able to find one, and the matterwas now becoming pressing; some organ wasabsolutely needed to counteract the effect of thelies disseminated by the Monterist press: theatrocious calumnies, the appeals to the peoplecalling upon them to rise with their knives intheir hands and put an end once for all to theBlancos, to these Gothic remnants, to these si-nister mummies, these impotent paraliticos,who plotted with foreigners for the surrenderof the lands and the slavery of the people.

The clamour of this Negro Liberalism frigh-tened Senor Avellanos. A newspaper was theonly remedy. And now that the right man hadbeen found in Decoud, great black letters ap-peared painted between the windows abovethe arcaded ground floor of a house on the Pla-za. It was next to Anzani's great emporium ofboots, silks, ironware, muslins, wooden toys,tiny silver arms, legs, heads, hearts (for ex-votoofferings), rosaries, champagne, women's hats,patent medicines, even a few dusty books inpaper covers and mostly in the French lan-guage. The big black letters formed the words,"Offices of the Porvenir." From these offices asingle folded sheet of Martin's journalism is-sued three times a week; and the sleek yellowAnzani prowling in a suit of ample black andcarpet slippers, before the many doors of hisestablishment, greeted by a deep, side-longinclination of his body the Journalist of Sulacogoing to and fro on the business of his augustcalling.

CHAPTER FOUR

Perhaps it was in the exercise of his calling thathe had come to see the troops depart. The Por-venir of the day after next would no doubt re-late the event, but its editor, leaning his sideagainst the landau, seemed to look at nothing.The front rank of the company of infantrydrawn up three deep across the shore end ofthe jetty when pressed too close would bringtheir bayonets to the charge ferociously, withan awful rattle; and then the crowd of specta-tors swayed back bodily, even under the nosesof the big white mules. Notwithstanding thegreat multitude there was only a low, mutter-ing noise; the dust hung in a brown haze, inwhich the horsemen, wedged in the throng

here and there, towered from the hips up-wards, gazing all one way over the heads. Al-most every one of them had mounted a friend,who steadied himself with both hands graspinghis shoulders from behind; and the rims of theirhats touching, made like one disc sustainingthe cones of two pointed crowns with a doubleface underneath. A hoarse mozo would bawlout something to an acquaintance in the ranks,or a woman would shriek suddenly the wordAdios! followed by the Christian name of aman.

General Barrios, in a shabby blue tunic andwhite peg-top trousers falling upon strange redboots, kept his head uncovered and stoopedslightly, propping himself up with a thick stick.No! He had earned enough military glory tosatiate any man, he insisted to Mrs. Gould, try-ing at the same time to put an air of gallantryinto his attitude. A few jetty hairs hung sparse-ly from his upper lip, he had a salient nose, a

thin, long jaw, and a black silk patch over oneeye. His other eye, small and deep-set, twin-kled erratically in all directions, aimlessly affa-ble. The few European spectators, all men, whohad naturally drifted into the neighbourhood ofthe Gould carriage, betrayed by the solemnityof their faces their impression that the generalmust have had too much punch (Swedishpunch, imported in bottles by Anzani) at theAmarilla Club before he had started with hisStaff on a furious ride to the harbour. But Mrs.Gould bent forward, self-possessed, and de-clared her conviction that still more gloryawaited the general in the near future.

"Senora!" he remonstrated, with great feeling,"in the name of God, reflect! How can there beany glory for a man like me in overcoming thatbald-headed embustero with the dyed mous-taches?"

Pablo Ignacio Barrios, son of a village alcalde,general of division, commanding in chief the

Occidental Military district, did not frequentthe higher society of the town. He preferred theunceremonious gatherings of men where hecould tell jaguar-hunt stories, boast of his pow-ers with the lasso, with which he could performextremely difficult feats of the sort "no marriedman should attempt," as the saying goesamongst the llaneros; relate tales of extraordi-nary night rides, encounters with wild bulls,struggles with crocodiles, adventures in thegreat forests, crossings of swollen rivers. And itwas not mere boastfulness that prompted thegeneral's reminiscences, but a genuine love ofthat wild life which he had led in his youngdays before he turned his back for ever on thethatched roof of the parental tolderia in thewoods. Wandering away as far as Mexico hehad fought against the French by the side (as hesaid) of Juarez, and was the only military manof Costaguana who had ever encountered Eu-ropean troops in the field. That fact shed a greatlustre upon his name till it became eclipsed by

the rising star of Montero. All his life he hadbeen an inveterate gambler. He alluded himselfquite openly to the current story how once,during some campaign (when in command of abrigade), he had gambled away his horses, pis-tols, and accoutrements, to the very epaulettes,playing monte with his colonels the night be-fore the battle. Finally, he had sent under escorthis sword (a presentation sword, with a goldhilt) to the town in the rear of his position to beimmediately pledged for five hundred pesetaswith a sleepy and frightened shop-keeper. Bydaybreak he had lost the last of that money,too, when his only remark, as he rose calmly,was, "Now let us go and fight to the death."From that time he had become aware that ageneral could lead his troops into battle verywell with a simple stick in his hand. "It hasbeen my custom ever since," he would say.

He was always overwhelmed with debts; evenduring the periods of splendour in his varied

fortunes of a Costaguana general, when he heldhigh military commands, his gold-laced uni-forms were almost always in pawn with sometradesman. And at last, to avoid the incessantdifficulties of costume caused by the anxiouslenders, he had assumed a disdain of militarytrappings, an eccentric fashion of shabby oldtunics, which had become like a second nature.But the faction Barrios joined needed to fear nopolitical betrayal. He was too much of a realsoldier for the ignoble traffic of buying andselling victories. A member of the foreign dip-lomatic body in Sta. Marta had once passed ajudgment upon him: "Barrios is a man of per-fect honesty and even of some talent for war,mais il manque de tenue." After the triumph ofthe Ribierists he had obtained the reputedlylucrative Occidental command, mainly throughthe exertions of his creditors (the Sta. Martashopkeepers, all great politicians), who movedheaven and earth in his interest publicly, andprivately besieged Senor Moraga, the influenti-

al agent of the San Tome mine, with the exag-gerated lamentations that if the general werepassed over, "We shall all be ruined." An inci-dental but favourable mention of his name inMr. Gould senior's long correspondence withhis son had something to do with his appoint-ment, too; but most of all undoubtedly his es-tablished political honesty. No one questionedthe personal bravery of the Tiger-killer, as thepopulace called him. He was, however, said tobe unlucky in the field—but this was to be thebeginning of an era of peace. The soldiers likedhim for his humane temper, which was like astrange and precious flower unexpectedlyblooming on the hotbed of corrupt revolutions;and when he rode slowly through the streetsduring some military display, the contemp-tuous good humour of his solitary eye roamingover the crowds extorted the acclamations ofthe populace. The women of that class especial-ly seemed positively fascinated by the longdrooping nose, the peaked chin, the heavy low-

er lip, the black silk eyepatch and band slantingrakishly over the forehead. His high rank al-ways procured an audience of Caballeros forhis sporting stories, which he detailed very wellwith a simple, grave enjoyment. As to the socie-ty of ladies, it was irksome by the restraints itimposed without any equivalent, as far as hecould see. He had not, perhaps, spoken threetimes on the whole to Mrs. Gould since he hadtaken up his high command; but he had ob-served her frequently riding with the SenorAdministrador, and had pronounced that therewas more sense in her little bridle-hand than inall the female heads in Sulaco. His impulse hadbeen to be very civil on parting to a womanwho did not wobble in the saddle, and hap-pened to be the wife of a personality very im-portant to a man always short of money. Heeven pushed his attentions so far as to desirethe aide-de-camp at his side (a thick-set, shortcaptain with a Tartar physiognomy) to bringalong a corporal with a file of men in front of

the carriage, lest the crowd in its backwardsurges should "incommode the mules of thesenora." Then, turning to the small knot of si-lent Europeans looking on within earshot, heraised his voice protectingly—

"Senores, have no apprehension. Go on quietlymaking your Ferro Carril—your railways, yourtelegraphs. Your—There's enough wealth inCostaguana to pay for everything—or else youwould not be here. Ha! ha! Don't mind this lit-tle picardia of my friend Montero. In a littlewhile you shall behold his dyed moustachesthrough the bars of a strong wooden cage. Si,senores! Fear nothing, develop the country,work, work!"

The little group of engineers received this ex-hortation without a word, and after waving hishand at them loftily, he addressed himselfagain to Mrs. Gould—

"That is what Don Jose says we must do. Beenterprising! Work! Grow rich! To put Monteroin a cage is my work; and when that insignifi-cant piece of business is done, then, as Don Josewishes us, we shall grow rich, one and all, likeso many Englishmen, because it is money thatsaves a country, and—"

But a young officer in a very new uniform, hur-rying up from the direction of the jetty, inter-rupted his interpretation of Senor Avellanos'sideals. The general made a movement of impa-tience; the other went on talking to him insis-tently, with an air of respect. The horses of theStaff had been embarked, the steamer's gig wasawaiting the general at the boat steps; and Bar-rios, after a fierce stare of his one eye, began totake leave. Don Jose roused himself for an ap-propriate phrase pronounced mechanically.The terrible strain of hope and fear was tellingon him, and he seemed to husband the lastsparks of his fire for those oratorical efforts of

which even the distant Europe was to hear.Antonia, her red lips firmly closed, averted herhead behind the raised fan; and young Decoud,though he felt the girl's eyes upon him, gazedaway persistently, hooked on his elbow, with ascornful and complete detachment. Mrs. Gouldheroically concealed her dismay at the appear-ance of men and events so remote from herracial conventions, dismay too deep to be ut-tered in words even to her husband. She un-derstood his voiceless reserve better now. Theirconfidential intercourse fell, not in moments ofprivacy, but precisely in public, when the quickmeeting of their glances would comment uponsome fresh turn of events. She had gone to hisschool of uncompromising silence, the only onepossible, since so much that seemed shocking,weird, and grotesque in the working out oftheir purposes had to be accepted as normal inthis country. Decidedly, the stately Antonialooked more mature and infinitely calm; butshe would never have known how to reconcile

the sudden sinkings of her heart with an amia-ble mobility of expression.

Mrs. Gould smiled a good-bye at Barrios, nod-ded round to the Europeans (who raised theirhats simultaneously) with an engaging invita-tion, "I hope to see you all presently, at home";then said nervously to Decoud, "Get in, DonMartin," and heard him mutter to himself inFrench, as he opened the carriage door, "Le sorten est jete." She heard him with a sort of exaspe-ration. Nobody ought to have known betterthan himself that the first cast of dice had beenalready thrown long ago in a most desperategame. Distant acclamations, words of com-mand yelled out, and a roll of drums on thejetty greeted the departing general. Somethinglike a slight faintness came over her, and shelooked blankly at Antonia's still face, wonder-ing what would happen to Charley if that ab-surd man failed. "A la casa, Ignacio," she criedat the motionless broad back of the coachman,

who gathered the reins without haste, mum-bling to himself under his breath, "Si, la casa. Si,si nina."

The carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft track,the shadows fell long on the dusty little plaininterspersed with dark bushes, mounds ofturned-up earth, low wooden buildings withiron roofs of the Railway Company; the sparserow of telegraph poles strode obliquely clear ofthe town, bearing a single, almost invisible wirefar into the great campo—like a slender, vibrat-ing feeler of that progress waiting outside for amoment of peace to enter and twine itself aboutthe weary heart of the land.

The cafe window of the Albergo d'ltalia Unawas full of sunburnt, whiskered faces of rail-way men. But at the other end of the house, theend of the Signori Inglesi, old Giorgio, at thedoor with one of his girls on each side, baredhis bushy head, as white as the snows of Hi-guerota. Mrs. Gould stopped the carriage. She

seldom failed to speak to her protege; moreo-ver, the excitement, the heat, and the dust hadmade her thirsty. She asked for a glass of water.Giorgio sent the children indoors for it, andapproached with pleasure expressed in hiswhole rugged countenance. It was not oftenthat he had occasion to see his benefactress,who was also an Englishwoman—another titleto his regard. He offered some excuses for hiswife. It was a bad day with her; her oppres-sions—he tapped his own broad chest. Shecould not move from her chair that day.

Decoud, ensconced in the corner of his seat,observed gloomily Mrs. Gould's old revolution-ist, then, offhand—

"Well, and what do you think of it all, Garibal-dino?"

Old Giorgio, looking at him with some curiosi-ty, said civilly that the troops had marchedvery well. One-eyed Barrios and his officers

had done wonders with the recruits in a shorttime. Those Indios, only caught the other day,had gone swinging past in double quick time,like bersaglieri; they looked well fed, too, andhad whole uniforms. "Uniforms!" he repeatedwith a half-smile of pity. A look of grim retros-pect stole over his piercing, steady eyes. It hadbeen otherwise in his time when men foughtagainst tyranny, in the forests of Brazil, or onthe plains of Uruguay, starving on half-rawbeef without salt, half naked, with often only aknife tied to a stick for a weapon. "And yet weused to prevail against the oppressor," he con-cluded, proudly.

His animation fell; the slight gesture of hishand expressed discouragement; but he addedthat he had asked one of the sergeants to showhim the new rifle. There was no such weaponin his fighting days; and if Barrios could not—

"Yes, yes," broke in Don Jose, almost tremblingwith eagerness. "We are safe. The good Senor

Viola is a man of experience. Extremely dead-ly—is it not so? You have accomplished yourmission admirably, my dear Martin."

Decoud, lolling back moodily, contemplatedold Viola.

"Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who areyou for, really, in your heart?"

Mrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Lindahad brought out a glass of water on a tray, withextreme care; Giselle presented her with abunch of flowers gathered hastily.

"For the people," declared old Viola, sternly.

"We are all for the people—in the end."

"Yes," muttered old Viola, savagely. "Andmeantime they fight for you. Blind. Esclavos!"

At that moment young Scarfe of the railwaystaff emerged from the door of the part re-

served for the Signori Inglesi. He had comedown to headquarters from somewhere up theline on a light engine, and had had just time toget a bath and change his clothes. He was a niceboy, and Mrs. Gould welcomed him.

"It's a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs.Gould. I've just come down. Usual luck. Missedeverything, of course. This show is just over,and I hear there has been a great dance at DonJuste Lopez's last night. Is it true?"

"The young patricians," Decoud began sudden-ly in his precise English, "have indeed beendancing before they started off to the war withthe Great Pompey."

Young Scarfe stared, astounded. "You haven'tmet before," Mrs. Gould intervened. "Mr. De-coud—Mr. Scarfe."

"Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia," pro-tested Don Jose, with nervous haste, also inEnglish. "You should not jest like this, Martin."

Antonia's breast rose and fell with a deeperbreath. The young engineer was utterly in thedark. "Great what?" he muttered, vaguely.

"Luckily, Montero is not a Caesar," Decoudcontinued. "Not the two Monteros put togetherwould make a decent parody of a Caesar." Hecrossed his arms on his breast, looking at SenorAvellanos, who had returned to his immobility."It is only you, Don Jose, who are a genuine oldRoman—vir Romanus—eloquent and inflexi-ble."

Since he had heard the name of Montero pro-nounced, young Scarfe had been eager to ex-press his simple feelings. In a loud and youth-ful tone he hoped that this Montero was goingto be licked once for all and done with. Therewas no saying what would happen to the rail-

way if the revolution got the upper hand. Per-haps it would have to be abandoned. It wouldnot be the first railway gone to pot in Costagu-ana. "You know, it's one of their so-called na-tional things," he ran on, wrinkling up his noseas if the word had a suspicious flavour to hisprofound experience of South American affairs.And, of course, he chatted with animation, ithad been such an immense piece of luck forhim at his age to get appointed on the staff "of abig thing like that—don't you know." It wouldgive him the pull over a lot of chaps all throughlife, he asserted. "Therefore—down with Mon-tero! Mrs. Gould." His artless grin disappearedslowly before the unanimous gravity of thefaces turned upon him from the carriage; onlythat "old chap," Don Jose, presenting a motion-less, waxy profile, stared straight on as if deaf.Scarfe did not know the Avellanos very well.They did not give balls, and Antonia never ap-peared at a ground-floor window, as some oth-er young ladies used to do attended by elder

women, to chat with the caballeros on horse-back in the Calle. The stares of these creoles didnot matter much; but what on earth had cometo Mrs. Gould? She said, "Go on, Ignacio," andgave him a slow inclination of the head. Heheard a short laugh from that round-faced,Frenchified fellow. He coloured up to the eyes,and stared at Giorgio Viola, who had fallenback with the children, hat in hand.

"I shall want a horse presently," he said withsome asperity to the old man.

"Si, senor. There are plenty of horses," mur-mured the Garibaldino, smoothing absently,with his brown hands, the two heads, one darkwith bronze glints, the other fair with a cop-pery ripple, of the two girls by his side. Thereturning stream of sightseers raised a greatdust on the road. Horsemen noticed the group."Go to your mother," he said. "They are grow-ing up as I am growing older, and there is no-body—"

He looked at the young engineer and stopped,as if awakened from a dream; then, folding hisarms on his breast, took up his usual position,leaning back in the doorway with an upwardglance fastened on the white shoulder of Hi-guerota far away.

In the carriage Martin Decoud, shifting his po-sition as though he could not make himselfcomfortable, muttered as he swayed towardsAntonia, "I suppose you hate me." Then in aloud voice he began to congratulate Don Joseupon all the engineers being convinced Ribier-ists. The interest of all those foreigners was gra-tifying. "You have heard this one. He is an en-lightened well-wisher. It is pleasant to thinkthat the prosperity of Costaguana is of someuse to the world."

"He is very young," Mrs. Gould remarked,quietly.

"And so very wise for his age," retorted De-coud. "But here we have the naked truth fromthe mouth of that child. You are right, Don Jose.The natural treasures of Costaguana are of im-portance to the progressive Europe representedby this youth, just as three hundred years agothe wealth of our Spanish fathers was a seriousobject to the rest of Europe—as represented bythe bold buccaneers. There is a curse of futilityupon our character: Don Quixote and SanchoPanza, chivalry and materialism, high-sounding sentiments and a supine morality,violent efforts for an idea and a sullen acquies-cence in every form of corruption. We con-vulsed a continent for our independence onlyto become the passive prey of a democraticparody, the helpless victims of scoundrels andcut-throats, our institutions a mockery, ourlaws a farce—a Guzman Bento our master! Andwe have sunk so low that when a man like youhas awakened our conscience, a stupid barba-rian of a Montero—Great Heavens! a Monte-

ro!—becomes a deadly danger, and an igno-rant, boastful Indio, like Barrios, is our defend-er."

But Don Jose, disregarding the general indict-ment as though he had not heard a word of it,took up the defence of Barrios. The man wascompetent enough for his special task in theplan of campaign. It consisted in an offensivemovement, with Cayta as base, upon the flankof the Revolutionist forces advancing from thesouth against Sta. Marta, which was covered byanother army with the President-Dictator in itsmidst. Don Jose became quite animated with agreat flow of speech, bending forward anxious-ly under the steady eyes of his daughter. De-coud, as if silenced by so much ardour, did notmake a sound. The bells of the city were strik-ing the hour of Oracion when the carriagerolled under the old gateway facing the har-bour like a shapeless monument of leaves andstones. The rumble of wheels under the sonor-

ous arch was traversed by a strange, piercingshriek, and Decoud, from his back seat, had aview of the people behind the carriage trudgingalong the road outside, all turning their heads,in sombreros and rebozos, to look at a locomo-tive which rolled quickly out of sight behindGiorgio Viola's house, under a white trail ofsteam that seemed to vanish in the breathless,hysterically prolonged scream of warlike tri-umph. And it was all like a fleeting vision, theshrieking ghost of a railway engine fleeingacross the frame of the archway, behind thestartled movement of the people streamingback from a military spectacle with silent foot-steps on the dust of the road. It was a materialtrain returning from the Campo to the pali-saded yards. The empty cars rolled lightly onthe single track; there was no rumble of wheels,no tremor of the ground. The engine-driver,running past the Casa Viola with the salute ofan uplifted arm, checked his speed smartlybefore entering the yard; and when the ear-

splitting screech of the steam-whistle for thebrakes had stopped, a series of hard, batteringshocks, mingled with the clanking of chain-couplings, made a tumult of blows and shakenfetters under the vault of the gate.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Gould carriage was the first to return fromthe harbour to the empty town. On the ancientpavement, laid out in patterns, sunk into rutsand holes, the portly Ignacio, mindful of thesprings of the Parisian-built landau, had pulledup to a walk, and Decoud in his corner con-templated moodily the inner aspect of the gate.The squat turreted sides held up between thema mass of masonry with bunches of grass grow-ing at the top, and a grey, heavily scrolled, ar-

morial shield of stone above the apex of thearch with the arms of Spain nearly smoothedout as if in readiness for some new device typi-cal of the impending progress.

The explosive noise of the railway trucksseemed to augment Decoud's irritation. Hemuttered something to himself, then began totalk aloud in curt, angry phrases thrown at thesilence of the two women. They did not look athim at all; while Don Jose, with his semi-translucent, waxy complexion, overshadowedby the soft grey hat, swayed a little to the joltsof the carriage by the side of Mrs. Gould.

"This sound puts a new edge on a very oldtruth."

Decoud spoke in French, perhaps because ofIgnacio on the box above him; the old coach-man, with his broad back filling a short, silver-braided jacket, had a big pair of ears, whose

thick rims stood well away from his croppedhead.

"Yes, the noise outside the city wall is new, butthe principle is old."

He ruminated his discontent for a while, thenbegan afresh with a sidelong glance at Anto-nia—

"No, but just imagine our forefathers in mo-rions and corselets drawn up outside this gate,and a band of adventurers just landed fromtheir ships in the harbour there. Thieves, ofcourse. Speculators, too. Their expeditions,each one, were the speculations of grave andreverend persons in England. That is history, asthat absurd sailor Mitchell is always saying."

"Mitchell's arrangements for the embarkation ofthe troops were excellent!" exclaimed Don Jose.

"That!—that! oh, that's really the work of thatGenoese seaman! But to return to my noises;there used to be in the old days the sound oftrumpets outside that gate. War trumpets! I'msure they were trumpets. I have read some-where that Drake, who was the greatest ofthese men, used to dine alone in his cabin onboard ship to the sound of trumpets. In thosedays this town was full of wealth. Those mencame to take it. Now the whole land is like atreasure-house, and all these people are break-ing into it, whilst we are cutting each other'sthroats. The only thing that keeps them out ismutual jealousy. But they'll come to an agree-ment some day—and by the time we've settledour quarrels and become decent and honoura-ble, there'll be nothing left for us. It has alwaysbeen the same. We are a wonderful people, butit has always been our fate to be"—he did notsay "robbed," but added, after a pause—"exploited!"

Mrs. Gould said, "Oh, this is unjust!" And An-tonia interjected, "Don't answer him, Emilia. Heis attacking me."

"You surely do not think I was attacking DonCarlos!" Decoud answered.

And then the carriage stopped before the doorof the Casa Gould. The young man offered hishand to the ladies. They went in first together;Don Jose walked by the side of Decoud, and thegouty old porter tottered after them with somelight wraps on his arm.

Don Jose slipped his hand under the arm of thejournalist of Sulaco.

"The Porvenir must have a long and confidentarticle upon Barrios and the irresistibleness ofhis army of Cayta! The moral effect should bekept up in the country. We must cable encour-aging extracts to Europe and the United Statesto maintain a favourable impression abroad."

Decoud muttered, "Oh, yes, we must comfortour friends, the speculators."

The long open gallery was in shadow, with itsscreen of plants in vases along the balustrade,holding out motionless blossoms, and all theglass doors of the reception-rooms thrownopen. A jingle of spurs died out at the furtherend.

Basilio, standing aside against the wall, said ina soft tone to the passing ladies, "The SenorAdministrador is just back from the mountain."

In the great sala, with its groups of ancientSpanish and modern European furniture mak-ing as if different centres under the high whitespread of the ceiling, the silver and porcelain ofthe tea-service gleamed among a cluster ofdwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady's boudoir,putting in a note of feminine and intimate deli-cacy.

Don Jose in his rocking-chair placed his hat onhis lap, and Decoud walked up and down thewhole length of the room, passing betweentables loaded with knick-knacks and almostdisappearing behind the high backs of leathernsofas. He was thinking of the angry face of An-tonia; he was confident that he would make hispeace with her. He had not stayed in Sulaco toquarrel with Antonia.

Martin Decoud was angry with himself. All hesaw and heard going on around him exaspe-rated the preconceived views of his Europeancivilization. To contemplate revolutions fromthe distance of the Parisian Boulevards wasquite another matter. Here on the spot it wasnot possible to dismiss their tragic comedy withthe expression, "Quelle farce!"

The reality of the political action, such as it was,seemed closer, and acquired poignancy by An-tonia's belief in the cause. Its crudeness hurt his

feelings. He was surprised at his own sensi-tiveness.

"I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than Iwould have believed possible," he thought tohimself.

His disdain grew like a reaction of his sceptic-ism against the action into which he was forcedby his infatuation for Antonia. He soothed him-self by saying he was not a patriot, but a lover.

The ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gouldsank low before the little tea-table. Antoniatook up her usual place at the reception hour—the corner of a leathern couch, with a rigidgrace in her pose and a fan in her hand. De-coud, swerving from the straight line of hismarch, came to lean over the high back of herseat.

For a long time he talked into her ear from be-hind, softly, with a half smile and an air of apo-

logetic familiarity. Her fan lay half grasped onher knees. She never looked at him. His rapidutterance grew more and more insistent andcaressing. At last he ventured a slight laugh.

"No, really. You must forgive me. One must beserious sometimes." He paused. She turned herhead a little; her blue eyes glided slowly to-wards him, slightly upwards, mollified andquestioning.

"You can't think I am serious when I call Mon-tero a gran' bestia every second day in the Por-venir? That is not a serious occupation. No oc-cupation is serious, not even when a bulletthrough the heart is the penalty of failure!"

Her hand closed firmly on her fan.

"Some reason, you understand, I mean somesense, may creep into thinking; some glimpseof truth. I mean some effective truth, for whichthere is no room in politics or journalism. I

happen to have said what I thought. And youare angry! If you do me the kindness to think alittle you will see that I spoke like a patriot."

She opened her red lips for the first time, notunkindly.

"Yes, but you never see the aim. Men must beused as they are. I suppose nobody is reallydisinterested, unless, perhaps, you, Don Mar-tin."

"God forbid! It's the last thing I should like youto believe of me." He spoke lightly, and paused.

She began to fan herself with a slow movementwithout raising her hand. After a time he whis-pered passionately—

"Antonia!"

She smiled, and extended her hand after theEnglish manner towards Charles Gould, whowas bowing before her; while Decoud, with his

elbows spread on the back of the sofa, droppedhis eyes and murmured, "Bonjour."

The Senor Administrador of the San Tomemine bent over his wife for a moment. Theyexchanged a few words, of which only thephrase, "The greatest enthusiasm," pronouncedby Mrs. Gould, could be heard.

"Yes," Decoud began in a murmur. "Even he!"

"This is sheer calumny," said Antonia, not veryseverely.

"You just ask him to throw his mine into themelting-pot for the great cause," Decoud whis-pered.

Don Jose had raised his voice. He rubbed hishands cheerily. The excellent aspect of thetroops and the great quantity of new deadlyrifles on the shoulders of those brave menseemed to fill him with an ecstatic confidence.

Charles Gould, very tall and thin before hischair, listened, but nothing could be discoveredin his face except a kind and deferential atten-tion.

Meantime, Antonia had risen, and, crossing theroom, stood looking out of one of the three longwindows giving on the street. Decoud followedher. The window was thrown open, and heleaned against the thickness of the wall. Thelong folds of the damask curtain, fallingstraight from the broad brass cornice, hid himpartly from the room. He folded his arms onhis breast, and looked steadily at Antonia's pro-file.

The people returning from the harbour filledthe pavements; the shuffle of sandals and a lowmurmur of voices ascended to the window.Now and then a coach rolled slowly along thedisjointed roadway of the Calle de la Constitu-cion. There were not many private carriages inSulaco; at the most crowded hour on the Ala-

meda they could be counted with one glance ofthe eye. The great family arks swayed on highleathern springs, full of pretty powdered facesin which the eyes looked intensely alive andblack. And first Don Juste Lopez, the Presidentof the Provincial Assembly, passed with histhree lovely daughters, solemn in a black frock-coat and stiff white tie, as when directing a de-bate from a high tribune. Though they allraised their eyes, Antonia did not make theusual greeting gesture of a fluttered hand, andthey affected not to see the two young people,Costaguaneros with European manners, whoseeccentricities were discussed behind the barredwindows of the first families in Sulaco. Andthen the widowed Senora Gavilaso de Valdesrolled by, handsome and dignified, in a greatmachine in which she used to travel to andfrom her country house, surrounded by anarmed retinue in leather suits and big sombre-ros, with carbines at the bows of their saddles.She was a woman of most distinguished family,

proud, rich, and kind-hearted. Her second son,Jaime, had just gone off on the Staff of Barrios.The eldest, a worthless fellow of a moody dis-position, filled Sulaco with the noise of his dis-sipations, and gambled heavily at the club. Thetwo youngest boys, with yellow Ribierist cock-ades in their caps, sat on the front seat. She, too,affected not to see the Senor Decoud talkingpublicly with Antonia in defiance of every con-vention. And he not even her novio as far as theworld knew! Though, even in that case, itwould have been scandal enough. But the dig-nified old lady, respected and admired by thefirst families, would have been still moreshocked if she could have heard the words theywere exchanging.

"Did you say I lost sight of the aim? I have onlyone aim in the world."

She made an almost imperceptible negativemovement of her head, still staring across the

street at the Avellanos's house, grey, markedwith decay, and with iron bars like a prison.

"And it would be so easy of attainment," hecontinued, "this aim which, whether knowinglyor not, I have always had in my heart—eversince the day when you snubbed me so horri-bly once in Paris, you remember."

A slight smile seemed to move the corner of thelip that was on his side.

"You know you were a very terrible person, asort of Charlotte Corday in a schoolgirl's dress;a ferocious patriot. I suppose you would havestuck a knife into Guzman Bento?"

She interrupted him. "You do me too muchhonour."

"At any rate," he said, changing suddenly to atone of bitter levity, "you would have sent meto stab him without compunction."

"Ah, par exemple!" she murmured in a shockedtone.

"Well," he argued, mockingly, "you do keep mehere writing deadly nonsense. Deadly to me! Ithas already killed my self-respect. And youmay imagine," he continued, his tone passinginto light banter, "that Montero, should he besuccessful, would get even with me in the onlyway such a brute can get even with a man ofintelligence who condescends to call him agran' bestia three times a week. It's a sort ofintellectual death; but there is the other one inthe background for a journalist of my ability."

"If he is successful!" said Antonia, thoughtfully.

"You seem satisfied to see my life hang on athread," Decoud replied, with a broad smile."And the other Montero, the 'my trusted broth-er' of the proclamations, the guerrillero—haven't I written that he was taking the guests'overcoats and changing plates in Paris at our

Legation in the intervals of spying on our refu-gees there, in the time of Rojas? He will washout that sacred truth in blood. In my blood!Why do you look annoyed? This is simply a bitof the biography of one of our great men. Whatdo you think he will do to me? There is a cer-tain convent wall round the corner of the Plaza,opposite the door of the Bull Ring. You know?Opposite the door with the inscription, Intradade la Sombra.' Appropriate, perhaps! That'swhere the uncle of our host gave up his Anglo-South-American soul. And, note, he might haverun away. A man who has fought with wea-pons may run away. You might have let me gowith Barrios if you had cared for me. I wouldhave carried one of those rifles, in which DonJose believes, with the greatest satisfaction, inthe ranks of poor peons and Indios, that knownothing either of reason or politics. The mostforlorn hope in the most forlorn army on earthwould have been safer than that for which youmade me stay here. When you make war you

may retreat, but not when you spend your timein inciting poor ignorant fools to kill and todie."

His tone remained light, and as if unaware ofhis presence she stood motionless, her handsclasped lightly, the fan hanging down from herinterlaced fingers. He waited for a while, andthen—

"I shall go to the wall," he said, with a sort ofjocular desperation.

Even that declaration did not make her look athim. Her head remained still, her eyes fixedupon the house of the Avellanos, whosechipped pilasters, broken cornices, the wholedegradation of dignity was hidden now by thegathering dusk of the street. In her whole figureher lips alone moved, forming the words—

"Martin, you will make me cry."

He remained silent for a minute, startled, as ifoverwhelmed by a sort of awed happiness,with the lines of the mocking smile still stif-fened about his mouth, and incredulous sur-prise in his eyes. The value of a sentence is inthe personality which utters it, for nothing newcan be said by man or woman; and those werethe last words, it seemed to him, that couldever have been spoken by Antonia. He hadnever made it up with her so completely in alltheir intercourse of small encounters; but evenbefore she had time to turn towards him, whichshe did slowly with a rigid grace, he had begunto plead—

"My sister is only waiting to embrace you. Myfather is transported with joy. I won't say any-thing of my mother! Our mothers were likesisters. There is the mail-boat for the south nextweek—let us go. That Moraga is a fool! A manlike Montero is bribed. It's the practice of the

country. It's tradition—it's politics. Read 'FiftyYears of Misrule.'"

"Leave poor papa alone, Don Martin. He be-lieves—"

"I have the greatest tenderness for your father,"he began, hurriedly. "But I love you, Antonia!And Moraga has miserably mismanaged thisbusiness. Perhaps your father did, too; I don'tknow. Montero was bribeable. Why, I supposehe only wanted his share of this famous loanfor national development. Why didn't the stu-pid Sta. Marta people give him a mission toEurope, or something? He would have takenfive years' salary in advance, and gone on loaf-ing in Paris, this stupid, ferocious Indio!"

"The man," she said, thoughtfully, and verycalm before this outburst, "was intoxicated withvanity. We had all the information, not fromMoraga only; from others, too. There was hisbrother intriguing, too."

"Oh, yes!" he said. "Of course you know. Youknow everything. You read all the correspon-dence, you write all the papers—all those Statepapers that are inspired here, in this room, inblind deference to a theory of political purity.Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes?Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are the practic-al demonstration of what could have beendone. Do you think he succeeded by his fidelityto a theory of virtue? And all those railwaypeople, with their honest work! Of course, theirwork is honest! But what if you cannot workhonestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could henot, a gentleman, have told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off—he and all his Negro Liberals hanging on to hisgold-laced sleeve? He ought to have beenbought off with his own stupid weight ofgold—his weight of gold, I tell you, boots, sa-bre, spurs, cocked hat, and all."

She shook her head slightly. "It was impossi-ble," she murmured.

"He wanted the whole lot? What?"

She was facing him now in the deep recess ofthe window, very close and motionless. Herlips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his backagainst the wall, listened with crossed armsand lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of hereven voice, and watched the agitated life of herthroat, as if waves of emotion had run from herheart to pass out into the air in her reasonablewords. He also had his aspirations, he aspiredto carry her away out of these deadly futilitiesof pronunciamientos and reforms. All this waswrong—utterly wrong; but she fascinated him,and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrasewould break the charm, replace the fascinationby a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Somewomen hovered, as it were, on the threshold ofgenius, he reflected. They did not want toknow, or think, or understand. Passion stood

for all that, and he was ready to believe thatsome startlingly profound remark, some ap-preciation of character, or a judgment upon anevent, bordered on the miraculous. In the ma-ture Antonia he could see with an extraordi-nary vividness the austere schoolgirl of the ear-lier days. She seduced his attention; sometimeshe could not restrain a murmur of assent; nowand then he advanced an objection quite se-riously. Gradually they began to argue; thecurtain half hid them from the people in thesala.

Outside it had grown dark. From the deeptrench of shadow between the houses, lit upvaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, as-cended the evening silence of Sulaco; the si-lence of a town with few carriages, of unshodhorses, and a softly sandalled population. Thewindows of the Casa Gould flung their shiningparallelograms upon the house of the Avella-nos. Now and then a shuffle of feet passed be-

low with the pulsating red glow of a cigaretteat the foot of the walls; and the night air, as ifcooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshedtheir faces.

"We Occidentals," said Martin Decoud, usingthe usual term the provincials of Sulaco appliedto themselves, "have been always distinct andseparated. As long as we hold Cayta nothingcan reach us. In all our troubles no army hasmarched over those mountains. A revolution inthe central provinces isolates us at once. Lookhow complete it is now! The news of Barrios'movement will be cabled to the United States,and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta bythe cable from the other seaboard. We have thegreatest riches, the greatest fertility, the purestblood in our great families, the most laboriouspopulation. The Occidental Province shouldstand alone. The early Federalism was not badfor us. Then came this union which Don Henri-que Gould resisted. It opened the road to ty-

ranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguanahangs like a millstone round our necks. TheOccidental territory is large enough to makeany man's country. Look at the mountains! Na-ture itself seems to cry to us, 'Separate!'"

She made an energetic gesture of negation. Asilence fell.

"Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrinelaid down in the 'History of Fifty Years' Mi-srule.' I am only trying to be sensible. But mysense seems always to give you cause for of-fence. Have I startled you very much with thisperfectly reasonable aspiration?"

She shook her head. No, she was not startled,but the idea shocked her early convictions. Herpatriotism was larger. She had never consi-dered that possibility.

"It may yet be the means of saving some ofyour convictions," he said, prophetically.

She did not answer. She seemed tired. Theyleaned side by side on the rail of the little bal-cony, very friendly, having exhausted politics,giving themselves up to the silent feeling oftheir nearness, in one of those profound pausesthat fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towardsthe plaza end of the street the glowing coals inthe brazeros of the market women cookingtheir evening meal gleamed red along the edgeof the pavement. A man appeared without asound in the light of a street lamp, showing thecoloured inverted triangle of his bordered pon-cho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a pointbelow his knees. From the harbour end of theCalle a horseman walked his soft-steppingmount, gleaming silver-grey abreast each lampunder the dark shape of the rider.

"Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores,"said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splen-dour after his work is done. The next great manof Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is

good-natured, and let me make friends withhim."

"Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did youmake friends?"

"A journalist ought to have his finger on thepopular pulse, and this man is one of the lead-ers of the populace. A journalist ought to knowremarkable men—and this man is remarkablein his way."

"Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It isknown that this Italian has a great influence."

The horseman had passed below them, with agleam of dim light on the shining broad quar-ters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup,on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yel-lowish flame in the dusk was powerless againstthe muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark fig-ure with an invisible face concealed by a greatsombrero.

Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over thebalcony, side by side, touching elbows, withtheir heads overhanging the darkness of thestreet, and the brilliantly lighted sala at theirbacks. This was a tete-a-tete of extreme impro-priety; something of which in the whole extentof the Republic only the extraordinary Antoniacould be capable—the poor, motherless girl,never accompanied, with a careless father, whohad thought only of making her learned. EvenDecoud himself seemed to feel that this was asmuch as he could expect of having her to him-self till—till the revolution was over and hecould carry her off to Europe, away from theendlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemedeven harder to bear than its ignominy. Afterone Montero there would be another, the law-lessness of a populace of all colours and races,barbarism, irremediable tyranny. As the greatLiberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness ofhis spirit, "America is ungovernable. Thosewho worked for her independence have

ploughed the sea." He did not care, he declaredboldly; he seized every opportunity to tell herthat though she had managed to make a Blancojournalist of him, he was no patriot. First of all,the word had no sense for cultured minds, towhom the narrowness of every belief is odious;and secondly, in connection with the everlast-ing troubles of this unhappy country it washopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry ofdark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, ofcrimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving.

He was surprised at the warmth of his ownutterance. He had no need to drop his voice; ithad been low all the time, a mere murmur inthe silence of dark houses with their shuttersclosed early against the night air, as is the cus-tom of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gouldflung out defiantly the blaze of its four win-dows, the bright appeal of light in the wholedumb obscurity of the street. And the murmur

on the little balcony went on after a shortpause.

"But we are labouring to change all that," Anto-nia protested. "It is exactly what we desire. It isour object. It is the great cause. And the wordyou despise has stood also for sacrifice, for cou-rage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who—"

"Ploughing the sea," interrupted Decoud, look-ing down.

There was below the sound of hasty and pon-derous footsteps.

"Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral,has just turned under the gate," observed De-coud. "He said Mass for the troops in the Plazathis morning. They had built for him an altar ofdrums, you know. And they brought outsideall the painted blocks to take the air. All thewooden saints stood militarily in a row at thetop of the great flight of steps. They looked like

a gorgeous escort attending the Vicar-General. Isaw the great function from the windows of thePorvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last ofthe Corbelans. He glittered exceedingly in hisvestments with a great crimson velvet crossdown his back. And all the time our saviourBarrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punchat an open window. Esprit fort—our Barrios. Iexpected every moment your uncle to launchan excommunication there and then at theblack eye-patch in the window across the Plaza.But not at all. Ultimately the troops marchedoff. Later Barrios came down with some of theofficers, and stood with his uniform all unbut-toned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement.Suddenly your uncle appeared, no longer glit-tering, but all black, at the cathedral door withthat threatening aspect he has—you know, likea sort of avenging spirit. He gives one look,strides over straight at the group of uniforms,and leads away the general by the elbow. Hewalked him for a quarter of an hour in the

shade of a wall. Never let go his elbow for amoment, talking all the time with exaltation,and gesticulating with a long black arm. It wasa curious scene. The officers seemed struckwith astonishment. Remarkable man, your mis-sionary uncle. He hates an infidel much lessthan a heretic, and prefers a heathen manytimes to an infidel. He condescends graciouslyto call me a heathen, sometimes, you know."

Antonia listened with her hands over the balu-strade, opening and shutting the fan gently;and Decoud talked a little nervously, as ifafraid that she would leave him at the firstpause. Their comparative isolation, the pre-cious sense of intimacy, the slight contact oftheir arms, affected him softly; for now andthen a tender inflection crept into the flow ofhis ironic murmurs.

"Any slight sign of favour from a relative ofyours is welcome, Antonia. And perhaps heunderstands me, after all! But I know him, too,

our Padre Corbelan. The idea of political ho-nour, justice, and honesty for him consists inthe restitution of the confiscated Church prop-erty. Nothing else could have drawn that fierceconverter of savage Indians out of the wilds towork for the Ribierist cause! Nothing else butthat wild hope! He would make a pronuncia-miento himself for such an object against anyGovernment if he could only get followers!What does Don Carlos Gould think of that?But, of course, with his English impenetrability,nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably hethinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his'Imperium in Imperio.' As to Mrs. Gould, shethinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of themothers with the young babies, of every sickold man in the three villages. If you were toturn your head now you would see her extract-ing a report from that sinister doctor in a checkshirt—what's his name? Monygham—or elsecatechising Don Pepe or perhaps listening toPadre Roman. They are all down here to-day—

all her ministers of state. Well, she is a sensiblewoman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a sensibleman. It's a part of solid English sense not tothink too much; to see only what may be ofpractical use at the moment. These people arenot like ourselves. We have no political reason;we have political passions—sometimes. What isa conviction? A particular view of our personaladvantage either practical or emotional. No oneis a patriot for nothing. The word serves uswell. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not usethat word to you, Antonia! I have no patrioticillusions. I have only the supreme illusion of alover."

He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly,"That can lead one very far, though."

Behind their backs the political tide that once inevery twenty-four hours set with a strong floodthrough the Gould drawing-room could beheard, rising higher in a hum of voices. Menhad been dropping in singly, or in twos and

threes: the higher officials of the province, en-gineers of the railway, sunburnt and in tweeds,with the frosted head of their chief smiling withslow, humorous indulgence amongst the youngeager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, hadalready slipped out in search of some dance, nomatter where, on the outskirts of the town. DonJuste Lopez, after taking his daughters home,had entered solemnly, in a black creased coatbuttoned up under his spreading brown beard.The few members of the Provincial Assemblypresent clustered at once around their Presi-dent to discuss the news of the war and the lastproclamation of the rebel Montero, the misera-ble Montero, calling in the name of "a justlyincensed democracy" upon all the ProvincialAssemblies of the Republic to suspend theirsittings till his sword had made peace and thewill of the people could be consulted. It waspractically an invitation to dissolve: an un-heard-of audacity of that evil madman.

The indignation ran high in the knot of depu-ties behind Jose Avellanos. Don Jose, lifting uphis voice, cried out to them over the high backof his chair, "Sulaco has answered by sendingto-day an army upon his flank. If all the otherprovinces show only half as much patriotism aswe Occidentals—"

A great outburst of acclamations covered thevibrating treble of the life and soul of the party.Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulacowas in the forefront, as ever! It was a boastfultumult, the hopefulness inspired by the eventof the day breaking out amongst those caballe-ros of the Campo thinking of their herds, oftheir lands, of the safety of their families. Eve-rything was at stake. . . . No! It was impossiblethat Montero should succeed! This criminal,this shameless Indio! The clamour continuedfor some time, everybody else in the room look-ing towards the group where Don Juste hadput on his air of impartial solemnity as if pre-

siding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly.Decoud had turned round at the noise, and,leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted intothe room with all the strength of his lungs,"Gran' bestia!"

This unexpected cry had the effect of stillingthe noise. All the eyes were directed to thewindow with an approving expectation; butDecoud had already turned his back upon theroom, and was again leaning out over the quietstreet.

"This is the quintessence of my journalism; thatis the supreme argument," he said to Antonia."I have invented this definition, this last wordon a great question. But I am no patriot. I am nomore of a patriot than the Capataz of the SulacoCargadores, this Genoese who has done suchgreat things for this harbour—this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress.You have heard Captain Mitchell confess overand over again that till he got this man he could

never tell how long it would take to unload aship. That is bad for progress. You have seenhim pass by after his labours on his famoushorse to dazzle the girls in some ballroom withan earthen floor. He is a fortunate fellow! Hiswork is an exercise of personal powers; his lei-sure is spent in receiving the marks of extraor-dinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can any-body be more fortunate? To be feared and ad-mired is—"

"And are these your highest aspirations, DonMartin?" interrupted Antonia.

"I was speaking of a man of that sort," said De-coud, curtly. "The heroes of the world havebeen feared and admired. What more could hewant?"

Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of iron-ic thought fall shattered against Antonia's grav-ity. She irritated him as if she, too, had sufferedfrom that inexplicable feminine obtuseness

which stands so often between a man and awoman of the more ordinary sort. But he over-came his vexation at once. He was very farfrom thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever ver-dict his scepticism might have pronouncedupon himself. With a touch of penetrating ten-derness in his voice he assured her that his onlyaspiration was to a felicity so high that itseemed almost unrealizable on this earth.

She coloured invisibly, with a warmth againstwhich the breeze from the sierra seemed tohave lost its cooling power in the sudden melt-ing of the snows. His whisper could not havecarried so far, though there was enough ardourin his tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turnedaway abruptly, as if to carry his whispered as-surance into the room behind, full of light, noi-sy with voices.

The tide of political speculation was beatinghigh within the four walls of the great sala, as ifdriven beyond the marks by a great gust of

hope. Don Juste's fan-shaped beard was still thecentre of loud and animated discussions. Therewas a self-confident ring in all the voices. Eventhe few Europeans around Charles Gould—aDane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fatGerman, smiling, with down-cast eyes, the rep-resentatives of those material interests that hadgot a footing in Sulaco under the protectingmight of the San Tome mine—had infused a lotof good humour into their deference. CharlesGould, to whom they were paying their court,was the visible sign of the stability that couldbe achieved on the shifting ground of revolu-tions. They felt hopeful about their various un-dertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small,black, with glittering eyes lost in an immensegrowth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brownhands and delicate wrists. He had been travel-ling in the interior of the province for a syndi-cate of European capitalists. His forcible "Mon-sieur l'Administrateur" returning every minuteshrilled above the steady hum of conversations.

He was relating his discoveries. He was ecstat-ic. Charles Gould glanced down at him cour-teously.

At a given moment of these necessary recep-tions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to withdrawquietly into a little drawing-room, especiallyher own, next to the great sala. She had risen,and, waiting for Antonia, listened with aslightly worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over her,relating slowly, without the slightest gesture,something apparently amusing, for his eyeshad a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before sheadvanced into the room to join Mrs. Gould,turned her head over her shoulder towardsDecoud, only for a moment.

"Why should any one of us think his aspira-tions unrealizable?" she said, rapidly.

"I am going to cling to mine to the end, Anto-nia," he answered, through clenched teeth, thenbowed very low, a little distantly.

The engineer-in-chief had not finished tellinghis amusing story. The humours of railwaybuilding in South America appealed to his keenappreciation of the absurd, and he told his in-stances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorantcunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave himall her attention as he walked by her side es-corting the ladies out of the room. Finally allthree passed unnoticed through the glass doorsin the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking silentlyin the noise of the sala checked himself to lookafter them. Father Corbelan, whom Decoudhad seen from the balcony turning into the ga-teway of the Casa Gould, had addressed no onesince coming in. The long, skimpy soutane ac-centuated the tallness of his stature; he carriedhis powerful torso thrown forward; and thestraight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the

pugnacious outline of the bony face, the whitespot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks (atestimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party ofunconverted Indians), suggested somethingunlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of achaplain of bandits.

He separated his bony, knotted hands claspedbehind his back, to shake his finger at Martin.

Decoud had stepped into the room after Anto-nia. But he did not go far. He had remained justwithin, against the curtain, with an expressionof not quite genuine gravity, like a grown-upperson taking part in a game of children. Hegazed quietly at the threatening finger.

"I have watched your reverence convertingGeneral Barrios by a special sermon on the Pla-za," he said, without making the slightestmovement.

"What miserable nonsense!" Father Corbelan'sdeep voice resounded all over the room, mak-ing all the heads turn on the shoulders. "Theman is a drunkard. Senores, the God of yourGeneral is a bottle!"

His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused anuneasy suspension of every sound, as if theself-confidence of the gathering had been stag-gered by a blow. But nobody took up FatherCorbelan's declaration.

It was known that Father Corbelan had comeout of the wilds to advocate the sacred rights ofthe Church with the same fanatical fearlessnesswith which he had gone preaching to blood-thirsty savages, devoid of human compassionor worship of any kind. Rumours of legendaryproportions told of his successes as a missio-nary beyond the eye of Christian men. He hadbaptized whole nations of Indians, living withthem like a savage himself. It was related thatthe padre used to ride with his Indians for

days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hideshield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too—whoknows? That he had wandered clothed in skins,seeking for proselytes somewhere near thesnow line of the Cordillera. Of these exploitsPadre Corbelan himself was never known totalk. But he made no secret of his opinion thatthe politicians of Sta. Marta had harder heartsand more corrupt minds than the heathen towhom he had carried the word of God. Hisinjudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of theChurch was damaging the Ribierist cause. Itwas common knowledge that he had refused tobe made titular bishop of the Occidental dio-cese till justice was done to a despoiled Church.The political Gefe of Sulaco (the same dignitarywhom Captain Mitchell saved from the mobafterwards) hinted with naive cynicism thatdoubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sentthe padre over the mountains to Sulaco in theworst season of the year in the hope that hewould be frozen to death by the icy blasts of

the high paramos. Every year a few hardy mu-leteers—men inured to exposure—were knownto perish in that way. But what would youhave? Their Excellencies possibly had not rea-lized what a tough priest he was. Meantime,the ignorant were beginning to murmur thatthe Ribierist reforms meant simply the takingaway of the land from the people. Some of itwas to be given to foreigners who made therailway; the greater part was to go to the pa-dres.

These were the results of the Grand Vicar'szeal. Even from the short allocution to thetroops on the Plaza (which only the first rankscould have heard) he had not been able to keepout his fixed idea of an outraged Church wait-ing for reparation from a penitent country. Thepolitical Gefe had been exasperated. But hecould not very well throw the brother-in-law ofDon Jose into the prison of the Cabildo. Thechief magistrate, an easy-going and popular

official, visited the Casa Gould, walking overafter sunset from the Intendencia, unattended,acknowledging with dignified courtesy thesalutations of high and low alike. That eveninghe had walked up straight to Charles Gouldand had hissed out to him that he would haveliked to deport the Grand Vicar out of Sulaco,anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels,for instance. "The one without water prefera-bly—eh, Don Carlos?" he had added in a tonebetween jest and earnest. This uncontrollablepriest, who had rejected his offer of the epi-scopal palace for a residence and preferred tohang his shabby hammock amongst the rubbleand spiders of the sequestrated DominicanConvent, had taken into his head to advocatean unconditional pardon for Hernandez theRobber! And this was not enough; he seemed tohave entered into communication with themost audacious criminal the country hadknown for years. The Sulaco police knew, ofcourse, what was going on. Padre Corbelan had

got hold of that reckless Italian, the Capataz deCargadores, the only man fit for such an er-rand, and had sent a message through him.Father Corbelan had studied in Rome, andcould speak Italian. The Capataz was known tovisit the old Dominican Convent at night. Anold woman who served the Grand Vicar hadheard the name of Hernandez pronounced; andonly last Saturday afternoon the Capataz hadbeen observed galloping out of town. He didnot return for two days. The police would havelaid the Italian by the heels if it had not been forfear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body ofmen, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays itwas not so easy to govern Sulaco. Bad charac-ters flocked into it, attracted by the money inthe pockets of the railway workmen. The popu-lace was made restless by Father Corbelan'sdiscourses. And the first magistrate explainedto Charles Gould that now the province wasstripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness

would find the authorities with their boots off,as it were.

Then he went away moodily to sit in an arm-chair, smoking a long, thin cigar, not very farfrom Don Jose, with whom, bending oversideways, he exchanged a few words from timeto time. He ignored the entrance of the priest,and whenever Father Corbelan's voice wasraised behind him, he shrugged his shouldersimpatiently.

Father Corbelan had remained quite motionlessfor a time with that something vengeful in hisimmobility which seemed to characterize all hisattitudes. A lurid glow of strong convictionsgave its peculiar aspect to the black figure. Butits 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 atthe young man's breast. Decoud, very calm, feltthe wall behind the curtain with the back of hishead. Then, with his chin tilted well up, hesmiled.

"Very well," he agreed with the slightly wearynonchalance of a man well used to these pas-sages. "But is it perhaps that you have not dis-covered yet what is the God of my worship? Itwas an easier task with our Barrios."

The priest suppressed a gesture of discourage-ment. "You believe neither in stick nor stone,"he said.

"Nor bottle," added Decoud without stirring."Neither does the other of your reverence's con-fidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores.He does not drink. Your reading of my charac-ter does honour to your perspicacity. But whycall me a heathen?"

"True," retorted the priest. "You are ten timesworse. A miracle could not convert you."

"I certainly do not believe in miracles," saidDecoud, quietly. Father Corbelan shrugged hishigh, broad shoulders doubtfully.

"A sort of Frenchman—godless—a materialist,"he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the termsof a careful analysis. "Neither the son of hisown country nor of any other," he continued,thoughtfully.

"Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commentedunder his breath, his head at rest against thewall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

"The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbe-lan resumed in a deep but subdued voice.

"But of some use as a journalist." Decoudchanged his pose and spoke in a more ani-mated tone. "Has your worship neglected to

read the last number of the Porvenir? I assureyou it is just like the others. On the general pol-icy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia,and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for acombination of lackey and spy. What could bemore effective? In local affairs it urges the Pro-vincial Government to enlist bodily into thenational army the band of Hernandez the Rob-ber—who is apparently the protege of theChurch—or at least of the Grand Vicar. Noth-ing could be more sound."

The priest nodded and turned on the heels ofhis square-toed shoes with big steel buckles.Again, with his hands clasped behind his back,he paced to and fro, planting his feet firmly.When he swung about, the skirt of his soutanewas inflated slightly by the brusqueness of hismovements.

The great sala had been emptying itself slowly.When the Gefe Politico rose to go, most of thosestill remaining stood up suddenly in sign of

respect, and Don Jose Avellanos stopped therocking of his chair. But the good-natured FirstOfficial made a deprecatory gesture, waved hishand to Charles Gould, and went out discreet-ly.

In the comparative peace of the room thescreaming "Monsieur l'Administrateur" of thefrail, hairy Frenchman seemed to acquire a pre-ternatural shrillness. The explorer of the Capi-talist syndicate was still enthusiastic. "Ten mil-lion dollars' worth of copper practically insight, Monsieur l'Administrateur. Ten millionsin sight! And a railway coming—a railway!They will never believe my report. C'est tropbeau." He fell a prey to a screaming ecstasy, inthe midst of sagely nodding heads, beforeCharles Gould's imperturbable calm.

And only the priest continued his pacing, fling-ing round the skirt of his soutane at each end ofhis beat. Decoud murmured to him ironically:"Those gentlemen talk about their gods."

Father Corbelan stopped short, looked at thejournalist of Sulaco fixedly for a moment,shrugged his shoulders slightly, and resumedhis plodding walk of an obstinate traveller.

And now the Europeans were dropping offfrom the group around Charles Gould till theAdministrador of the Great Silver Mine couldbe seen in his whole lank length, from head tofoot, left stranded by the ebbing tide of hisguests on the great square of carpet, as it were amulti-coloured shoal of flowers and arabesquesunder his brown boots. Father Corbelan ap-proached the rocking-chair of Don Jose Avella-nos.

"Come, brother," he said, with kindly brusque-ness and a touch of relieved impatience a manmay feel at the end of a perfectly useless cere-mony. "A la Casa! A la Casa! This has been alltalk. Let us now go and think and pray forguidance from Heaven."

He rolled his black eyes upwards. By the sideof the frail diplomatist—the life and soul of theparty—he seemed gigantic, with a gleam offanaticism in the glance. But the voice of theparty, or, rather, its mouthpiece, the "son De-coud" from Paris, turned journalist for the sakeof Antonia's eyes, knew very well that it wasnot so, that he was only a strenuous priest withone idea, feared by the women and execratedby the men of the people. Martin Decoud, thedilettante in life, imagined himself to derive anartistic pleasure from watching the picturesqueextreme of wrongheadedness into which anhonest, almost sacred, conviction may drive aman. "It is like madness. It must be—becauseit's self-destructive," Decoud had said to him-self often. It seemed to him that every convic-tion, as soon as it became effective, turned intothat form of dementia the gods send uponthose they wish to destroy. But he enjoyed thebitter flavour of that example with the zest of aconnoisseur in the art of his choice. Those two

men got on well together, as if each had feltrespectively that a masterful conviction, as wellas utter scepticism, may lead a man very far onthe by-paths of political action.

Don Jose obeyed the touch of the big hairyhand. Decoud followed out the brothers-in-law.And there remained only one visitor in the vastempty sala, bluishly hazy with tobacco smoke,a heavy-eyed, round-cheeked man, with adrooping moustache, a hide merchant fromEsmeralda, who had come overland to Sulaco,riding with a few peons across the coast range.He was very full of his journey, undertakenmostly for the purpose of seeing the SenorAdministrador of San Tome in relation to someassistance he required in his hide-exportingbusiness. He hoped to enlarge it greatly nowthat the country was going to be settled. It wasgoing to be settled, he repeated several times,degrading by a strange, anxious whine the so-nority of the Spanish language, which he pat-

tered rapidly, like some sort of cringing jargon.A plain man could carry on his little businessnow in the country, and even think of enlargingit—with safety. Was it not so? He seemed tobeg Charles Gould for a confirmatory word, agrunt of assent, a simple nod even.

He could get nothing. His alarm increased, andin the pauses he would dart his eyes here andthere; then, loth to give up, he would branch offinto feeling allusion to the dangers of his jour-ney. The audacious Hernandez, leaving hisusual haunts, had crossed the Campo of Sulaco,and was known to be lurking in the ravines ofthe coast range. Yesterday, when distant only afew hours from Sulaco, the hide merchant andhis servants had seen three men on the roadarrested suspiciously, with their horses' headstogether. Two of these rode off at once and dis-appeared in a shallow quebrada to the left. "Westopped," continued the man from Esmeralda,"and I tried to hide behind a small bush. But

none of my mozos would go forward to findout what it meant, and the third horsemanseemed to be waiting for us to come up. It wasno use. We had been seen. So we rode slowlyon, trembling. He let us pass—a man on a greyhorse with his hat down on his eyes—without aword of greeting; but by-and-by we heard himgalloping after us. We faced about, but that didnot seem to intimidate him. He rode up atspeed, and touching my foot with the toe of hisboot, asked me for a cigar, with a blood-curdling laugh. He did not seem armed, butwhen he put his hand back to reach for thematches I saw an enormous revolver strappedto his waist. I shuddered. He had very fiercewhiskers, Don Carlos, and as he did not offer togo on we dared not move. At last, blowing thesmoke of my cigar into the air through his no-strils, he said, 'Senor, it would be perhaps bet-ter for you if I rode behind your party. You arenot very far from Sulaco now. Go you withGod.' What would you? We went on. There

was no resisting him. He might have been Her-nandez himself; though my servant, who hasbeen many times to Sulaco by sea, assured methat he had recognized him very well for theCapataz of the Steamship Company's Carga-dores. Later, that same evening, I saw that veryman at the corner of the Plaza talking to a girl,a Morenita, who stood by the stirrup with herhand on the grey horse's mane."

"I assure you, Senor Hirsch," murmuredCharles Gould, "that you ran no risk on thisoccasion."

"That may be, senor, though I tremble yet. Amost fierce man—to look at. And what does itmean? A person employed by the SteamshipCompany talking with salteadores—no less,senor; the other horsemen were salteadores—ina lonely place, and behaving like a robber him-self! A cigar is nothing, but what was there toprevent him asking me for my purse?"

"No, no, Senor Hirsch," Charles Gould mur-mured, letting his glance stray away a littlevacantly from the round face, with its hookedbeak upturned towards him in an almost child-like appeal. "If it was the Capataz de Carga-dores you met—and there is no doubt, isthere?—you were perfectly safe."

"Thank you. You are very good. A very fierce-looking man, Don Carlos. He asked me for acigar in a most familiar manner. What wouldhave happened if I had not had a cigar? I shud-der yet. What business had he to be talkingwith robbers in a lonely place?"

But Charles Gould, openly preoccupied now,gave not a sign, made no sound. The impene-trability of the embodied Gould Concessionhad its surface shades. To be dumb is merely afatal affliction; but the King of Sulaco hadwords enough to give him all the mysteriousweight of a taciturn force. His silences, backedby the power of speech, had as many shades of

significance as uttered words in the way of as-sent, of doubt, of negation—even of simplecomment. Some seemed to say plainly, "Thinkit over"; others meant clearly, "Go ahead"; asimple, low "I see," with an affirmative nod, atthe end of a patient listening half-hour was theequivalent of a verbal contract, which men hadlearned to trust implicitly, since behind it allthere was the great San Tome mine, the headand front of the material interests, so strongthat it depended on no man's goodwill in thewhole length and breadth of the OccidentalProvince—that is, on no goodwill which itcould not buy ten times over. But to the littlehook-nosed man from Esmeralda, anxiousabout the export of hides, the silence of CharlesGould portended a failure. Evidently this wasno time for extending a modest man's business.He enveloped in a swift mental malediction thewhole country, with all its inhabitants, parti-sans of Ribiera and Montero alike; and therewere incipient tears in his mute anger at the

thought of the innumerable ox-hides going towaste upon the dreamy expanse of the Campo,with its single palms rising like ships at seawithin the perfect circle of the horizon, itsclumps of heavy timber motionless like solidislands of leaves above the running waves ofgrass. There were hides there, rotting, with noprofit to anybody—rotting where they hadbeen dropped by men called away to attend theurgent necessities of political revolutions. Thepractical, mercantile soul of Senor Hirsch re-belled against all that foolishness, while he wastaking a respectful but disconcerted leave of themight and majesty of the San Tome mine in theperson of Charles Gould. He could not restraina heart-broken murmur, wrung out of his veryaching heart, as it were.

"It is a great, great foolishness, Don Carlos, allthis. The price of hides in Hamburg is goneup—up. Of course the Ribierist Government

will do away with all that—when it gets estab-lished firmly. Meantime—"

He sighed.

"Yes, meantime," repeated Charles Gould, in-scrutably.

The other shrugged his shoulders. But he wasnot ready to go yet. There was a little matter hewould like to mention very much if permitted.It appeared he had some good friends in Ham-burg (he murmured the name of the firm) whowere very anxious to do business, in dynamite,he explained. A contract for dynamite with theSan Tome mine, and then, perhaps, later on,other mines, which were sure to—The littleman from Esmeralda was ready to enlarge, butCharles interrupted him. It seemed as thoughthe patience of the Senor Administrador wasgiving way at last.

"Senor Hirsch," he said, "I have enough dyna-mite stored up at the mountain to send it downcrashing into the valley"—his voice rose a lit-tle—"to send half Sulaco into the air if I liked."

Charles Gould smiled at the round, startledeyes of the dealer in hides, who was murmur-ing hastily, "Just so. Just so." And now he wasgoing. It was impossible to do business in ex-plosives with an Administrador so well pro-vided and so discouraging. He had sufferedagonies in the saddle and had exposed himselfto the atrocities of the bandit Hernandez fornothing at all. Neither hides nor dynamite—and the very shoulders of the enterprisingIsraelite expressed dejection. At the door hebowed low to the engineer-in-chief. But at thebottom of the stairs in the patio he stoppedshort, with his podgy hand over his lips in anattitude of meditative astonishment.

"What does he want to keep so much dynamitefor?" he muttered. "And why does he talk likethis to me?"

The engineer-in-chief, looking in at the door ofthe empty sala, whence the political tide hadebbed out to the last insignificant drop, noddedfamiliarly to the master of the house, standingmotionless like a tall beacon amongst the de-serted shoals of furniture.

"Good-night, I am going. Got my bike down-stairs. The railway will know where to go fordynamite should we get short at any time. Wehave done cutting and chopping for a whilenow. We shall begin soon to blast our waythrough."

"Don't come to me," said Charles Gould, withperfect serenity. "I shan't have an ounce tospare for anybody. Not an ounce. Not for myown brother, if I had a brother, and he were the

engineer-in-chief of the most promising railwayin the world."

"What's that?" asked the engineer-in-chief, withequanimity. "Unkindness?"

"No," said Charles Gould, stolidly. "Policy."

"Radical, I should think," the engineer-in-chiefobserved from the doorway.

"Is that the right name?" Charles Gould said,from the middle of the room.

"I mean, going to the roots, you know," the en-gineer explained, with an air of enjoyment.

"Why, yes," Charles pronounced, slowly. "TheGould Concession has struck such deep roots inthis country, in this province, in that gorge ofthe mountains, that nothing but dynamite shallbe allowed to dislodge it from there. It's mychoice. It's my last card to play."

The engineer-in-chief whistled low. "A prettygame," he said, with a shade of discretion. "Andhave you told Holroyd of that extraordinarytrump card you hold in your hand?"

"Card only when it's played; when it falls at theend of the game. Till then you may call it a—a—"

"Weapon," suggested the railway man.

"No. You may call it rather an argument," cor-rected Charles Gould, gently. "And that's howI've presented it to Mr. Holroyd."

"And what did he say to it?" asked the engi-neer, with undisguised interest.

"He"—Charles Gould spoke after a slightpause—"he said something about holding onlike grim death and putting our trust in God. Ishould imagine he must have been rather star-tled. But then"—pursued the Administrador of

the San Tome mine—"but then, he is very faraway, you know, and, as they say in this coun-try, God is very high above."

The engineer's appreciative laugh died awaydown the stairs, where the Madonna with theChild on her arm seemed to look after his shak-ing broad back from her shallow niche.

CHAPTER SIX

A profound stillness reigned in the Casa Gould.The master of the house, walking along thecorredor, opened the door of his room, and sawhis wife sitting in a big armchair—his ownsmoking armchair—thoughtful, contemplatingher little shoes. And she did not raise her eyeswhen he walked in.

"Tired?" asked Charles Gould.

"A little," said Mrs. Gould. Still without lookingup, she added with feeling, "There is an awfulsense of unreality about all this."

Charles Gould, before the long table strewnwith papers, on which lay a hunting crop and apair of spurs, stood looking at his wife: "Theheat and dust must have been awful this after-noon by the waterside," he murmured, sympa-thetically. "The glare on the water must havebeen simply terrible."

"One could close one's eyes to the glare," saidMrs. Gould. "But, my dear Charley, it is im-possible for me to close my eyes to our posi-tion; to this awful . . ."

She raised her eyes and looked at her husband'sface, from which all sign of sympathy or anyother feeling had disappeared. "Why don't youtell me something?" she almost wailed.

"I thought you had understood me perfectlyfrom the first," Charles Gould said, slowly. "Ithought we had said all there was to say a longtime ago. There is nothing to say now. Therewere things to be done. We have done them;we have gone on doing them. There is no goingback now. I don't suppose that, even from thefirst, there was really any possible way back.And, what's more, we can't even afford to standstill."

"Ah, if one only knew how far you mean to go,"said his wife inwardly trembling, but in an al-most playful tone.

"Any distance, any length, of course," was theanswer, in a matter-of-fact tone, which causedMrs. Gould to make another effort to repress ashudder.

She stood up, smiling graciously, and her littlefigure seemed to be diminished still more by

the heavy mass of her hair and the long train ofher gown.

"But always to success," she said, persuasively.

Charles Gould, enveloping her in the steelyblue glance of his attentive eyes, answeredwithout hesitation—

"Oh, there is no alternative."

He put an immense assurance into his tone. Asto the words, this was all that his consciencewould allow him to say.

Mrs. Gould's smile remained a shade too longupon her lips. She murmured—

"I will leave you; I've a slight headache. Theheat, the dust, were indeed—I suppose you aregoing back to the mine before the morning?"

"At midnight," said Charles Gould. "We arebringing down the silver to-morrow. Then I

shall take three whole days off in town withyou."

"Ah, you are going to meet the escort. I shall beon the balcony at five o'clock to see you pass.Till then, good-bye."

Charles Gould walked rapidly round the table,and, seizing her hands, bent down, pressingthem both to his lips. Before he straightenedhimself up again to his full height she had dis-engaged one to smooth his cheek with a lighttouch, as if he were a little boy.

"Try to get some rest for a couple of hours," shemurmured, with a glance at a hammockstretched in a distant part of the room. Her longtrain swished softly after her on the red tiles. Atthe door she looked back.

Two big lamps with unpolished glass globesbathed in a soft and abundant light the fourwhite walls of the room, with a glass case of

arms, the brass hilt of Henry Gould's cavalrysabre on its square of velvet, and the water-colour sketch of the San Tome gorge. And Mrs.Gould, gazing at the last in its black woodenframe, sighed out—

"Ah, if we had left it alone, Charley!"

"No," Charles Gould said, moodily; "it was im-possible to leave it alone."

"Perhaps it was impossible," Mrs. Gould admit-ted, slowly. Her lips quivered a little, but shesmiled with an air of dainty bravado. "We havedisturbed a good many snakes in that Paradise,Charley, haven't we?"

"Yes, I remember," said Charles Gould, "it wasDon Pepe who called the gorge the Paradise ofsnakes. No doubt we have disturbed a greatmany. But remember, my dear, that it is notnow as it was when you made that sketch." Hewaved his hand towards the small water-colour

hanging alone upon the great bare wall. "It isno longer a Paradise of snakes. We havebrought mankind into it, and we cannot turnour backs upon them to go and begin a new lifeelsewhere."

He confronted his wife with a firm, concen-trated gaze, which Mrs. Gould returned with abrave assumption of fearlessness before shewent out, closing the door gently after her.

In contrast with the white glaring room thedimly lit corredor had a restful mysteriousnessof a forest glade, suggested by the stems andthe leaves of the plants ranged along the balu-strade of the open side. In the streaks of lightfalling through the open doors of the reception-rooms, the blossoms, white and red and palelilac, came out vivid with the brilliance of flow-ers in a stream of sunshine; and Mrs. Gould,passing on, had the vividness of a figure seenin the clear patches of sun that chequer thegloom of open glades in the woods. The stones

in the rings upon her hand pressed to her fore-head glittered in the lamplight abreast of thedoor of the sala.

"Who's there?" she asked, in a startled voice. "Isthat you, Basilio?" She looked in, and saw Mar-tin Decoud walking about, with an air of hav-ing lost something, amongst the chairs andtables.

"Antonia has forgotten her fan in here," saidDecoud, with a strange air of distraction; "so Ientered to see."

But, even as he said this, he had obviously giv-en up his search, and walked straight towardsMrs. Gould, who looked at him with doubtfulsurprise.

"Senora," he began, in a low voice.

"What is it, Don Martin?" asked Mrs. Gould.And then she added, with a slight laugh, "I am

so nervous to-day," as if to explain the eager-ness of the question.

"Nothing immediately dangerous," said De-coud, who now could not conceal his agitation."Pray don't distress yourself. No, really, youmust not distress yourself."

Mrs. Gould, with her candid eyes very wideopen, her lips composed into a smile, was stea-dying herself with a little bejewelled handagainst the side of the door.

"Perhaps you don't know how alarming youare, appearing like this unexpectedly—"

"I! Alarming!" he protested, sincerely vexedand surprised. "I assure you that I am not in theleast alarmed myself. A fan is lost; well, it willbe found again. But I don't think it is here. It isa fan I am looking for. I cannot understand howAntonia could—Well! Have you found it, ami-go?"

"No, senor," said behind Mrs. Gould the softvoice of Basilio, the head servant of the Casa. "Idon't think the senorita could have left it in thishouse at all."

"Go and look for it in the patio again. Go now,my friend; look for it on the steps, under thegate; examine every flagstone; search for it till Icome down again. . . . That fellow"—he ad-dressed himself in English to Mrs. Gould—"isalways stealing up behind one's back on hisbare feet. I set him to look for that fan directly Icame in to justify my reappearance, my suddenreturn."

He paused and Mrs. Gould said, amiably, "Youare always welcome." She paused for a second,too. "But I am waiting to learn the cause of yourreturn."

Decoud affected suddenly the utmost nonchal-ance.

"I can't bear to be spied upon. Oh, the cause?Yes, there is a cause; there is something elsethat is lost besides Antonia's favourite fan. As Iwas walking home after seeing Don Jose andAntonia to their house, the Capataz de Carga-dores, riding down the street, spoke to me."

"Has anything happened to the Violas?" in-quired Mrs. Gould.

"The Violas? You mean the old Garibaldinowho keeps the hotel where the engineers live?Nothing happened there. The Capataz saidnothing of them; he only told me that the tele-graphist of the Cable Company was walking onthe Plaza, bareheaded, looking out for me.There is news from the interior, Mrs. Gould. Ishould rather say rumours of news."

"Good news?" said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.

"Worthless, I should think. But if I must definethem, I would say bad. They are to the effect

that a two days' battle had been fought nearSta. Marta, and that the Ribierists are defeated.It must have happened a few days ago—perhaps a week. The rumour has just reachedCayta, and the man in charge of the cable sta-tion there has telegraphed the news to his col-league here. We might just as well have keptBarrios in Sulaco."

"What's to be done now?" murmured Mrs.Gould.

"Nothing. He's at sea with the troops. He willget to Cayta in a couple of days' time and learnthe news there. What he will do then, who cansay? Hold Cayta? Offer his submission to Mon-tero? Disband his army—this last most likely,and go himself in one of the O.S.N. Company'ssteamers, north or south—to Valparaiso or toSan Francisco, no matter where. Our Barrioshas a great practice in exiles and repatriations,which mark the points in the political game."

Decoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs.Gould, added, tentatively, as it were, "And yet,if we had could have been done."

"Montero victorious, completely victorious!"Mrs. Gould breathed out in a tone of unbelief.

"A canard, probably. That sort of bird ishatched in great numbers in such times asthese. And even if it were true? Well, let us putthings at their worst, let us say it is true."

"Then everything is lost," said Mrs. Gould, withthe calmness of despair.

Suddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed tosee Decoud's tremendous excitement under itscloak of studied carelessness. It was, indeed,becoming visible in his audacious and watchfulstare, in the curve, half-reckless, half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French phrasecame upon them as if, for this Costaguanero of

the Boulevard, that had been the only forciblelanguage—

"Non, Madame. Rien n'est perdu."

It electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbedattitude, and she said, vivaciously—

"What would you think of doing?"

But already there was something of mockery inDecoud's suppressed excitement.

"What would you expect a true Costaguaneroto do? Another revolution, of course. On myword of honour, Mrs. Gould, I believe I am atrue hijo del pays, a true son of the country,whatever Father Corbelan may say. And I'mnot so much of an unbeliever as not to havefaith in my own ideas, in my own remedies, inmy own desires."

"Yes," said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.

"You don't seem convinced," Decoud went onagain in French. "Say, then, in my passions."

Mrs. Gould received this addition unflinching-ly. To understand it thoroughly she did notrequire to hear his muttered assurance—

"There is nothing I would not do for the sake ofAntonia. There is nothing I am not prepared toundertake. There is no risk I am not ready torun."

Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in thisvoicing of his thoughts. "You would not believeme if I were to say that it is the love of thecountry which—"

She made a sort of discouraged protest with herarm, as if to express that she had given up ex-pecting that motive from any one.

"A Sulaco revolution," Decoud pursued in aforcible undertone. "The Great Cause may be

served here, on the very spot of its inception, inthe place of its birth, Mrs. Gould."

Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtful-ly, she made a step away from the door.

"You are not going to speak to your husband?"Decoud arrested her anxiously.

"But you will need his help?"

"No doubt," Decoud admitted without hesita-tion. "Everything turns upon the San Tomemine, but I would rather he didn't know any-thing as yet of my—my hopes."

A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould's face,and Decoud, approaching, explained confiden-tially—

"Don't you see, he's such an idealist."

Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grewdarker at the same time.

"Charley an idealist!" she said, as if to herself,wonderingly. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Yes," conceded Decoud, "it's a wonderful thingto say with the sight of the San Tome mine, thegreatest fact in the whole of South America,perhaps, before our very eyes. But look even atthat, he has idealized this fact to a point—" Hepaused. "Mrs. Gould, are you aware to whatpoint he has idealized the existence, the worth,the meaning of the San Tome mine? Are youaware of it?"

He must have known what he was talkingabout.

The effect he expected was produced. Mrs.Gould, ready to take fire, gave it up suddenlywith a low little sound that resembled a moan.

"What do you know?" she asked in a feeblevoice.

"Nothing," answered Decoud, firmly. "But,then, don't you see, he's an Englishman?"

"Well, what of that?" asked Mrs. Gould.

"Simply that he cannot act or exist withoutidealizing every simple feeling, desire, orachievement. He could not believe his ownmotives if he did not make them first a part ofsome fairy tale. The earth is not quite goodenough for him, I fear. Do you excuse myfrankness? Besides, whether you excuse it ornot, it is part of the truth of things which hurtsthe—what do you call them?—the Anglo-Saxon's susceptibilities, and at the present mo-ment I don't feel as if I could treat seriouslyeither his conception of things or—if you allowme to say so—or yet yours."

Mrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. "Isuppose Antonia understands you thorough-ly?"

"Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure thatshe approves. That, however, makes no differ-ence. I am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs.Gould."

"Your idea, of course, is separation," she said.

"Separation, of course," declared Martin. "Yes;separation of the whole Occidental Provincefrom the rest of the unquiet body. But my trueidea, the only one I care for, is not to be sepa-rated from Antonia."

"And that is all?" asked Mrs. Gould, withoutseverity.

"Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself aboutmy motives. She won't leave Sulaco for mysake, therefore Sulaco must leave the rest of theRepublic to its fate. Nothing could be clearerthan that. I like a clearly defined situation. Icannot part with Antonia, therefore the one andindivisible Republic of Costaguana must be

made to part with its western province. Fortu-nately it happens to be also a sound policy. Therichest, the most fertile part of this land may besaved from anarchy. Personally, I care little,very little; but it's a fact that the establishmentof Montero in power would mean death to me.In all the proclamations of general pardonwhich I have seen, my name, with a few others,is specially excepted. The brothers hate me, asyou know very well, Mrs. Gould; and behold,here is the rumour of them having won a battle.You say that supposing it is true, I have plentyof time to run away."

The slight, protesting murmur on the part ofMrs. Gould made him pause for a moment,while he looked at her with a sombre and reso-lute glance.

"Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would runaway if it served that which at present is myonly desire. I am courageous enough to saythat, and to do it, too. But women, even our

women, are idealists. It is Antonia that won'trun away. A novel sort of vanity."

"You call it vanity," said Mrs. Gould, in ashocked voice.

"Say pride, then, which. Father Corbelan wouldtell you, is a mortal sin. But I am not proud. Iam simply too much in love to run away. Atthe same time I want to live. There is no lovefor a dead man. Therefore it is necessary thatSulaco should not recognize the victoriousMontero."

"And you think my husband will give you hissupport?"

"I think he can be drawn into it, like all idea-lists, when he once sees a sentimental basis forhis action. But I wouldn't talk to him. Mere cle-ar facts won't appeal to his sentiment. It ismuch better for him to convince himself in hisown way. And, frankly, I could not, perhaps,

just now pay sufficient respect to either his mo-tives or even, perhaps, to yours, Mrs. Gould."

It was evident that Mrs. Gould was very de-termined not to be offended. She smiled vague-ly, while she seemed to think the matter over.As far as she could judge from the girl's half-confidences, Antonia understood that youngman. Obviously there was promise of safety inhis plan, or rather in his idea. Moreover, rightor wrong, the idea could do no harm. And itwas quite possible, also, that the rumour wasfalse.

"You have some sort of a plan," she said.

"Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him goon then; he will hold Cayta, which is the doorof the sea route to Sulaco. They cannot send asufficient force over the mountains. No; noteven to cope with the band of Hernandez. Me-antime we shall organize our resistance here.And for that, this very Hernandez will be use-

ful. He has defeated troops as a bandit; he willno doubt accomplish the same thing if he ismade a colonel or even a general. You knowthe country well enough not to be shocked bywhat I say, Mrs. Gould. I have heard you assertthat this poor bandit was the living, breathingexample of cruelty, injustice, stupidity, andoppression, that ruin men's souls as well astheir fortunes in this country. Well, there wouldbe some poetical retribution in that man arisingto crush the evils which had driven an honestranchero into a life of crime. A fine idea of re-tribution in that, isn't there?"

Decoud had dropped easily into English, whichhe spoke with precision, very correctly, butwith too many z sounds.

"Think also of your hospitals, of your schools,of your ailing mothers and feeble old men, ofall that population which you and your hus-band have brought into the rocky gorge of SanTome. Are you not responsible to your cons-

cience for all these people? Is it not worth whileto make another effort, which is not at all sodesperate as it looks, rather than—"

Decoud finished his thought with an upwardtoss of the arm, suggesting annihilation; andMrs. Gould turned away her head with a lookof horror.

"Why don't you say all this to my husband?"she asked, without looking at Decoud, whostood watching the effect of his words.

"Ah! But Don Carlos is so English," he began.Mrs. Gould interrupted—

"Leave that alone, Don Martin. He's as much aCostaguanero—No! He's more of a Costagua-nero than yourself."

"Sentimentalist, sentimentalist," Decoud almostcooed, in a tone of gentle and soothing deferen-ce. "Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner of

your people. I have been watching El Rey deSulaco since I came here on a fool's errand, andperhaps impelled by some treason of fate lur-king behind the unaccountable turns of a man'slife. But I don't matter, I am not a sentimenta-list, I cannot endow my personal desires with ashining robe of silk and jewels. Life is not forme a moral romance derived from the traditionof a pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am prac-tical. I am not afraid of my motives. But, par-don me, I have been rather carried away. WhatI wish to say is that I have been observing. Iwon't tell you what I have discovered—"

"No. That is unnecessary," whispered Mrs.Gould, once more averting her head.

"It is. Except one little fact, that your husbanddoes not like me. It's a small matter, which, inthe circumstances, seems to acquire a perfectlyridiculous importance. Ridiculous and immen-se; for, clearly, money is required for my plan,"

he reflected; then added, meaningly, "and wehave two sentimentalists to deal with."

"I don't know that I understand you, Don Mar-tin," said Mrs. Gould, coldly, preserving thelow key of their conversation. "But, speaking asif I did, who is the other?"

"The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,"Decoud whispered, lightly. "I think you un-derstand me very well. Women are idealists;but then they are so perspicacious."

But whatever was the reason of that remark,disparaging and complimentary at the sametime, Mrs. Gould seemed not to pay attentionto it. The name of Holroyd had given a newtone to her anxiety.

"The silver escort is coming down to the har-bour tomorrow; a whole six months' working,Don Martin!" she cried in dismay.

"Let it come down, then," breathed out Decoud,earnestly, almost into her ear.

"But if the rumour should get about, and espe-cially if it turned out true, troubles might breakout in the town," objected Mrs. Gould.

Decoud admitted that it was possible. He knewwell the town children of the Sulaco Campo:sullen, thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty,whatever great qualities their brothers of theplain might have had. But then there was thatother sentimentalist, who attached a strangelyidealistic meaning to concrete facts. This streamof silver must be kept flowing north to returnin the form of financial backing from the greathouse of Holroyd. Up at the mountain in thestrong room of the mine the silver bars wereworth less for his purpose than so much lead,from which at least bullets may be run. Let itcome down to the harbour, ready for shipment.

The next north-going steamer would carry it offfor the very salvation of the San Tome mine,which had produced so much treasure. And,moreover, the rumour was probably false, heremarked, with much conviction in his hurriedtone.

"Besides, senora," concluded Decoud, "we maysuppress it for many days. I have been talkingwith the telegraphist in the middle of the PlazaMayor; thus I am certain that we could nothave been overheard. There was not even abird in the air near us. And also let me tell yousomething more. I have been making friendswith this man called Nostromo, the Capataz.We had a conversation this very evening, Iwalking by the side of his horse as he rodeslowly out of the town just now. He promisedme that if a riot took place for any reason—even for the most political of reasons, you un-derstand—his Cargadores, an important part of

the populace, you will admit, should be foundon the side of the Europeans."

"He has promised you that?" Mrs. Gould inqui-red, with interest. "What made him make thatpromise to you?"

"Upon my word, I don't know," declared Deco-ud, in a slightly surprised tone. "He certainlypromised me that, but now you ask me why, Icould not tell you his reasons. He talked withhis usual carelessness, which, if he had beenanything else but a common sailor, I would calla pose or an affectation."

Decoud, interrupting himself, looked at Mrs.Gould curiously.

"Upon the whole," he continued, "I suppose heexpects something to his advantage from it.You mustn't forget that he does not exercise hisextraordinary power over the lower classeswithout a certain amount of personal risk and

without a great profusion in spending his mo-ney. One must pay in some way or other forsuch a solid thing as individual prestige. Hetold me after we made friends at a dance, in aPosada kept by a Mexican just outside thewalls, that he had come here to make his fortu-ne. I suppose he looks upon his prestige as asort of investment."

"Perhaps he prizes it for its own sake," Mrs.Gould said in a tone as if she were repelling anundeserved aspersion. "Viola, the Garibaldino,with whom he has lived for some years, callshim the Incorruptible."

"Ah! he belongs to the group of your protegesout there towards the harbour, Mrs. Gould.Muy bien. And Captain Mitchell calls himwonderful. I have heard no end of tales of hisstrength, his audacity, his fidelity. No end offine things. H'm! incorruptible! It is indeed aname of honour for the Capataz of the Carga-dores of Sulaco. Incorruptible! Fine, but vague.

However, I suppose he's sensible, too. And Italked to him upon that sane and practical as-sumption."

"I prefer to think him disinterested, and there-fore trustworthy," Mrs. Gould said, with thenearest approach to curtness it was in her natu-re to assume.

"Well, if so, then the silver will be still moresafe. Let it come down, senora. Let it comedown, so that it may go north and return to usin the shape of credit."

Mrs. Gould glanced along the corredor towardsthe door of her husband's room. Decoud, wat-ching her as if she had his fate in her hands,detected an almost imperceptible nod of assent.He bowed with a smile, and, putting his handinto the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out afan of light feathers set upon painted leaves ofsandal-wood. "I had it in my pocket," he mur-

mured, triumphantly, "for a plausible pretext."He bowed again. "Good-night, senora."

Mrs. Gould continued along the corredor awayfrom her husband's room. The fate of the SanTome mine was lying heavy upon her heart. Itwas a long time now since she had begun tofear it. It had been an idea. She had watched itwith misgivings turning into a fetish, and nowthe fetish had grown into a monstrous andcrushing weight. It was as if the inspiration oftheir early years had left her heart to turn into awall of silver-bricks, erected by the silent workof evil spirits, between her and her husband.He seemed to dwell alone within a circumvalla-tion of precious metal, leaving her outside withher school, her hospital, the sick mothers andthe feeble old men, mere insignificant vestigesof the initial inspiration. "Those poor people!"she murmured to herself.

Below she heard the voice of Martin Decoud inthe patio speaking loudly:

"I have found Dona Antonia's fan, Basilio. Lo-ok, here it is!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was part of what Decoud would have calledhis sane materialism that he did not believe inthe possibility of friendship between man andwoman.

The one exception he allowed confirmed, hemaintained, that absolute rule. Friendship waspossible between brother and sister, meaningby friendship the frank unreserve, as beforeanother human being, of thoughts and sensa-tions; all the objectless and necessary sincerityof one's innermost life trying to re-act upon theprofound sympathies of another existence.

His favourite sister, the handsome, slightly ar-bitrary and resolute angel, ruling the father andmother Decoud in the first-floor apartments ofa very fine Parisian house, was the recipient ofMartin Decoud's confidences as to his thoughts,actions, purposes, doubts, and even failures. . . .

"Prepare our little circle in Paris for the birth ofanother South American Republic. One more orless, what does it matter? They may come intothe world like evil flowers on a hotbed of rotteninstitutions; but the seed of this one has germi-nated in your brother's brain, and that will beenough for your devoted assent. I am writingthis to you by the light of a single candle, in asort of inn, near the harbour, kept by an Italiancalled Viola, a protege of Mrs. Gould. The who-le building, which, for all I know, may havebeen contrived by a Conquistador farmer of thepearl fishery three hundred years ago, is perfec-tly silent. So is the plain between the town andthe harbour; silent, but not so dark as the hou-

se, because the pickets of Italian workmenguarding the railway have lighted little fires allalong the line. It was not so quiet around hereyesterday. We had an awful riot—a suddenoutbreak of the populace, which was not sup-pressed till late today. Its object, no doubt, wasloot, and that was defeated, as you may havelearned already from the cablegram sent viaSan Francisco and New York last night, whenthe cables were still open. You have read alrea-dy there that the energetic action of the Euro-peans of the railway has saved the town fromdestruction, and you may believe that. I wroteout the cable myself. We have no Reuter'sagency man here. I have also fired at the mobfrom the windows of the club, in company withsome other young men of position. Our objectwas to keep the Calle de la Constitucion clearfor the exodus of the ladies and children, whohave taken refuge on board a couple of cargoships now in the harbour here. That was yes-terday. You should also have learned from the

cable that the missing President, Ribiera, whohad disappeared after the battle of Sta. Marta,has turned up here in Sulaco by one of thosestrange coincidences that are almost incredible,riding on a lame mule into the very midst ofthe street fighting. It appears that he had fled,in company of a muleteer called Bonifacio,across the mountains from the threats of Mon-tero into the arms of an enraged mob.

"The Capataz of Cargadores, that Italian sailorof whom I have written to you before, has sa-ved him from an ignoble death. That man se-ems to have a particular talent for being on thespot whenever there is something picturesqueto be done.

"He was with me at four o'clock in the morningat the offices of the Porvenir, where he had tur-ned up so early in order to warn me of the co-ming trouble, and also to assure me that hewould keep his Cargadores on the side of or-der. When the full daylight came we were loo-

king together at the crowd on foot and on hor-seback, demonstrating on the Plaza and shyingstones at the windows of the Intendencia. Nos-tromo (that is the name they call him by here)was pointing out to me his Cargadores inters-persed in the mob.

"The sun shines late upon Sulaco, for it has firstto climb above the mountains. In that clearmorning light, brighter than twilight, Nostro-mo saw right across the vast Plaza, at the end ofthe street beyond the cathedral, a mounted manapparently in difficulties with a yelling knot ofleperos. At once he said to me, 'That's a stran-ger. What is it they are doing to him?' Then hetook out the silver whistle he is in the habit ofusing on the wharf (this man seems to disdainthe use of any metal less precious than silver)and blew into it twice, evidently a preconcertedsignal for his Cargadores. He ran out immedia-tely, and they rallied round him. I ran out, too,but was too late to follow them and help in the

rescue of the stranger, whose animal had fallen.I was set upon at once as a hated aristocrat, andwas only too glad to get into the club, whereDon Jaime Berges (you may remember himvisiting at our house in Paris some three yearsago) thrust a sporting gun into my hands. Theywere already firing from the windows. Therewere little heaps of cartridges lying about onthe open card-tables. I remember a couple ofoverturned chairs, some bottles rolling on thefloor amongst the packs of cards scattered sud-denly as the caballeros rose from their game toopen fire upon the mob. Most of the youngmen had spent the night at the club in the ex-pectation of some such disturbance. In two ofthe candelabra, on the consoles, the candleswere burning down in their sockets. A largeiron nut, probably stolen from the railwayworkshops, flew in from the street as I entered,and broke one of the large mirrors set in thewall. I noticed also one of the club servants tiedup hand and foot with the cords of the curtain

and flung in a corner. I have a vague recollec-tion of Don Jaime assuring me hastily that thefellow had been detected putting poison intothe dishes at supper. But I remember distinctlyhe was shrieking for mercy, without stoppingat all, continuously, and so absolutely disre-garded that nobody even took the trouble togag him. The noise he made was so disagreea-ble that I had half a mind to do it myself. Butthere was no time to waste on such trifles. Itook my place at one of the windows and beganfiring.

"I didn't learn till later in the afternoon whom itwas that Nostromo, with his Cargadores andsome Italian workmen as well, had managed tosave from those drunken rascals. That man hasa peculiar talent when anything striking to theimagination has to be done. I made that remarkto him afterwards when we met after some sortof order had been restored in the town, and theanswer he made rather surprised me. He said

quite moodily, 'And how much do I get forthat, senor?' Then it dawned upon me that per-haps this man's vanity has been satiated by theadulation of the common people and the confi-dence of his superiors!"

Decoud paused to light a cigarette, then, withhis head still over his writing, he blew a cloudof smoke, which seemed to rebound from thepaper. He took up the pencil again.

"That was yesterday evening on the Plaza, whi-le he sat on the steps of the cathedral, his handsbetween his knees, holding the bridle of hisfamous silver-grey mare. He had led his bodyof Cargadores splendidly all day long. He loo-ked fatigued. I don't know how I looked. Verydirty, I suppose. But I suppose I also lookedpleased. From the time the fugitive Presidenthad been got off to the S. S. Minerva, the tide ofsuccess had turned against the mob. They hadbeen driven off the harbour, and out of the bet-ter streets of the town, into their own maze of

ruins and tolderias. You must understand thatthis riot, whose primary object was undoubted-ly the getting hold of the San Tome silver sto-red in the lower rooms of the Custom House(besides the general looting of the Ricos), hadacquired a political colouring from the fact oftwo Deputies to the Provincial Assembly, Seno-res Gamacho and Fuentes, both from Bolson,putting themselves at the head of it—late in theafternoon, it is true, when the mob, disappoin-ted in their hopes of loot, made a stand in thenarrow streets to the cries of 'Viva la Libertad!Down with Feudalism!' (I wonder what theyimagine feudalism to be?) 'Down with theGoths and Paralytics.' I suppose the SenoresGamacho and Fuentes knew what they weredoing. They are prudent gentlemen. In the As-sembly they called themselves Moderates, andopposed every energetic measure with phi-lanthropic pensiveness. At the first rumours ofMontero's victory, they showed a subtle changeof the pensive temper, and began to defy poor

Don Juste Lopez in his Presidential tribunewith an effrontery to which the poor man couldonly respond by a dazed smoothing of his be-ard and the ringing of the presidential bell.Then, when the downfall of the Ribierist causebecame confirmed beyond the shadow of adoubt, they have blossomed into convincedLiberals, acting together as if they were Siame-se twins, and ultimately taking charge, as itwere, of the riot in the name of Monterist prin-ciples.

"Their last move of eight o'clock last night wasto organize themselves into a Monterist Com-mittee which sits, as far as I know, in a posadakept by a retired Mexican bull-fighter, a greatpolitician, too, whose name I have forgotten.Thence they have issued a communication tous, the Goths and Paralytics of the AmarillaClub (who have our own committee), invitingus to come to some provisional understandingfor a truce, in order, they have the impudence

to say, that the noble cause of Liberty 'shouldnot be stained by the criminal excesses of Con-servative selfishness!' As I came out to sit withNostromo on the cathedral steps the club wasbusy considering a proper reply in the principalroom, littered with exploded cartridges, with alot of broken glass, blood smears, candlesticks,and all sorts of wreckage on the floor. But allthis is nonsense. Nobody in the town has anyreal power except the railway engineers, whosemen occupy the dismantled houses acquired bythe Company for their town station on one sideof the Plaza, and Nostromo, whose Cargadoreswere sleeping under the arcades along the frontof Anzani's shops. A fire of broken furnitureout of the Intendencia saloons, mostly gilt, wasburning on the Plaza, in a high flame swayingright upon the statue of Charles IV. The deadbody of a man was lying on the steps of thepedestal, his arms thrown wide open, and hissombrero covering his face—the attention ofsome friend, perhaps. The light of the flames

touched the foliage of the first trees on theAlameda, and played on the end of a side streetnear by, blocked up by a jumble of ox-carts anddead bullocks. Sitting on one of the carcasses, alepero, muffled up, smoked a cigarette. It was atruce, you understand. The only other livingbeing on the Plaza besides ourselves was aCargador walking to and fro, with a long, bareknife in his hand, like a sentry before the Arca-des, where his friends were sleeping. And theonly other spot of light in the dark town werethe lighted windows of the club, at the cornerof the Calle."

After having written so far, Don Martin Deco-ud, the exotic dandy of the Parisian boulevard,got up and walked across the sanded floor ofthe cafe at one end of the Albergo of UnitedItaly, kept by Giorgio Viola, the old companionof Garibaldi. The highly coloured lithograph ofthe Faithful Hero seemed to look dimly, in thelight 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 metby a darkness so impenetrable that he could seeneither the mountains nor the town, nor yet thebuildings near the harbour; and there was not asound, as if the tremendous obscurity of thePlacid Gulf, spreading from the waters over theland, had made it dumb as well as blind. Pre-sently Decoud felt a light tremor of the floorand a distant clank of iron. A bright white lightappeared, deep in the darkness, growing biggerwith a thundering noise. The rolling stockusually kept on the sidings in Rincon was beingrun back to the yards for safe keeping. Like amysterious stirring of the darkness behind theheadlight of the engine, the train passed in agust 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 endof the last flat car, a negro, in white trousersand naked to the waist, swinging a blazing

torch basket incessantly with a circular move-ment of his bare arm. Decoud did not stir.

Behind him, on the back of the chair fromwhich he had risen, hung his elegant Parisianovercoat, with a pearl-grey silk lining. Butwhen he turned back to come to the table thecandlelight fell upon a face that was grimy andscratched. His rosy lips were blackened withheat, the smoke of gun-powder. Dirt and rusttarnished the lustre of his short beard. His shirtcollar and cuffs were crumpled; the blue silkentie hung down his breast like a rag; a greasysmudge crossed his white brow. He had nottaken off his clothing nor used water, except tosnatch a hasty drink greedily, for some fortyhours. An awful restlessness had made him itsown, had marked him with all the signs of des-perate strife, and put a dry, sleepless stare intohis eyes. He murmured to himself in a hoarsevoice, "I wonder if there's any bread here," loo-ked vaguely about him, then dropped into the

chair and took the pencil up again. He becameaware he had not eaten anything for manyhours.

It occurred to him that no one could unders-tand him so well as his sister. In the most scep-tical heart there lurks at such moments, whenthe chances of existence are involved, a desireto leave a correct impression of the feelings,like a light by which the action may be seenwhen personality is gone, gone where no lightof investigation can ever reach the truth whichevery death takes out of the world. Therefore,instead of looking for something to eat, ortrying to snatch an hour or so of sleep, Decoudwas filling the pages of a large pocket-bookwith a letter to his sister.

In the intimacy of that intercourse he could notkeep out his weariness, his great fatigue, theclose touch of his bodily sensations. He beganagain as if he were talking to her. With almost

an illusion of her presence, he wrote the phrase,"I am very hungry."

"I have the feeling of a great solitude aroundme," he continued. "Is it, perhaps, because I amthe only man with a definite idea in his head, inthe complete collapse of every resolve, inten-tion, and hope about me? But the solitude isalso very real. All the engineers are out, andhave been for two days, looking after the pro-perty of the National Central Railway, of thatgreat Costaguana undertaking which is to putmoney into the pockets of Englishmen,Frenchmen, Americans, Germans, and Godknows who else. The silence about me is omi-nous. There is above the middle part of thishouse a sort of first floor, with narrow openingslike loopholes for windows, probably used inold times for the better defence against the sa-vages, when the persistent barbarism of ournative continent did not wear the black coats ofpoliticians, but went about yelling, half-naked,

with bows and arrows in its hands. The womanof the house is dying up there, I believe, all alo-ne with her old husband. There is a narrowstaircase, the sort of staircase one man couldeasily defend against a mob, leading up there,and I have just heard, through the thickness ofthe wall, the old fellow going down into theirkitchen for something or other. It was a sort ofnoise a mouse might make behind the plasterof a wall. All the servants they had ran awayyesterday and have not returned yet, if everthey do. For the rest, there are only two chil-dren here, two girls. The father has sent themdownstairs, and they have crept into this cafe,perhaps because I am here. They huddle toget-her in a corner, in each other's arms; I just noti-ced them a few minutes ago, and I feel morelonely than ever."

Decoud turned half round in his chair, and as-ked, "Is there any bread here?"

Linda's dark head was shaken negatively inresponse, above the fair head of her sister nes-tling on her breast.

"You couldn't get me some bread?" insistedDecoud. The child did not move; he saw herlarge eyes stare at him very dark from the cor-ner. "You're not afraid of me?" he said.

"No," said Linda, "we are not afraid of you. Youcame here with Gian' Battista."

"You mean Nostromo?" said Decoud.

"The English call him so, but that is no nameeither for man or beast," said the girl, passingher hand gently over her sister's hair.

"But he lets people call him so," remarked De-coud.

"Not in this house," retorted the child.

"Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then."

Decoud gave up the point, and after writingsteadily for a while turned round again.

"When do you expect him back?" he asked.

"After he brought you here he rode off to fetchthe Senor Doctor from the town for mother. Hewill be back soon."

"He stands a good chance of getting shot so-mewhere on the road," Decoud murmured tohimself audibly; and Linda declared in herhigh-pitched voice—

"Nobody would dare to fire a shot at Gian' Bat-tista."

"You believe that," asked Decoud, "do you?"

"I know it," said the child, with conviction."There is no one in this place brave enough toattack Gian' Battista."

"It doesn't require much bravery to pull a trig-ger behind a bush," muttered Decoud to him-self. "Fortunately, the night is dark, or therewould be but little chance of saving the silverof the mine."

He turned again to his pocket-book, glancedback through the pages, and again started hispencil.

"That was the position yesterday, after the Mi-nerva with the fugitive President had gone outof harbour, and the rioters had been drivenback into the side lanes of the town. I sat on thesteps of the cathedral with Nostromo, aftersending out the cable message for the informa-tion of a more or less attentive world. Strangelyenough, though the offices of the Cable Com-pany are in the same building as the Porvenir,the mob, which has thrown my presses out ofthe window and scattered the type all over thePlaza, has been kept from interfering with theinstruments on the other side of the courtyard.

As I sat talking with Nostromo, Bernhardt, thetelegraphist, came out from under the Arcadeswith a piece of paper in his hand. The little manhad tied himself up to an enormous sword andwas hung all over with revolvers. He is ridicu-lous, but the bravest German of his size thatever tapped the key of a Morse transmitter. Hehad received the message from Cayta reportingthe transports with Barrios's army just enteringthe port, and ending with the words, 'The grea-test enthusiasm prevails.' I walked off to drinksome water at the fountain, and I was shot atfrom the Alameda by somebody hiding behinda tree. But I drank, and didn't care; with Barriosin Cayta and the great Cordillera between usand Montero's victorious army I seemed, not-withstanding Messrs. Gamacho and Fuentes, tohold my new State in the hollow of my hand. Iwas ready to sleep, but when I got as far as theCasa Gould I found the patio full of woundedlaid out on straw. Lights were burning, and inthat enclosed courtyard on that hot night a faint

odour of chloroform and blood hung about. Atone end Doctor Monygham, the doctor of themine, was dressing the wounds; at the other,near the stairs, Father Corbelan, kneeling, liste-ned to the confession of a dying Cargador. Mrs.Gould was walking about through these sham-bles with a large bottle in one hand and a lot ofcotton wool in the other. She just looked at meand never even winked. Her camerista wasfollowing her, also holding a bottle, and sob-bing gently to herself.

"I busied myself for some time in fetching wa-ter from the cistern for the wounded. After-wards I wandered upstairs, meeting some ofthe first ladies of Sulaco, paler than I had everseen them before, with bandages over theirarms. Not all of them had fled to the ships. Agood many had taken refuge for the day in theCasa Gould. On the landing a girl, with her hairhalf down, was kneeling against the wall underthe niche where stands a Madonna in blue ro-

bes and a gilt crown on her head. I think it wasthe eldest Miss Lopez; I couldn't see her face,but I remember looking at the high French heelof her little shoe. She did not make a sound, shedid not stir, she was not sobbing; she remainedthere, perfectly still, all black against the whitewall, a silent figure of passionate piety. I amsure she was no more frightened than the otherwhite-faced ladies I met carrying bandages.One was sitting on the top step tearing a pieceof linen hastily into strips—the young wife ofan elderly man of fortune here. She interruptedherself to wave her hand to my bow, as thoughshe were in her carriage on the Alameda. Thewomen of our country are worth looking atduring a revolution. The rouge and pearl pow-der fall off, together with that passive attitudetowards the outer world which education, tra-dition, custom impose upon them from the ear-liest infancy. I thought of your face, which fromyour infancy had the stamp of intelligence ins-tead of that patient and resigned cast which

appears when some political commotion tearsdown the veil of cosmetics and usage.

"In the great sala upstairs a sort of Junta of No-tables was sitting, the remnant of the vanishedProvincial Assembly. Don Juste Lopez had hadhalf his beard singed off at the muzzle of a tra-buco loaded with slugs, of which every onemissed him, providentially. And as he turnedhis head from side to side it was exactly as ifthere had been two men inside his frock-coat,one nobly whiskered and solemn, the otheruntidy and scared.

"They raised a cry of 'Decoud! Don Martin!' atmy entrance. I asked them, 'What are you deli-berating upon, gentlemen?' There did not seemto be any president, though Don Jose Avellanossat at the head of the table. They all answeredtogether, 'On the preservation of life and pro-perty.' 'Till the new officials arrive,' Don Justeexplained to me, with the solemn side of hisface offered to my view. It was as if a stream of

water had been poured upon my glowing ideaof a new State. There was a hissing sound inmy ears, and the room grew dim, as if sudden-ly filled with vapour.

"I walked up to the table blindly, as though Ihad been drunk. 'You are deliberating uponsurrender,' I said. They all sat still, with theirnoses over the sheet of paper each had beforehim, God only knows why. Only Don Jose hidhis face in his hands, muttering, 'Never, never!'But as I looked at him, it seemed to me that Icould have blown him away with my breath,he looked so frail, so weak, so worn out. Wha-tever happens, he will not survive. The decep-tion is too great for a man of his age; and hasn'the seen the sheets of 'Fifty Years of Misrule,'which we have begun printing on the pressesof the Porvenir, littering the Plaza, floating inthe gutters, fired out as wads for trabucos loa-ded with handfuls of type, blown in the wind,trampled in the mud? I have seen pages floa-

ting upon the very waters of the harbour. Itwould be unreasonable to expect him to survi-ve. It would be cruel.

"'Do you know,' I cried, 'what surrender meansto you, to your women, to your children, toyour property?'

"I declaimed for five minutes without drawingbreath, it seems to me, harping on our bestchances, on the ferocity of Montero, whom Imade out to be as great a beast as I have nodoubt he would like to be if he had intelligenceenough to conceive a systematic reign of terror.And then for another five minutes or more Ipoured out an impassioned appeal to their cou-rage and manliness, with all the passion of mylove for Antonia. For if ever man spoke well, itwould be from a personal feeling, denouncingan enemy, defending himself, or pleading forwhat really may be dearer than life. My deargirl, I absolutely thundered at them. It seemedas if my voice would burst the walls asunder,

and when I stopped I saw all their scared eyeslooking at me dubiously. And that was all theeffect I had produced! Only Don Jose's headhad sunk lower and lower on his breast. I bentmy ear to his withered lips, and made out hiswhisper, something like, 'In God's name, then,Martin, my son!' I don't know exactly. Therewas the name of God in it, I am certain. It se-ems to me I have caught his last breath—thebreath of his departing soul on his lips.

"He lives yet, it is true. I have seen him since;but it was only a senile body, lying on its back,covered to the chin, with open eyes, and so stillthat you might have said it was breathing nolonger. I left him thus, with Antonia kneelingby the side of the bed, just before I came to thisItalian's posada, where the ubiquitous death isalso waiting. But I know that Don Jose has rea-lly died there, in the Casa Gould, with thatwhisper urging me to attempt what no doubthis soul, wrapped up in the sanctity of diplo-

matic treaties and solemn declarations, musthave abhorred. I had exclaimed very loud,'There is never any God in a country wheremen will not help themselves.'

"Meanwhile, Don Juste had begun a ponderedoration whose solemn effect was spoiled by theridiculous disaster to his beard. I did not waitto make it out. He seemed to argue that Monte-ro's (he called him The General) intentions we-re probably not evil, though, he went on, 'thatdistinguished man' (only a week ago we usedto call him a gran' bestia) 'was perhaps mista-ken as to the true means.' As you may imagine,I didn't stay to hear the rest. I know the inten-tions of Montero's brother, Pedrito, the guerri-llero, whom I exposed in Paris, some years ago,in a cafe frequented by South American stu-dents, where he tried to pass himself off for aSecretary of Legation. He used to come in andtalk for hours, twisting his felt hat in his hairypaws, and his ambition seemed to become a

sort of Duc de Morny to a sort of Napoleon.Already, then, he used to talk of his brother ininflated terms. He seemed fairly safe frombeing found out, because the students, all of theBlanco families, did not, as you may imagine,frequent the Legation. It was only Decoud, aman without faith and principles, as they usedto say, that went in there sometimes for thesake of the fun, as it were to an assembly oftrained monkeys. I know his intentions. I haveseen him change the plates at table. Whoever isallowed to live on in terror, I must die the de-ath.

"No, I didn't stay to the end to hear Don JusteLopez trying to persuade himself in a graveoration of the clemency and justice, and hones-ty, and purity of the brothers Montero. I wentout abruptly to seek Antonia. I saw her in thegallery. As I opened the door, she extended tome her clasped hands.

"'What are they doing in there?' she asked.

"'Talking,' I said, with my eyes looking intohers.

"'Yes, yes, but—'

"'Empty speeches,' I interrupted her. 'Hidingtheir fears behind imbecile hopes. They are allgreat Parliamentarians there—on the Englishmodel, as you know.' I was so furious that Icould hardly speak. She made a gesture of des-pair.

"Through the door I held a little ajar behind me,we heard Dun Juste's measured mouthing mo-notone go on from phrase to phrase, like a sortof awful and solemn madness.

"'After all, the Democratic aspirations have,perhaps, their legitimacy. The ways of humanprogress are inscrutable, and if the fate of thecountry is in the hand of Montero, we ought—'

"I crashed the door to on that; it was enough; itwas too much. There was never a beautiful faceexpressing more horror and despair than theface of Antonia. I couldn't bear it; I seized herwrists.

"'Have they killed my father in there?' she as-ked.

"Her eyes blazed with indignation, but as I loo-ked on, fascinated, the light in them went out.

"'It is a surrender,' I said. And I remember I wasshaking her wrists I held apart in my hands.'But it's more than talk. Your father told me togo on in God's name.'

"My dear girl, there is that in Antonia whichwould make me believe in the feasibility ofanything. One look at her face is enough to setmy brain on fire. And yet I love her as any ot-her man would—with the heart, and with thatalone. She is more to me than his Church to

Father Corbelan (the Grand Vicar disappearedlast night from the town; perhaps gone to jointhe band of Hernandez). She is more to me thanhis precious mine to that sentimental English-man. I won't speak of his wife. She may havebeen sentimental once. The San Tome minestands now between those two people. 'Yourfather himself, Antonia,' I repeated; 'your fat-her, do you understand? has told me to go on.'

"She averted her face, and in a pained voice—

"'He has?' she cried. 'Then, indeed, I fear he willnever speak again.'

"She freed her wrists from my clutch and beganto cry in her handkerchief. I disregarded hersorrow; I would rather see her miserable thannot see her at all, never any more; for whether Iescaped or stayed to die, there was for us nocoming together, no future. And that being so, Ihad no pity to waste upon the passing mo-ments of her sorrow. I sent her off in tears to

fetch Dona Emilia and Don Carlos, too. Theirsentiment was necessary to the very life of myplan; the sentimentalism of the people that willnever do anything for the sake of their passio-nate desire, unless it comes to them clothed inthe fair robes of an idea.

"Late at night we formed a small junta of four—the two women, Don Carlos, and myself—inMrs. Gould's blue-and-white boudoir.

"El Rey de Sulaco thinks himself, no doubt, avery honest man. And so he is, if one couldlook behind his taciturnity. Perhaps he thinksthat this alone makes his honesty unstained.Those Englishmen live on illusions which so-mehow or other help them to get a firm hold ofthe substance. When he speaks it is by a rare'yes' or 'no' that seems as impersonal as thewords of an oracle. But he could not impose onme by his dumb reserve. I knew what he had inhis head; he has his mine in his head; and hiswife had nothing in her head but his precious

person, which he has bound up with the GouldConcession and tied up to that little woman'sneck. No matter. The thing was to make himpresent the affair to Holroyd (the Steel and Sil-ver King) in such a manner as to secure his fi-nancial support. At that time last night, justtwenty-four hours ago, we thought the silver ofthe mine safe in the Custom House vaults tillthe north-bound steamer came to take it away.And as long as the treasure flowed north, wit-hout a break, that utter sentimentalist, Holroyd,would not drop his idea of introducing, notonly justice, industry, peace, to the benightedcontinents, but also that pet dream of his of apurer form of Christianity. Later on, the princi-pal European really in Sulaco, the engineer-in-chief of the railway, came riding up the Calle,from the harbour, and was admitted to ourconclave. Meantime, the Junta of the Notablesin the great sala was still deliberating; only, oneof them had run out in the corredor to ask theservant whether something to eat couldn't be

sent in. The first words the engineer-in-chiefsaid as he came into the boudoir were, 'What isyour house, dear Mrs. Gould? A war hospitalbelow, and apparently a restaurant above. Isaw them carrying trays full of good things intothe sala.'

"'And here, in this boudoir,' I said, 'you beholdthe inner cabinet of the Occidental Republicthat is to be.'

"He was so preoccupied that he didn't smile atthat, he didn't even look surprised.

"He told us that he was attending to the generaldispositions for the defence of the railway pro-perty at the railway yards when he was sent forto go into the railway telegraph office. The en-gineer of the railhead, at the foot of the moun-tains, wanted to talk to him from his end of thewire. There was nobody in the office but him-self and the operator of the railway telegraph,who read off the clicks aloud as the tape coiled

its length upon the floor. And the purport ofthat talk, clicked nervously from a woodenshed in the depths of the forests, had informedthe chief that President Ribiera had been, orwas being, pursued. This was news, indeed, toall of us in Sulaco. Ribiera himself, when res-cued, revived, and soothed by us, had beeninclined to think that he had not been pursued.

"Ribiera had yielded to the urgent solicitationsof his friends, and had left the headquarters ofhis discomfited army alone, under the guidanceof Bonifacio, the muleteer, who had been wi-lling to take the responsibility with the risk. Hehad departed at daybreak of the third day. Hisremaining forces had melted away during thenight. Bonifacio and he rode hard on horsestowards the Cordillera; then they obtained mu-les, entered the passes, and crossed the Paramoof Ivie just before a freezing blast swept overthat stony plateau, burying in a drift of snowthe little shelter-hut of stones in which they had

spent the night. Afterwards poor Ribiera hadmany adventures, got separated from his gui-de, lost his mount, struggled down to the Cam-po on foot, and if he had not thrown himself onthe mercy of a ranchero would have perished along way from Sulaco. That man, who, as amatter of fact, recognized him at once, let himhave a fresh mule, which the fugitive, heavyand unskilful, had ridden to death. And it wastrue he had been pursued by a party comman-ded by no less a person than Pedro Montero,the brother of the general. The cold wind of theParamo luckily caught the pursuers on the topof the pass. Some few men, and all the animals,perished in the icy blast. The stragglers died,but the main body kept on. They found poorBonifacio lying half-dead at the foot of a snowslope, and bayoneted him promptly in the trueCivil War style. They would have had Ribiera,too, if they had not, for some reason or other,turned off the track of the old Camino Real,only to lose their way in the forests at the foot

of the lower slopes. And there they were at last,having stumbled in unexpectedly upon theconstruction camp. The engineer at the railheadtold his chief by wire that he had Pedro Monte-ro absolutely there, in the very office, listeningto the clicks. He was going to take possession ofSulaco in the name of the Democracy. He wasvery overbearing. His men slaughtered some ofthe Railway Company's cattle without askingleave, and went to work broiling the meat onthe embers. Pedrito made many pointed inqui-ries as to the silver mine, and what had becomeof the product of the last six months' working.He had said peremptorily, 'Ask your chief upthere by wire, he ought to know; tell him thatDon Pedro Montero, Chief of the Campo andMinister of the Interior of the new Government,desires to be correctly informed.'

"He had his feet wrapped up in blood-stainedrags, a lean, haggard face, ragged beard andhair, and had walked in limping, with a croo-

ked branch of a tree for a staff. His followerswere perhaps in a worse plight, but apparentlythey had not thrown away their arms, and, atany rate, not all their ammunition. Their leanfaces filled the door and the windows of thetelegraph hut. As it was at the same time thebedroom of the engineer-in-charge there, Mon-tero had thrown himself on his clean blanketsand lay there shivering and dictating requisi-tions to be transmitted by wire to Sulaco. Hedemanded a train of cars to be sent down atonce to transport his men up.

"'To this I answered from my end,' the engine-er-in-chief related to us, 'that I dared not riskthe rolling-stock in the interior, as there hadbeen attempts to wreck trains all along the lineseveral times. I did that for your sake, Gould,'said the chief engineer. 'The answer to this was,in the words of my subordinate, "The filthybrute on my bed said, 'Suppose I were to haveyou shot?'" To which my subordinate, who, it

appears, was himself operating, remarked thatit would not bring the cars up. Upon that, theother, yawning, said, "Never mind, there is nolack of horses on the Campo." And, turningover, went to sleep on Harris's bed.'

"This is why, my dear girl, I am a fugitive to-night. The last wire from railhead says that Pe-dro Montero and his men left at daybreak, afterfeeding on asado beef all night. They took allthe horses; they will find more on the road;they'll be here in less than thirty hours, andthus Sulaco is no place either for me or the gre-at store of silver belonging to the Gould Con-cession.

"But that is not the worst. The garrison of Es-meralda has gone over to the victorious party.We have heard this by means of the telegrap-hist of the Cable Company, who came to theCasa Gould in the early morning with thenews. In fact, it was so early that the day hadnot yet quite broken over Sulaco. His colleague

in Esmeralda had called him up to say that thegarrison, after shooting some of their officers,had taken possession of a Government steamerlaid up in the harbour. It is really a heavy blowfor me. I thought I could depend on every manin this province. It was a mistake. It was a Mon-terist Revolution in Esmeralda, just such as wasattempted in Sulaco, only that that one cameoff. The telegraphist was signalling to Bern-hardt all the time, and his last transmittedwords were, 'They are bursting in the door, andtaking possession of the cable office. You arecut off. Can do no more.'

"But, as a matter of fact, he managed somehowto escape the vigilance of his captors, who hadtried to stop the communication with the outerworld. He did manage it. How it was done Idon't know, but a few hours afterwards he ca-lled up Sulaco again, and what he said was,'The insurgent army has taken possession of theGovernment transport in the bay and are filling

her with troops, with the intention of goinground the coast to Sulaco. Therefore look outfor yourselves. They will be ready to start in afew hours, and may be upon you before day-break.'

"This is all he could say. They drove him awayfrom his instrument this time for good, becauseBernhardt has been calling up Esmeralda eversince without getting an answer."

After setting these words down in the pocket-book which he was filling up for the benefit ofhis sister, Decoud lifted his head to listen. Butthere were no sounds, neither in the room norin the house, except the drip of the water fromthe filter into the vast earthenware jar underthe wooden stand. And outside the house therewas a great silence. Decoud lowered his headagain over the pocket-book.

"I am not running away, you understand," hewrote on. "I am simply going away with that

great treasure of silver which must be saved atall costs. Pedro Montero from the Campo andthe revolted garrison of Esmeralda from the seaare converging upon it. That it is there lyingready for them is only an accident. The realobjective is the San Tome mine itself, as youmay well imagine; otherwise the OccidentalProvince would have been, no doubt, left alonefor many weeks, to be gathered at leisure intothe arms of the victorious party. Don CarlosGould will have enough to do to save his mine,with its organization and its people; this 'Impe-rium in Imperio,' this wealth-producing thing,to which his sentimentalism attaches a strangeidea of justice. He holds to it as some men holdto the idea of love or revenge. Unless I ammuch mistaken in the man, it must remain in-violate or perish by an act of his will alone. Apassion has crept into his cold and idealisticlife. A passion which I can only comprehendintellectually. A passion that is not like the pas-

sions we know, we men of another blood. But itis as dangerous as any of ours.

"His wife has understood it, too. That is whyshe is such a good ally of mine. She seizes uponall my suggestions with a sure instinct that inthe end they make for the safety of the GouldConcession. And he defers to her because hetrusts her perhaps, but I fancy rather as if hewished to make up for some subtle wrong, forthat sentimental unfaithfulness which surren-ders her happiness, her life, to the seduction ofan idea. The little woman has discovered thathe lives for the mine rather than for her. But letthem be. To each his fate, shaped by passion orsentiment. The principal thing is that she hasbacked up my advice to get the silver out of thetown, out of the country, at once, at any cost, atany risk. Don Carlos' mission is to preserveunstained the fair fame of his mine; Mrs.Gould's mission is to save him from the effectsof that cold and overmastering passion, which

she dreads more than if it were an infatuationfor another woman. Nostromo's mission is tosave the silver. The plan is to load it into thelargest of the Company's lighters, and send itacross the gulf to a small port out of Costagua-na territory just on the other side the Azuera,where the first northbound steamer will getorders to pick it up. The waters here are calm.We shall slip away into the darkness of the gulfbefore the Esmeralda rebels arrive; and by thetime the day breaks over the ocean we shall beout of sight, invisible, hidden by Azuera, whichitself looks from the Sulaco shore like a faintblue cloud on the horizon.

"The incorruptible Capataz de Cargadores isthe man for that work; and I, the man with apassion, but without a mission, I go with him toreturn—to play my part in the farce to the end,and, if successful, to receive my reward, whichno one but Antonia can give me.

"I shall not see her again now before I depart. Ileft her, as I have said, by Don Jose's bedside.The street was dark, the houses shut up, and Iwalked out of the town in the night. Not a sin-gle street-lamp had been lit for two days, andthe archway of the gate was only a mass ofdarkness in the vague form of a tower, in whichI heard low, dismal groans, that seemed toanswer the murmurs of a man's voice.

"I recognized something impassive and carelessin its tone, characteristic of that Genoese sailorwho, like me, has come casually here to bedrawn into the events for which his scepticismas well as mine seems to entertain a sort of pas-sive contempt. The only thing he seems to carefor, as far as I have been able to discover, is tobe well spoken of. An ambition fit for noblesouls, but also a profitable one for an exceptio-nally intelligent scoundrel. Yes. His verywords, 'To be well spoken of. Si, senor.' He do-es not seem to make any difference between

speaking and thinking. Is it sheer naiveness orthe practical point of view, I wonder? Excep-tional individualities always interest me, be-cause they are true to the general formula ex-pressing the moral state of humanity.

"He joined me on the harbour road after I hadpassed them under the dark archway withoutstopping. It was a woman in trouble he hadbeen talking to. Through discretion I kept silentwhile he walked by my side. After a time hebegan to talk himself. It was not what I expec-ted. It was only an old woman, an old lace-maker, in search of her son, one of the street-sweepers employed by the municipality.Friends had come the day before at daybreak tothe door of their hovel calling him out. He hadgone with them, and she had not seen him sin-ce; so she had left the food she had been prepa-ring half-cooked on the extinct embers and hadcrawled out as far as the harbour, where shehad heard that some town mozos had been

killed on the morning of the riot. One of theCargadores guarding the Custom House hadbrought out a lantern, and had helped her tolook at the few dead left lying about there.Now she was creeping back, having failed inher search. So she sat down on the stone seatunder the arch, moaning, because she was verytired. The Capataz had questioned her, andafter hearing her broken and groaning tale hadadvised her to go and look amongst the woun-ded in the patio of the Casa Gould. He had alsogiven her a quarter dollar, he mentioned care-lessly."

"'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'Do you knowher?'

"'No, senor. I don't suppose I have ever seenher before. How should I? She has not probablybeen out in the streets for years. She is one ofthose old women that you find in this countryat the back of huts, crouching over fireplaces,with a stick on the ground by their side, and

almost too feeble to drive away the stray dogsfrom their cooking-pots. Caramba! I could tellby her voice that death had forgotten her. But,old or young, they like money, and will speakwell of the man who gives it to them.' He laug-hed a little. 'Senor, you should have felt theclutch of her paw as I put the piece in herpalm.' He paused. 'My last, too,' he added.

"I made no comment. He's known for his libera-lity and his bad luck at the game of monte,which keeps him as poor as when he first camehere.

"'I suppose, Don Martin,' he began, in athoughtful, speculative tone, 'that the SenorAdministrador of San Tome will reward mesome day if I save his silver?'

"I said that it could not be otherwise, surely. Hewalked on, muttering to himself. 'Si, si, withoutdoubt, without doubt; and, look you, SenorMartin, what it is to be well spoken of! There is

not another man that could have been eventhought of for such a thing. I shall get somet-hing great for it some day. And let it come so-on,' he mumbled. 'Time passes in this countryas quick as anywhere else.'

"This, soeur cherie, is my companion in the greatescape for the sake of the great cause. He ismore naive than shrewd, more masterful thancrafty, more generous with his personality thanthe people who make use of him are with theirmoney. At least, that is what he thinks himselfwith more pride than sentiment. I am glad Ihave made friends with him. As a companionhe acquires more importance than he ever hadas a sort of minor genius in his way—as an ori-ginal Italian sailor whom I allowed to come inin the small hours and talk familiarly to theeditor of the Porvenir while the paper wasgoing through the press. And it is curious tohave met a man for whom the value of life se-ems to consist in personal prestige.

"I am waiting for him here now. On arriving atthe posada kept by Viola we found the childrenalone down below, and the old Genoese shou-ted to his countryman to go and fetch the doc-tor. Otherwise we would have gone on to thewharf, where it appears Captain Mitchell withsome volunteer Europeans and a few pickedCargadores are loading the lighter with thesilver that must be saved from Montero's clut-ches in order to be used for Montero's defeat.Nostromo galloped furiously back towards thetown. He has been long gone already. This de-lay gives me time to talk to you. By the timethis pocket-book reaches your hands much willhave happened. But now it is a pause under thehovering wing of death in this silent house bu-ried in the black night, with this dying woman,the two children crouching without a sound,and that old man whom I can hear through thethickness of the wall passing up and down witha light rubbing noise no louder than a mouse.And I, the only other with them, don't really

know whether to count myself with the livingor with the dead. 'Quien sabe?' as the peoplehere are prone to say in answer to every ques-tion. But no! feeling for you is certainly not de-ad, and the whole thing, the house, the darknight, the silent children in this dim room, myvery presence here—all this is life, must be life,since it is so much like a dream."

With the writing of the last line there cameupon Decoud a moment of sudden and com-plete oblivion. He swayed over the table as ifstruck by a bullet. The next moment he sat up,confused, with the idea that he had heard hispencil roll on the floor. The low door of thecafe, wide open, was filled with the glare of atorch in which was visible half of a horse, swit-ching its tail against the leg of a rider with along iron spur strapped to the naked heel. Thetwo girls were gone, and Nostromo, standingin the middle of the room, looked at him from

under the round brim of the sombrero lowdown over his brow.

"I have brought that sour-faced English doctorin Senora Gould's carriage," said Nostromo. "Idoubt if, with all his wisdom, he can save thePadrona this time. They have sent for the chil-dren. A bad sign that."

He sat down on the end of a bench. "She wantsto give them her blessing, I suppose."

Dazedly Decoud observed that he must havefallen sound asleep, and Nostromo said, with avague smile, that he had looked in at the win-dow and had seen him lying still across thetable with his head on his arms. The Englishsenora had also come in the carriage, and wentupstairs at once with the doctor. She had toldhim not to wake up Don Martin yet; but whenthey sent for the children he had come into thecafe.

The half of the horse with its half of the riderswung round outside the door; the torch of towand resin in the iron basket which was carriedon a stick at the saddle-bow flared right intothe room for a moment, and Mrs. Gould ente-red hastily with a very white, tired face. Thehood of her dark, blue cloak had fallen back.Both men rose.

"Teresa wants to see you, Nostromo," she said.The Capataz did not move. Decoud, with hisback to the table, began to button up his coat.

"The silver, Mrs. Gould, the silver," he murmu-red in English. "Don't forget that the Esmeraldagarrison have got a steamer. They may appearat any moment at the harbour entrance."

"The doctor says there is no hope," Mrs. Gouldspoke rapidly, also in English. "I shall take youdown to the wharf in my carriage and thencome back to fetch away the girls." She changedswiftly into Spanish to address Nostromo.

"Why are you wasting time? Old Giorgio's wifewishes to see you."

"I am going to her, senora," muttered the Capa-taz. Dr. Monygham now showed himself, brin-ging back the children. To Mrs. Gould's inqui-ring glance he only shook his head and wentoutside at once, followed by Nostromo.

The horse of the torch-bearer, motionless, hunghis head low, and the rider had dropped thereins to light a cigarette. The glare of the torchplayed on the front of the house crossed by thebig black letters of its inscription in which onlythe word Italia was lighted fully. The patch ofwavering glare reached as far as Mrs. Gould'scarriage waiting on the road, with the yellow-faced, portly Ignacio apparently dozing on thebox. By his side Basilio, dark and skinny, held aWinchester carbine in front of him, with bothhands, and peered fearfully into the darkness.Nostromo touched lightly the doctor's shoul-der.

"Is she really dying, senor doctor?"

"Yes," said the doctor, with a strange twitch ofhis scarred cheek. "And why she wants to seeyou I cannot imagine."

"She has been like that before," suggested Nos-tromo, looking away.

"Well, Capataz, I can assure you she will neverbe like that again," snarled Dr. Monygham."You may go to her or stay away. There is verylittle to be got from talking to the dying. Butshe told Dona Emilia in my hearing that shehas been like a mother to you ever since youfirst set foot ashore here."

"Si! And she never had a good word to say forme to anybody. It is more as if she could notforgive me for being alive, and such a man, too,as she would have liked her son to be."

"Maybe!" exclaimed a mournful deep voicenear them. "Women have their own ways oftormenting themselves." Giorgio Viola had co-me out of the house. He threw a heavy blackshadow in the torchlight, and the glare fell onhis big face, on the great bushy head of whitehair. He motioned the Capataz indoors with hisextended arm.

Dr. Monygham, after busying himself with alittle medicament box of polished wood on theseat of the landau, turned to old Giorgio andthrust into his big, trembling hand one of theglass-stoppered bottles out of the case.

"Give her a spoonful of this now and then, inwater," he said. "It will make her easier."

"And there is nothing more for her?" asked theold man, patiently.

"No. Not on earth," said the doctor, with hisback to him, clicking the lock of the medicinecase.

Nostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, alldark but for the glow of a heap of charcoal un-der the heavy mantel of the cooking-range,where water was boiling in an iron pot with aloud bubbling sound. Between the two walls ofa narrow staircase a bright light streamed fromthe sick-room above; and the magnificent Ca-pataz de Cargadores stepping noiselessly insoft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his mus-cular neck and bronzed chest bare in the opencheck shirt, resembled a Mediterranean sailorjust come ashore from some wine or fruit-ladenfelucca. At the top he paused, broad shoulde-red, narrow hipped and supple, looking at thelarge bed, like a white couch of state, with aprofusion of snowy linen, amongst which thePadrona sat unpropped and bowed, her hand-some, black-browed face bent over her chest. A

mass of raven hair with only a few white thre-ads in it covered her shoulders; one thickstrand fallen forward half veiled her cheek.Perfectly motionless in that pose, expressingphysical anxiety and unrest, she turned hereyes alone towards Nostromo.

The Capataz had a red sash wound many timesround his waist, and a heavy silver ring on theforefinger of the hand he raised to give a twistto his moustache.

"Their revolutions, their revolutions," gaspedSenora Teresa. "Look, Gian' Battista, it has ki-lled me at last!"

Nostromo said nothing, and the sick womanwith an upward glance insisted. "Look, this onehas killed me, while you were away fightingfor what did not concern you, foolish man."

"Why talk like this?" mumbled the Capatazbetween his teeth. "Will you never believe in

my good sense? It concerns me to keep onbeing what I am: every day alike."

"You never change, indeed," she said, bitterly."Always thinking of yourself and taking yourpay out in fine words from those who care not-hing for you."

There was between them an intimacy of anta-gonism as close in its way as the intimacy ofaccord and affection. He had not walked alongthe way of Teresa's expectations. It was shewho had encouraged him to leave his ship, inthe hope of securing a friend and defender forthe girls. The wife of old Giorgio was aware ofher precarious health, and was haunted by thefear of her aged husband's loneliness and theunprotected state of the children. She had wan-ted to annex that apparently quiet and steadyyoung man, affectionate and pliable, an orphanfrom his tenderest age, as he had told her, withno ties in Italy except an uncle, owner and mas-ter of a felucca, from whose ill-usage he had

run away before he was fourteen. He had see-med to her courageous, a hard worker, deter-mined to make his way in the world. From gra-titude and the ties of habit he would becomelike a son to herself and Giorgio; and then, whoknows, when Linda had grown up. . . . Ten ye-ars' difference between husband and wife wasnot so much. Her own great man was nearlytwenty years older than herself. Gian' Battistawas an attractive young fellow, besides; attrac-tive to men, women, and children, just by thatprofound quietness of personality which, like aserene twilight, rendered more seductive thepromise of his vigorous form and the resolu-tion of his conduct.

Old Giorgio, in profound ignorance of his wi-fe's views and hopes, had a great regard for hisyoung countryman. "A man ought not to betame," he used to tell her, quoting the Spanishproverb in defence of the splendid Capataz.She was growing jealous of his success. He was

escaping from her, she feared. She was practi-cal, and he seemed to her to be an absurdspendthrift of these qualities which made himso valuable. He got too little for them. He scat-tered them with both hands amongst too manypeople, she thought. He laid no money by. Sherailed at his poverty, his exploits, his adventu-res, his loves and his reputation; but in herheart she had never given him up, as though,indeed, he had been her son.

Even now, ill as she was, ill enough to feel thechill, black breath of the approaching end, shehad wished to see him. It was like putting outher benumbed hand to regain her hold. But shehad presumed too much on her strength. Shecould not command her thoughts; they hadbecome dim, like her vision. The words falteredon her lips, and only the paramount anxietyand desire of her life seemed to be too strongfor death.

The Capataz said, "I have heard these thingsmany times. You are unjust, but it does not hurtme. Only now you do not seem to have muchstrength to talk, and I have but little time tolisten. I am engaged in a work of very greatmoment."

She made an effort to ask him whether it wastrue that he had found time to go and fetch adoctor for her. Nostromo nodded affirmatively.

She was pleased: it relieved her sufferings toknow that the man had condescended to do somuch for those who really wanted his help. Itwas a proof of his friendship. Her voice becomestronger.

"I want a priest more than a doctor," she said,pathetically. She did not move her head; onlyher eyes ran into the corners to watch the Capa-taz standing by the side of her bed. "Would yougo to fetch a priest for me now? Think! A dyingwoman asks you!"

Nostromo shook his head resolutely. He didnot believe in priests in their sacerdotal charac-ter. A doctor was an efficacious person; but apriest, as priest, was nothing, incapable ofdoing either good or harm. Nostromo did noteven dislike the sight of them as old Giorgiodid. The utter uselessness of the errand waswhat struck him most.

"Padrona," he said, "you have been like thisbefore, and got better after a few days. I havegiven you already the very last moments I canspare. Ask Senora Gould to send you one."

He was feeling uneasy at the impiety of thisrefusal. The Padrona believed in priests, andconfessed herself to them. But all women didthat. It could not be of much consequence. Andyet his heart felt oppressed for a moment—atthe thought what absolution would mean toher if she believed in it only ever so little. Nomatter. It was quite true that he had given heralready the very last moment he could spare.

"You refuse to go?" she gasped. "Ah! you arealways yourself, indeed."

"Listen to reason, Padrona," he said. "I am nee-ded to save the silver of the mine. Do you hear?A greater treasure than the one which they sayis guarded by ghosts and devils on Azuera. It istrue. I am resolved to make this the most des-perate affair I was ever engaged on in my who-le life."

She felt a despairing indignation. The supremetest had failed. Standing above her, Nostromodid not see the distorted features of her face,distorted by a paroxysm of pain and anger.Only she began to tremble all over. Her bowedhead shook. The broad shoulders quivered.

"Then God, perhaps, will have mercy upon me!But do you look to it, man, that you get somet-hing for yourself out of it, besides the remorsethat shall overtake you some day."

She laughed feebly. "Get riches at least for once,you indispensable, admired Gian' Battista, towhom the peace of a dying woman is less thanthe praise of people who have given you a sillyname—and nothing besides—in exchange foryour soul and body."

The Capataz de Cargadores swore to himselfunder his breath.

"Leave my soul alone, Padrona, and I shallknow how to take care of my body. Where isthe harm of people having need of me? Whatare you envying me that I have robbed you andthe children of? Those very people you arethrowing in my teeth have done more for oldGiorgio than they ever thought of doing forme."

He struck his breast with his open palm; hisvoice had remained low though he had spokenin a forcible tone. He twisted his moustaches

one after another, and his eyes wandered a lit-tle about the room.

"Is it my fault that I am the only man for theirpurposes? What angry nonsense are you tal-king, mother? Would you rather have me timidand foolish, selling water-melons on the mar-ket-place or rowing a boat for passengers alongthe harbour, like a soft Neapolitan without cou-rage or reputation? Would you have a youngman live like a monk? I do not believe it.Would you want a monk for your eldest girl?Let her grow. What are you afraid of? You havebeen angry with me for everything I did foryears; ever since you first spoke to me, in secretfrom old Giorgio, about your Linda. Husbandto one and brother to the other, did you say?Well, why not! I like the little ones, and a manmust marry some time. But ever since that timeyou have been making little of me to everyone.Why? Did you think you could put a collar andchain on me as if I were one of the watch-dogs

they keep over there in the railway yards? Lookhere, Padrona, I am the same man who cameashore one evening and sat down in the that-ched ranche you lived in at that time on theother side of the town and told you all abouthimself. You were not unjust to me then. Whathas happened since? I am no longer an insigni-ficant youth. A good name, Giorgio says, is atreasure, Padrona."

"They have turned your head with their prai-ses," gasped the sick woman. "They have beenpaying you with words. Your folly shall betrayyou into poverty, misery, starvation. The veryleperos shall laugh at you—the great Capataz."

Nostromo stood for a time as if struck dumb.She never looked at him. A self-confident,mirthless smile passed quickly from his lips,and then he backed away. His disregarded fi-gure sank down beyond the doorway. He des-cended the stairs backwards, with the usualsense of having been somehow baffled by this

woman's disparagement of this reputation hehad obtained and desired to keep.

Downstairs in the big kitchen a candle wasburning, surrounded by the shadows of thewalls, of the ceiling, but no ruddy glare filledthe open square of the outer door. The carriagewith Mrs. Gould and Don Martin, preceded bythe horseman bearing the torch, had gone on tothe jetty. Dr. Monygham, who had remained,sat on the corner of a hard wood table near thecandlestick, his seamed, shaven face inclinedsideways, his arms crossed on his breast, hislips pursed up, and his prominent eyes glaringstonily upon the floor of black earth. Near theoverhanging mantel of the fireplace, where thepot of water was still boiling violently, oldGiorgio held his chin in his hand, one foot ad-vanced, as if arrested by a sudden thought.

"Adios, viejo," said Nostromo, feeling the hand-le of his revolver in the belt and loosening hisknife in its sheath. He picked up a blue poncho

lined with red from the table, and put it overhis head. "Adios, look after the things in mysleeping-room, and if you hear from me nomore, give up the box to Paquita. There is notmuch of value there, except my new serapefrom Mexico, and a few silver buttons on mybest jacket. No matter! The things will look wellenough on the next lover she gets, and the manneed not be afraid I shall linger on earth after Iam dead, like those Gringos that haunt theAzuera."

Dr. Monygham twisted his lips into a bittersmile. After old Giorgio, with an almost imper-ceptible nod and without a word, had gone upthe narrow stairs, he said—

"Why, Capataz! I thought you could never failin anything."

Nostromo, glancing contemptuously at the doc-tor, lingered in the doorway rolling a cigarette,then struck a match, and, after lighting it, held

the burning piece of wood above his head tillthe flame nearly touched his fingers.

"No wind!" he muttered to himself. "Look here,senor—do you know the nature of my under-taking?"

Dr. Monygham nodded sourly.

"It is as if I were taking up a curse upon me,senor doctor. A man with a treasure on thiscoast will have every knife raised against himin every place upon the shore. You see that,senor doctor? I shall float along with a spellupon my life till I meet somewhere the north-bound steamer of the Company, and then inde-ed they will talk about the Capataz of the Sula-co Cargadores from one end of America toanother."

Dr. Monygham laughed his short, throatylaugh. Nostromo turned round in the doorway.

"But if your worship can find any other manready and fit for such business I will standback. I am not exactly tired of my life, though Iam so poor that I can carry all I have with my-self on my horse's back."

"You gamble too much, and never say 'no' to apretty face, Capataz," said Dr. Monygham, withsly simplicity. "That's not the way to make afortune. But nobody that I know ever suspectedyou of being poor. I hope you have made a go-od bargain in case you come back safe from thisadventure."

"What bargain would your worship have ma-de?" asked Nostromo, blowing the smoke outof his lips through the doorway.

Dr. Monygham listened up the staircase for amoment before he answered, with another ofhis short, abrupt laughs—

"Illustrious Capataz, for taking the curse of de-ath upon my back, as you call it, nothing elsebut the whole treasure would do."

Nostromo vanished out of the doorway with agrunt of discontent at this jeering answer. Dr.Monygham heard him gallop away. Nostromorode furiously in the dark. There were lights inthe buildings of the O.S.N. Company near thewharf, but before he got there he met the Gouldcarriage. The horseman preceded it with thetorch, whose light showed the white mulestrotting, the portly Ignacio driving, and Basiliowith the carbine on the box. From the dark bo-dy of the landau Mrs. Gould's voice cried,"They are waiting for you, Capataz!" She wasreturning, chilly and excited, with Decoud'spocket-book still held in her hand. He had con-fided it to her to send to his sister. "Perhaps mylast words to her," he had said, pressing Mrs.Gould's hand.

The Capataz never checked his speed. At thehead of the wharf vague figures with rifles le-apt to the head of his horse; others closed uponhim—cargadores of the company posted byCaptain Mitchell on the watch. At a word fromhim they fell back with subservient murmurs,recognizing his voice. At the other end of thejetty, near a cargo crane, in a dark group withglowing cigars, his name was pronounced in atone of relief. Most of the Europeans in Sulacowere there, rallied round Charles Gould, as ifthe silver of the mine had been the emblem of acommon cause, the symbol of the supreme im-portance of material interests. They had loadedit into the lighter with their own hands. Nos-tromo recognized Don Carlos Gould, a thin, tallshape standing a little apart and silent, towhom another tall shape, the engineer-in-chief,said aloud, "If it must be lost, it is a million ti-mes better that it should go to the bottom of thesea."

Martin Decoud called out from the lighter, "Aurevoir, messieurs, till we clasp hands again overthe new-born Occidental Republic." Only asubdued murmur responded to his clear, rin-ging tones; and then it seemed to him that thewharf was floating away into the night; but itwas Nostromo, who was already pushingagainst a pile with one of the heavy sweeps.Decoud did not move; the effect was that ofbeing launched into space. After a splash ortwo there was not a sound but the thud of Nos-tromo's feet leaping about the boat. He hoistedthe big sail; a breath of wind fanned Decoud'scheek. Everything had vanished but the light ofthe lantern Captain Mitchell had hoisted uponthe post at the end of the jetty to guide Nos-tromo out of the harbour.

The two men, unable to see each other, keptsilent till the lighter, slipping before the fitfulbreeze, passed out between almost invisibleheadlands into the still deeper darkness of the

gulf. For a time the lantern on the jetty shoneafter them. The wind failed, then fanned upagain, but so faintly that the big, half-deckedboat slipped along with no more noise than ifshe had been suspended in the air.

"We are out in the gulf now," said the calm voi-ce of Nostromo. A moment after he added, "Se-nor Mitchell has lowered the light."

"Yes," said Decoud; "nobody can find us now."

A great recrudescence of obscurity embracedthe boat. The sea in the gulf was as black as theclouds above. Nostromo, after striking a coupleof matches to get a glimpse of the boat-compasshe had with him in the lighter, steered by thefeel of the wind on his cheek.

It was a new experience for Decoud, this mys-teriousness of the great waters spread outstrangely smooth, as if their restlessness hadbeen crushed by the weight of that dense night.

The Placido was sleeping profoundly under itsblack poncho.

The main thing now for success was to getaway from the coast and gain the middle of thegulf before day broke. The Isabels were so-mewhere at hand. "On your left as you lookforward, senor," said Nostromo, suddenly.When his voice ceased, the enormous stillness,without light or sound, seemed to affect De-coud's senses like a powerful drug. He didn'teven know at times whether he were asleep orawake. Like a man lost in slumber, he heardnothing, he saw nothing. Even his hand heldbefore his face did not exist for his eyes. Thechange from the agitation, the passions and thedangers, from the sights and sounds of the sho-re, was so complete that it would have resem-bled death had it not been for the survival ofhis thoughts. In this foretaste of eternal peacethey floated vivid and light, like unearthly cleardreams of earthly things that may haunt the

souls freed by death from the misty atmosphereof regrets and hopes. Decoud shook himself,shuddered a bit, though the air that drifted pasthim was warm. He had the strangest sensationof his soul having just returned into his bodyfrom the circumambient darkness in whichland, sea, sky, the mountains, and the rockswere as if they had not been.

Nostromo's voice was speaking, though he, atthe tiller, was also as if he were not. "Have youbeen asleep, Don Martin? Caramba! If it werepossible I would think that I, too, have dozedoff. I have a strange notion somehow of havingdreamt that there was a sound of blubbering, asound a sorrowing man could make, somew-here near this boat. Something between a sighand a sob."

"Strange!" muttered Decoud, stretched uponthe pile of treasure boxes covered by many tar-paulins. "Could it be that there is another boat

near us in the gulf? We could not see it, youknow."

Nostromo laughed a little at the absurdity ofthe idea. They dismissed it from their minds.The solitude could almost be felt. And whenthe breeze ceased, the blackness seemed toweigh upon Decoud like a stone.

"This is overpowering," he muttered. "Do wemove at all, Capataz?"

"Not so fast as a crawling beetle tangled in thegrass," answered Nostromo, and his voice see-med deadened by the thick veil of obscuritythat felt warm and hopeless all about them.There were long periods when he made nosound, invisible and inaudible as if he had mys-teriously stepped out of the lighter.

In the featureless night Nostromo was not evencertain which way the lighter headed after thewind had completely died out. He peered for

the islands. There was not a hint of them to beseen, as if they had sunk to the bottom of thegulf. He threw himself down by the side of De-coud at last, and whispered into his ear that ifdaylight caught them near the Sulaco shorethrough want of wind, it would be possible tosweep the lighter behind the cliff at the highend of the Great Isabel, where she would lieconcealed. Decoud was surprised at the grim-ness of his anxiety. To him the removal of thetreasure was a political move. It was necessaryfor several reasons that it should not fall intothe hands of Montero, but here was a man whotook another view of this enterprise. The Caba-lleros over there did not seem to have the sligh-test idea of what they had given him to do.Nostromo, as if affected by the gloom around,seemed nervously resentful. Decoud was sur-prised. The Capataz, indifferent to those dan-gers that seemed obvious to his companion,allowed himself to become scornfully exaspera-ted by the deadly nature of the trust put, as a

matter of course, into his hands. It was moredangerous, Nostromo said, with a laugh and acurse, than sending a man to get the treasurethat people said was guarded by devils andghosts in the deep ravines of Azuera. "Senor,"he said, "we must catch the steamer at sea. Wemust keep out in the open looking for her tillwe have eaten and drunk all that has been puton board here. And if we miss her by somemischance, we must keep away from the landtill we grow weak, and perhaps mad, and die,and drift dead, until one or another of thesteamers of the Compania comes upon the boatwith the two dead men who have saved thetreasure. That, senor, is the only way to save it;for, don't you see? for us to come to the landanywhere in a hundred miles along this coastwith this silver in our possession is to run thenaked breast against the point of a knife. Thisthing has been given to me like a deadly disea-se. If men discover it I am dead, and you, too,senor, since you would come with me. There is

enough silver to make a whole province rich,let alone a seaboard pueblo inhabited by thie-ves and vagabonds. Senor, they would thinkthat heaven itself sent these riches into theirhands, and would cut our throats without hesi-tation. I would trust no fair words from the bestman around the shores of this wild gulf. Reflectthat, even by giving up the treasure at the firstdemand, we would not be able to save our li-ves. Do you understand this, or must I ex-plain?"

"No, you needn't explain," said Decoud, a littlelistlessly. "I can see it well enough myself, thatthe possession of this treasure is very much likea deadly disease for men situated as we are. Butit had to be removed from Sulaco, and you we-re the man for the task."

"I was; but I cannot believe," said Nostromo,"that its loss would have impoverished DonCarlos Gould very much. There is more wealthin the mountain. I have heard it rolling down

the shoots on quiet nights when I used to rideto Rincon to see a certain girl, after my work atthe harbour was done. For years the rich rockshave been pouring down with a noise likethunder, and the miners say that there isenough at the heart of the mountain to thunderon for years and years to come. And yet, theday before yesterday, we have been fighting tosave it from the mob, and to-night I am sent outwith it into this darkness, where there is nowind to get away with; as if it were the last lotof silver on earth to get bread for the hungrywith. Ha! ha! Well, I am going to make it themost famous and desperate affair of my life—wind or no wind. It shall be talked about whenthe little children are grown up and the grownmen are old. Aha! the Monterists must not gethold of it, I am told, whatever happens to Nos-tromo the Capataz; and they shall not have it, Itell you, since it has been tied for safety roundNostromo's neck."

"I see it," murmured Decoud. He saw, indeed,that his companion had his own peculiar viewof this enterprise.

Nostromo interrupted his reflections upon theway men's qualities are made use of, withoutany fundamental knowledge of their nature, bythe proposal they should slip the long oars outand sweep the lighter in the direction of theIsabels. It wouldn't do for daylight to reveal thetreasure floating within a mile or so of the har-bour entrance. The denser the darkness genera-lly, the smarter were the puffs of wind onwhich he had reckoned to make his way; buttonight the gulf, under its poncho of clouds,remained breathless, as if dead rather than as-leep.

Don Martin's soft hands suffered cruelly, tug-ging at the thick handle of the enormous oar.He stuck to it manfully, setting his teeth. He,too, was in the toils of an imaginative existence,and that strange work of pulling a lighter see-

med to belong naturally to the inception of anew state, acquired an ideal meaning from hislove for Antonia. For all their efforts, the heavi-ly laden lighter hardly moved. Nostromo couldbe heard swearing to himself between the regu-lar splashes of the sweeps. "We are making acrooked path," he muttered to himself. "I wish Icould see the islands."

In his unskilfulness Don Martin over-exertedhimself. Now and then a sort of muscularfaintness would run from the tips of his achingfingers through every fibre of his body, andpass off in a flush of heat. He had fought, tal-ked, suffered mentally and physically, exertinghis mind and body for the last forty-eight hourswithout intermission. He had had no rest, verylittle food, no pause in the stress of his thoughtsand his feelings. Even his love for Antonia,whence he drew his strength and his inspira-tion, had reached the point of tragic tensionduring their hurried interview by Don Jose's

bedside. And now, suddenly, he was thrownout of all this into a dark gulf, whose very glo-om, silence, and breathless peace added a tor-ment to the necessity for physical exertion. Heimagined the lighter sinking to the bottom withan extraordinary shudder of delight. "I am onthe verge of delirium," he thought. He maste-red the trembling of all his limbs, of his breast,the inward trembling of all his body exhaustedof its nervous force.

"Shall we rest, Capataz?" he proposed in a care-less tone. "There are many hours of night yetbefore us."

"True. It is but a mile or so, I suppose. Restyour arms, senor, if that is what you mean. Youwill find no other sort of rest, I can promiseyou, since you let yourself be bound to thistreasure whose loss would make no poor manpoorer. No, senor; there is no rest till we find anorth-bound steamer, or else some ship findsus drifting about stretched out dead upon the

Englishman's silver. Or rather—no; por Dios! Ishall cut down the gunwale with the axe rightto the water's edge before thirst and hunger robme of my strength. By all the saints and devils Ishall let the sea have the treasure rather thangive it up to any stranger. Since it was the goodpleasure of the Caballeros to send me off onsuch an errand, they shall learn I am just theman they take me for."

Decoud lay on the silver boxes panting. All hisactive sensations and feelings from as far backas he could remember seemed to him the mad-dest of dreams. Even his passionate devotion toAntonia into which he had worked himself upout of the depths of his scepticism had lost allappearance of reality. For a moment he was theprey of an extremely languid but not unplea-sant indifference.

"I am sure they didn't mean you to take such adesperate view of this affair," he said.

"What was it, then? A joke?" snarled the man,who on the pay-sheets of the O.S.N. Company'sestablishment in Sulaco was described as "Fo-reman of the wharf" against the figure of hiswages. "Was it for a joke they woke me up frommy sleep after two days of street fighting tomake me stake my life upon a bad card? Eve-rybody knows, too, that I am not a lucky gam-bler."

"Yes, everybody knows of your good luck withwomen, Capataz," Decoud propitiated hiscompanion in a weary drawl.

"Look here, senor," Nostromo went on. "I nevereven remonstrated about this affair. Directly Iheard what was wanted I saw what a desperateaffair it must be, and I made up my mind to seeit out. Every minute was of importance. I hadto wait for you first. Then, when we arrived atthe Italia Una, old Giorgio shouted to me to gofor the English doctor. Later on, that poordying woman wanted to see me, as you know.

Senor, I was reluctant to go. I felt already thiscursed silver growing heavy upon my back,and I was afraid that, knowing herself to bedying, she would ask me to ride off again for apriest. Father Corbelan, who is fearless, wouldhave come at a word; but Father Corbelan is faraway, safe with the band of Hernandez, andthe populace, that would have liked to tear himto pieces, are much incensed against the priests.Not a single fat padre would have consented toput his head out of his hiding-place to-night tosave a Christian soul, except, perhaps, undermy protection. That was in her mind. I preten-ded I did not believe she was going to die. Se-nor, I refused to fetch a priest for a dying wo-man. . . ."

Decoud was heard to stir.

"You did, Capataz!" he exclaimed. His tonechanged. "Well, you know—it was rather fine."

"You do not believe in priests, Don Martin?Neither do I. What was the use of wasting ti-me? But she—she believes in them. The thingsticks in my throat. She may be dead already,and here we are floating helpless with no windat all. Curse on all superstition. She died thin-king I deprived her of Paradise, I suppose. Itshall be the most desperate affair of my life."

Decoud remained lost in reflection. He tried toanalyze the sensations awaked by what he hadbeen told. The voice of the Capataz was heardagain:

"Now, Don Martin, let us take up the sweepsand try to find the Isabels. It is either that orsinking the lighter if the day overtakes us. Wemust not forget that the steamer from Esmeral-da with the soldiers may be coming along. Wewill pull straight on now. I have discovered abit of a candle here, and we must take the riskof a small light to make a course by the boatcompass. There is not enough wind to blow it

out—may the curse of Heaven fall upon thisblind gulf!"

A small flame appeared burning quite straight.It showed fragmentarily the stout ribs andplanking in the hollow, empty part of the ligh-ter. Decoud could see Nostromo standing up topull. He saw him as high as the red sash on hiswaist, with a gleam of a white-handled revol-ver and the wooden haft of a long knife protru-ding on his left side. Decoud nerved himself forthe effort of rowing. Certainly there was notenough wind to blow the candle out, but itsflame swayed a little to the slow movement ofthe heavy boat. It was so big that with theirutmost efforts they could not move it quickerthan about a mile an hour. This was sufficient,however, to sweep them amongst the Isabelslong before daylight came. There was a goodsix hours of darkness before them, and the dis-tance from the harbour to the Great Isabel didnot exceed two miles. Decoud put this heavy

toil to the account of the Capataz's impatience.Sometimes they paused, and then strained theirears to hear the boat from Esmeralda. In thisperfect quietness a steamer moving would havebeen heard from far off. As to seeing anythingit was out of the question. They could not seeeach other. Even the lighter's sail, which remai-ned set, was invisible. Very often they rested.

"Caramba!" said Nostromo, suddenly, duringone of those intervals when they lolled idlyagainst the heavy handles of the sweeps. "Whatis it? Are you distressed, Don Martin?"

Decoud assured him that he was not distressedin the least. Nostromo for a time kept perfectlystill, and then in a whisper invited Martin tocome aft.

With his lips touching Decoud's ear he declaredhis belief that there was somebody else besidesthemselves upon the lighter. Twice now he hadheard the sound of stifled sobbing.

"Senor," he whispered with awed wonder, "Iam certain that there is somebody weeping inthis lighter."

Decoud had heard nothing. He expressed hisincredulity. However, it was easy to ascertainthe truth of the matter.

"It is most amazing," muttered Nostromo."Could anybody have concealed himself onboard while the lighter was lying alongside thewharf?"

"And you say it was like sobbing?" asked De-coud, lowering his voice, too. "If he is weeping,whoever he is he cannot be very dangerous."

Clambering over the precious pile in the midd-le, they crouched low on the foreside of themast and groped under the half-deck. Rightforward, in the narrowest part, their hands ca-me upon the limbs of a man, who remained assilent as death. Too startled themselves to make

a sound, they dragged him aft by one arm andthe collar of his coat. He was limp—lifeless.

The light of the bit of candle fell upon a round,hook-nosed face with black moustaches andlittle side-whiskers. He was extremely dirty. Agreasy growth of beard was sprouting on theshaven parts of the cheeks. The thick lips wereslightly parted, but the eyes remained closed.Decoud, to his immense astonishment, recogni-zed Senor Hirsch, the hide merchant from Es-meralda. Nostromo, too, had recognized him.And they gazed at each other across the body,lying with its naked feet higher than its head, inan absurd pretence of sleep, faintness, or death.

CHAPTER EIGHT

For a moment, before this extraordinary find,they forgot their own concerns and sensations.Senor Hirsch's sensations as he lay there musthave been those of extreme terror. For a longtime he refused to give a sign of life, till at lastDecoud's objurgations, and, perhaps more,Nostromo's impatient suggestion that heshould be thrown overboard, as he seemed tobe dead, induced him to raise one eyelid first,and then the other.

It appeared that he had never found a safe op-portunity to leave Sulaco. He lodged with An-zani, the universal storekeeper, on the PlazaMayor. But when the riot broke out he had ma-de his escape from his host's house before day-light, and in such a hurry that he had forgottento put on his shoes. He had run out impulsivelyin his socks, and with his hat in his hand, into

the garden of Anzani's house. Fear gave himthe necessary agility to climb over several lowwalls, and afterwards he blundered into theovergrown cloisters of the ruined Franciscanconvent in one of the by-streets. He forced him-self into the midst of matted bushes with therecklessness of desperation, and this accountedfor his scratched body and his torn clothing. Helay hidden there all day, his tongue cleaving tothe roof of his mouth with all the intensity ofthirst engendered by heat and fear. Three timesdifferent bands of men invaded the place withshouts and imprecations, looking for FatherCorbelan; but towards the evening, still lyingon his face in the bushes, he thought he woulddie from the fear of silence. He was not veryclear as to what had induced him to leave theplace, but evidently he had got out and slunksuccessfully out of town along the desertedback lanes. He wandered in the darkness nearthe railway, so maddened by apprehension thathe dared not even approach the fires of the pic-

kets of Italian workmen guarding the line. Hehad a vague idea evidently of finding refuge inthe railway yards, but the dogs rushed uponhim, barking; men began to shout; a shot wasfired at random. He fled away from the gates.By the merest accident, as it happened, he tookthe direction of the O.S.N. Company's offices.Twice he stumbled upon the bodies of menkilled during the day. But everything livingfrightened him much more. He crouched, crept,crawled, made dashes, guided by a sort of ani-mal instinct, keeping away from every lightand from every sound of voices. His idea wasto throw himself at the feet of Captain Mitchelland beg for shelter in the Company's offices. Itwas all dark there as he approached on hishands and knees, but suddenly someone onguard challenged loudly, "Quien vive?" Therewere more dead men lying about, and he flat-tened himself down at once by the side of acold corpse. He heard a voice saying, "Here isone of those wounded rascals crawling about.

Shall I go and finish him?" And another voiceobjected that it was not safe to go out without alantern upon such an errand; perhaps it wasonly some negro Liberal looking for a chance tostick a knife into the stomach of an honest man.Hirsch didn't stay to hear any more, but craw-ling away to the end of the wharf, hid himselfamongst a lot of empty casks. After a whilesome people came along, talking, and withglowing cigarettes. He did not stop to ask him-self whether they would be likely to do himany harm, but bolted incontinently along thejetty, saw a lighter lying moored at the end, andthrew himself into it. In his desire to find coverhe crept right forward under the half-deck, andhe had remained there more dead than alive,suffering agonies of hunger and thirst, and al-most fainting with terror, when he heard nu-merous footsteps and the voices of the Europe-ans who came in a body escorting the wagon-load of treasure, pushed along the rails by asquad of Cargadores. He understood perfectly

what was being done from the talk, but did notdisclose his presence from the fear that hewould not be allowed to remain. His only ideaat the time, overpowering and masterful, wasto get away from this terrible Sulaco. And nowhe regretted it very much. He had heard Nos-tromo talk to Decoud, and wished himself backon shore. He did not desire to be involved inany desperate affair—in a situation where onecould not run away. The involuntary groans ofhis anguished spirit had betrayed him to thesharp ears of the Capataz.

They had propped him up in a sitting postureagainst the side of the lighter, and he went onwith the moaning account of his adventures tillhis voice broke, his head fell forward. "Water,"he whispered, with difficulty. Decoud held oneof the cans to his lips. He revived after an ex-traordinarily short time, and scrambled up tohis feet wildly. Nostromo, in an angry andthreatening voice, ordered him forward. Hirsch

was one of those men whom fear lashes like awhip, and he must have had an appalling ideaof the Capataz's ferocity. He displayed an ex-traordinary agility in disappearing forwardinto the darkness. They heard him getting overthe tarpaulin; then there was the sound of aheavy fall, followed by a weary sigh. After-wards all was still in the fore-part of the lighter,as though he had killed himself in his headlongtumble. Nostromo shouted in a menacing voi-ce—

"Lie still there! Do not move a limb. If I hear asmuch as a loud breath from you I shall comeover there and put a bullet through your head."

The mere presence of a coward, however passi-ve, brings an element of treachery into a dange-rous situation. Nostromo's nervous impatiencepassed into gloomy thoughtfulness. Decoud, inan undertone, as if speaking to himself, remar-ked that, after all, this bizarre event made nogreat difference. He could not conceive what

harm the man could do. At most he would bein the way, like an inanimate and useless ob-ject—like a block of wood, for instance.

"I would think twice before getting rid of a pie-ce of wood," said Nostromo, calmly. "Somet-hing may happen unexpectedly where youcould make use of it. But in an affair like ours aman like this ought to be thrown overboard.Even if he were as brave as a lion we would notwant him here. We are not running away forour lives. Senor, there is no harm in a braveman trying to save himself with ingenuity andcourage; but you have heard his tale, Don Mar-tin. His being here is a miracle of fear—" Nos-tromo paused. "There is no room for fear in thislighter," he added through his teeth.

Decoud had no answer to make. It was not aposition for argument, for a display of scruplesor feelings. There were a thousand ways inwhich a panic-stricken man could make himselfdangerous. It was evident that Hirsch could not

be spoken to, reasoned with, or persuaded intoa rational line of conduct. The story of his ownescape demonstrated that clearly enough. De-coud thought that it was a thousand pities thewretch had not died of fright. Nature, who hadmade him what he was, seemed to have calcu-lated cruelly how much he could bear in theway of atrocious anguish without actually expi-ring. Some compassion was due to so muchterror. Decoud, though imaginative enough forsympathy, resolved not to interfere with anyaction that Nostromo would take. But Nostro-mo did nothing. And the fate of Senor Hirschremained suspended in the darkness of the gulfat the mercy of events which could not be fore-seen.

The Capataz, extending his hand, put out thecandle suddenly. It was to Decoud as if hiscompanion had destroyed, by a single touch,the world of affairs, of loves, of revolution,where his complacent superiority analyzed

fearlessly all motives and all passions, inclu-ding his own.

He gasped a little. Decoud was affected by thenovelty of his position. Intellectually self-confident, he suffered from being deprived ofthe only weapon he could use with effect. Nointelligence could penetrate the darkness of thePlacid Gulf. There remained only one thing hewas certain of, and that was the overweeningvanity of his companion. It was direct, uncom-plicated, naive, and effectual. Decoud, who hadbeen making use of him, had tried to unders-tand his man thoroughly. He had discovered acomplete singleness of motive behind the va-ried manifestations of a consistent character.This was why the man remained so astonishin-gly simple in the jealous greatness of his con-ceit. And now there was a complication. It wasevident that he resented having been given atask in which there were so many chances of

failure. "I wonder," thought Decoud, "how hewould behave if I were not here."

He heard Nostromo mutter again, "No! there isno room for fear on this lighter. Courage itselfdoes not seem good enough. I have a good eyeand a steady hand; no man can say he ever sawme tired or uncertain what to do; but por Dios,Don Martin, I have been sent out into this blackcalm on a business where neither a good eye,nor a steady hand, nor judgment are any use. . .." He swore a string of oaths in Spanish andItalian under his breath. "Nothing but sheerdesperation will do for this affair."

These words were in strange contrast to theprevailing peace—to this almost solid stillnessof the gulf. A shower fell with an abrupt whis-pering sound all round the boat, and Decoudtook off his hat, and, letting his head get wet,felt greatly refreshed. Presently a steady littledraught of air caressed his cheek. The lighterbegan to move, but the shower distanced it.

The drops ceased to fall upon his head andhands, the whispering died out in the distance.Nostromo emitted a grunt of satisfaction, andgrasping the tiller, chirruped softly, as sailorsdo, to encourage the wind. Never for the lastthree days had Decoud felt less the need forwhat the Capataz would call desperation.

"I fancy I hear another shower on the water," heobserved in a tone of quiet content. "I hope itwill catch us up."

Nostromo ceased chirruping at once. "You hearanother shower?" he said, doubtfully. A sort ofthinning of the darkness seemed to have takenplace, and Decoud could see now the outline ofhis companion's figure, and even the sail cameout of the night like a square block of densesnow.

The sound which Decoud had detected camealong the water harshly. Nostromo recognizedthat noise partaking of a hiss and a rustle which

spreads out on all sides of a steamer makingher way through a smooth water on a quietnight. It could be nothing else but the capturedtransport with troops from Esmeralda. She ca-rried no lights. The noise of her steaming, gro-wing louder every minute, would stop at timesaltogether, and then begin again abruptly, andsound startlingly nearer; as if that invisible ves-sel, whose position could not be precisely gues-sed, were making straight for the lighter. Mean-time, that last kept on sailing slowly and noise-lessly before a breeze so faint that it was onlyby leaning over the side and feeling the waterslip through his fingers that Decoud convincedhimself they were moving at all. His drowsyfeeling had departed. He was glad to know thatthe lighter was moving. After so much stillnessthe noise of the steamer seemed uproarious anddistracting. There was a weirdness in not beingable to see her. Suddenly all was still. She hadstopped, but so close to them that the steam,

blowing off, sent its rumbling vibration rightover their heads.

"They are trying to make out where they are,"said Decoud in a whisper. Again he leanedover and put his fingers into the water. "We aremoving quite smartly," he informed Nostromo.

"We seem to be crossing her bows," said theCapataz in a cautious tone. "But this is a blindgame with death. Moving on is of no use. Wemustn't be seen or heard."

His whisper was hoarse with excitement. Of allhis face there was nothing visible but a gleamof white eyeballs. His fingers gripped Decoud'sshoulder. "That is the only way to save thistreasure from this steamer full of soldiers. Anyother would have carried lights. But you obser-ve there is not a gleam to show us where sheis."

Decoud stood as if paralyzed; only his thoughtswere wildly active. In the space of a second heremembered the desolate glance of Antonia ashe left her at the bedside of her father in thegloomy house of Avellanos, with shutteredwindows, but all the doors standing open, anddeserted by all the servants except an old negroat the gate. He remembered the Casa Gould onhis last visit, the arguments, the tones of hisvoice, the impenetrable attitude of Charles,Mrs. Gould's face so blanched with anxiety andfatigue that her eyes seemed to have changedcolour, appearing nearly black by contrast.Even whole sentences of the proclamationwhich he meant to make Barrios issue from hisheadquarters at Cayta as soon as he got therepassed through his mind; the very germ of thenew State, the Separationist proclamationwhich he had tried before he left to readhurriedly to Don Jose, stretched out on his bedunder the fixed gaze of his daughter. Godknows whether the old statesman had unders-

tood it; he was unable to speak, but he had cer-tainly lifted his arm off the coverlet; his handhad moved as if to make the sign of the cross inthe air, a gesture of blessing, of consent. Deco-ud had that very draft in his pocket, written inpencil on several loose sheets of paper, with theheavily-printed heading, "Administration ofthe San Tome Silver Mine. Sulaco. Republic ofCostaguana." He had written it furiously, snat-ching page after page on Charles Gould's table.Mrs. Gould had looked several times over hisshoulder as he wrote; but the Senor Adminis-trador, standing straddle-legged, would noteven glance at it when it was finished. He hadwaved it away firmly. It must have been scorn,and not caution, since he never made a remarkabout the use of the Administration's paper forsuch a compromising document. And thatshowed his disdain, the true English disdain ofcommon prudence, as if everything outside therange of their own thoughts and feelings wereunworthy of serious recognition. Decoud had

the time in a second or two to become furiouslyangry with Charles Gould, and even resentfulagainst Mrs. Gould, in whose care, tacitly it istrue, he had left the safety of Antonia. Betterperish a thousand times than owe your preser-vation to such people, he exclaimed mentally.The grip of Nostromo's fingers never removedfrom his shoulder, tightening fiercely, recalledhim to himself.

"The darkness is our friend," the Capataz mur-mured into his ear. "I am going to lower thesail, and trust our escape to this black gulf. Noeyes could make us out lying silent with a na-ked mast. I will do it now, before this steamercloses still more upon us. The faint creak of ablock would betray us and the San Tome trea-sure into the hands of those thieves."

He moved about as warily as a cat. Decoudheard no sound; and it was only by the disap-pearance of the square blotch of darkness thathe knew the yard had come down, lowered as

carefully as if it had been made of glass. Nextmoment he heard Nostromo's quiet breathingby his side.

"You had better not move at all from where youare, Don Martin," advised the Capataz, earnes-tly. "You might stumble or displace somethingwhich would make a noise. The sweeps and thepunting poles are lying about. Move not foryour life. Por Dios, Don Martin," he went on ina keen but friendly whisper, "I am so desperatethat if I didn't know your worship to be a manof courage, capable of standing stock still wha-tever happens, I would drive my knife intoyour heart."

A deathlike stillness surrounded the lighter. Itwas difficult to believe that there was near asteamer full of men with many pairs of eyespeering from her bridge for some hint of landin the night. Her steam had ceased blowing off,and she remained stopped too far off apparen-tly for any other sound to reach the lighter.

"Perhaps you would, Capataz," Decoud beganin a whisper. "However, you need not trouble.There are other things than the fear of yourknife to keep my heart steady. It shall not be-tray you. Only, have you forgotten—"

"I spoke to you openly as to a man as desperateas myself," explained the Capataz. "The silvermust be saved from the Monterists. I told Cap-tain Mitchell three times that I preferred to goalone. I told Don Carlos Gould, too. It was inthe Casa Gould. They had sent for me. The la-dies were there; and when I tried to explainwhy I did not wish to have you with me, theypromised me, both of them, great rewards foryour safety. A strange way to talk to a man youare sending out to an almost certain death.Those gentlefolk do not seem to have senseenough to understand what they are giving oneto do. I told them I could do nothing for you.You would have been safer with the banditHernandez. It would have been possible to ride

out of the town with no greater risk than achance shot sent after you in the dark. But itwas as if they had been deaf. I had to promise Iwould wait for you under the harbour gate. Idid wait. And now because you are a braveman you are as safe as the silver. Neither morenor less."

At that moment, as if by way of comment uponNostromo's words, the invisible steamer wentahead at half speed only, as could be judged bythe leisurely beat of her propeller. The soundshifted its place markedly, but without comingnearer. It even grew a little more distant rightabeam of the lighter, and then ceased again.

"They are trying for a sight of the Isabels," mut-tered Nostromo, "in order to make for the har-bour in a straight line and seize the CustomHouse with the treasure in it. Have you everseen the Commandant of Esmeralda, Sotillo? Ahandsome fellow, with a soft voice. When I firstcame here I used to see him in the Calle talking

to the senoritas at the windows of the houses,and showing his white teeth all the time. Butone of my Cargadores, who had been a soldier,told me that he had once ordered a man to beflayed alive in the remote Campo, where hewas sent recruiting amongst the people of theEstancias. It has never entered his head that theCompania had a man capable of baffling hisgame."

The murmuring loquacity of the Capataz dis-turbed Decoud like a hint of weakness. Andyet, talkative resolution may be as genuine asgrim silence.

"Sotillo is not baffled so far," he said. "Have youforgotten that crazy man forward?"

Nostromo had not forgotten Senor Hirsch. Hereproached himself bitterly for not having visi-ted the lighter carefully before leaving thewharf. He reproached himself for not havingstabbed and flung Hirsch overboard at the very

moment of discovery without even looking athis face. That would have been consistent withthe desperate character of the affair. Whateverhappened, Sotillo was already baffled. Even ifthat wretch, now as silent as death, did anyt-hing to betray the nearness of the lighter, Soti-llo—if Sotillo it was in command of the troopson board—would be still baffled of his plunder.

"I have an axe in my hand," Nostromo whispe-red, wrathfully, "that in three strokes would cutthrough the side down to the water's edge. Mo-reover, each lighter has a plug in the stern, andI know exactly where it is. I feel it under thesole of my foot."

Decoud recognized the ring of genuine deter-mination in the nervous murmurs, the vindicti-ve excitement of the famous Capataz. Beforethe steamer, guided by a shriek or two (for the-re could be no more than that, Nostromo said,gnashing his teeth audibly), could find the ligh-

ter there would be plenty of time to sink thistreasure tied up round his neck.

The last words he hissed into Decoud's ear.Decoud said nothing. He was perfectly convin-ced. The usual characteristic quietness of theman was gone. It was not equal to the situationas he conceived it. Something deeper, somet-hing unsuspected by everyone, had come to thesurface. Decoud, with careful movements, slip-ped off his overcoat and divested himself of hisboots; he did not consider himself bound inhonour to sink with the treasure. His object wasto get down to Barrios, in Cayta, as the Capatazknew very well; and he, too, meant, in his ownway, to put into that attempt all the desperationof which he was capable. Nostromo muttered,"True, true! You are a politician, senor. Rejointhe army, and start another revolution." Hepointed out, however, that there was a littleboat belonging to every lighter fit to carry twomen, if not more. Theirs was towing behind.

Of that Decoud had not been aware. Of course,it was too dark to see, and it was only whenNostromo put his hand upon its painter faste-ned to a cleat in the stern that he experienced afull measure of relief. The prospect of findinghimself in the water and swimming, overw-helmed by ignorance and darkness, probably ina circle, till he sank from exhaustion, was revol-ting. The barren and cruel futility of such anend intimidated his affectation of careless pes-simism. In comparison to it, the chance of beingleft floating in a boat, exposed to thirst, hunger,discovery, imprisonment, execution, presenteditself with an aspect of amenity worth securingeven at the cost of some self-contempt. He didnot accept Nostromo's proposal that he shouldget into the boat at once. "Something suddenmay overwhelm us, senor," the Capataz remar-ked promising faithfully, at the same time, tolet go the painter at the moment when the ne-cessity became manifest.

But Decoud assured him lightly that he did notmean to take to the boat till the very last mo-ment, and that then he meant the Capataz tocome along, too. The darkness of the gulf wasno longer for him the end of all things. It waspart of a living world since, pervading it, failu-re and death could be felt at your elbow. Andat the same time it was a shelter. He exulted inits impenetrable obscurity. "Like a wall, like awall," he muttered to himself.

The only thing which checked his confidencewas the thought of Senor Hirsch. Not to havebound and gagged him seemed to Decoud nowthe height of improvident folly. As long as themiserable creature had the power to raise a yellhe was a constant danger. His abject terror wasmute now, but there was no saying from whatcause it might suddenly find vent in shrieks.

This very madness of fear which both Decoudand Nostromo had seen in the wild and irratio-nal glances, and in the continuous twitchings of

his mouth, protected Senor Hirsch from thecruel necessities of this desperate affair. Themoment of silencing him for ever had passed.As Nostromo remarked, in answer to Decoud'sregrets, it was too late! It could not be donewithout noise, especially in the ignorance of theman's exact position. Wherever he had electedto crouch and tremble, it was too hazardous togo near him. He would begin probably to yellfor mercy. It was much better to leave him qui-te alone since he was keeping so still. But totrust to his silence became every moment agreater strain upon Decoud's composure.

"I wish, Capataz, you had not let the right mo-ment pass," he murmured.

"What! To silence him for ever? I thought itgood to hear first how he came to be here. Itwas too strange. Who could imagine that it wasall an accident? Afterwards, senor, when I sawyou giving him water to drink, I could not doit. Not after I had seen you holding up the can

to his lips as though he were your brother. Se-nor, that sort of necessity must not be thoughtof too long. And yet it would have been nocruelty to take away from him his wretchedlife. It is nothing but fear. Your compassionsaved him then, Don Martin, and now it is toolate. It couldn't be done without noise."

In the steamer they were keeping a perfect si-lence, and the stillness was so profound thatDecoud felt as if the slightest sound conceiva-ble must travel unchecked and audible to theend of the world. What if Hirsch coughed orsneezed? To feel himself at the mercy of suchan idiotic contingency was too exasperating tobe looked upon with irony. Nostromo, too,seemed to be getting restless. Was it possible,he asked himself, that the steamer, finding thenight too dark altogether, intended to remainstopped where she was till daylight? He beganto think that this, after all, was the real danger.He was afraid that the darkness, which was his

protection, would, in the end, cause his un-doing.

Sotillo, as Nostromo had surmised, was incommand on board the transport. The events ofthe last forty-eight hours in Sulaco were notknown to him; neither was he aware that thetelegraphist in Esmeralda had managed towarn his colleague in Sulaco. Like a good manyofficers of the troops garrisoning the province,Sotillo had been influenced in his adoption ofthe Ribierist cause by the belief that it had theenormous wealth of the Gould Concession onits side. He had been one of the frequenters ofthe Casa Gould, where he had aired his Blancoconvictions and his ardour for reform beforeDon Jose Avellanos, casting frank, honest glan-ces towards Mrs. Gould and Antonia the while.He was known to belong to a good family per-secuted and impoverished during the tyrannyof Guzman Bento. The opinions he expressedappeared eminently natural and proper in a

man of his parentage and antecedents. And hewas not a deceiver; it was perfectly natural forhim to express elevated sentiments while hiswhole faculties were taken up with what see-med then a solid and practical notion—the no-tion that the husband of Antonia Avellanoswould be, naturally, the intimate friend of theGould Concession. He even pointed this out toAnzani once, when negotiating the sixth orseventh small loan in the gloomy, damp apart-ment with enormous iron bars, behind theprincipal shop in the whole row under the Ar-cades. He hinted to the universal shopkeeper atthe excellent terms he was on with the emanci-pated senorita, who was like a sister to the En-glishwoman. He would advance one leg andput his arms akimbo, posing for Anzani's ins-pection, and fixing him with a haughty stare.

"Look, miserable shopkeeper! How can a manlike me fail with any woman, let alone an

emancipated girl living in scandalous free-dom?" he seemed to say.

His manner in the Casa Gould was, of course,very different—devoid of all truculence, andeven slightly mournful. Like most of his coun-trymen, he was carried away by the sound offine words, especially if uttered by himself. Hehad no convictions of any sort upon anythingexcept as to the irresistible power of his perso-nal advantages. But that was so firm that evenDecoud's appearance in Sulaco, and his intima-cy with the Goulds and the Avellanos, did notdisquiet him. On the contrary, he tried to makefriends with that rich Costaguanero from Euro-pe in the hope of borrowing a large sum by-and-by. The only guiding motive of his life wasto get money for the satisfaction of his expensi-ve tastes, which he indulged recklessly, havingno self-control. He imagined himself a masterof intrigue, but his corruption was as simple asan animal instinct. At times, in solitude, he had

his moments of ferocity, and also on such occa-sions as, for instance, when alone in a roomwith Anzani trying to get a loan.

He had talked himself into the command of theEsmeralda garrison. That small seaport had itsimportance as the station of the main submari-ne cable connecting the Occidental Provinceswith the outer world, and the junction with it ofthe Sulaco branch. Don Jose Avellanos propo-sed him, and Barrios, with a rude and jeeringguffaw, had said, "Oh, let Sotillo go. He is avery good man to keep guard over the cable,and the ladies of Esmeralda ought to have theirturn." Barrios, an indubitably brave man, hadno great opinion of Sotillo.

It was through the Esmeralda cable alone thatthe San Tome mine could be kept in constanttouch with the great financier, whose tacit ap-proval made the strength of the Ribierist mo-vement. This movement had its adversarieseven there. Sotillo governed Esmeralda with

repressive severity till the adverse course ofevents upon the distant theatre of civil war for-ced upon him the reflection that, after all, thegreat silver mine was fated to become the spoilof the victors. But caution was necessary. Hebegan by assuming a dark and mysterious atti-tude towards the faithful Ribierist municipalityof Esmeralda. Later on, the information that thecommandant was holding assemblies of offi-cers in the dead of night (which had leaked outsomehow) caused those gentlemen to neglecttheir civil duties altogether, and remain shut upin their houses. Suddenly one day all the lettersfrom Sulaco by the overland courier were ca-rried off by a file of soldiers from the post officeto the Commandancia, without disguise, con-cealment, or apology. Sotillo had heardthrough Cayta of the final defeat of Ribiera.

This was the first open sign of the change in hisconvictions. Presently notorious democrats,who had been living till then in constant fear of

arrest, leg irons, and even floggings, could beobserved going in and out at the great door ofthe Commandancia, where the horses of theorderlies doze under their heavy saddles, whilethe men, in ragged uniforms and pointed strawhats, lounge on a bench, with their naked feetstuck out beyond the strip of shade; and a sen-try, in a red baize coat with holes at the elbows,stands at the top of the steps glaring haughtilyat the common people, who uncover theirheads to him as they pass.

Sotillo's ideas did not soar above the care forhis personal safety and the chance of plunde-ring the town in his charge, but he feared thatsuch a late adhesion would earn but scant grati-tude from the victors. He had believed just alittle too long in the power of the San Tomemine. The seized correspondence had confir-med his previous information of a largeamount of silver ingots lying in the Sulaco Cus-tom House. To gain possession of it would be a

clear Monterist move; a sort of service thatwould have to be rewarded. With the silver inhis hands he could make terms for himself andhis soldiers. He was aware neither of the riots,nor of the President's escape to Sulaco and theclose pursuit led by Montero's brother, the gue-rrillero. The game seemed in his own hands.The initial moves were the seizure of the cabletelegraph office and the securing of the Go-vernment steamer lying in the narrow creekwhich is the harbour of Esmeralda. The lastwas effected without difficulty by a company ofsoldiers swarming with a rush over the gang-ways as she lay alongside the quay; but thelieutenant charged with the duty of arrestingthe telegraphist halted on the way before theonly cafe in Esmeralda, where he distributedsome brandy to his men, and refreshed himselfat the expense of the owner, a known Ribierist.The whole party became intoxicated, and pro-ceeded on their mission up the street yellingand firing random shots at the windows. This

little festivity, which might have turned outdangerous to the telegraphist's life, enabledhim in the end to send his warning to Sulaco.The lieutenant, staggering upstairs with adrawn sabre, was before long kissing him onboth cheeks in one of those swift changes ofmood peculiar to a state of drunkenness. Heclasped the telegraphist close round the neck,assuring him that all the officers of the Esme-ralda garrison were going to be made colonels,while tears of happiness streamed down hissodden face. Thus it came about that the townmajor, coming along later, found the wholeparty sleeping on the stairs and in passages,and the telegraphist (who scorned this chanceof escape) very busy clicking the key of thetransmitter. The major led him away barehea-ded, with his hands tied behind his back, butconcealed the truth from Sotillo, who remainedin ignorance of the warning despatched to Su-laco.

The colonel was not the man to let any sort ofdarkness stand in the way of the planned sur-prise. It appeared to him a dead certainty; hisheart was set upon his object with an ungover-nable, childlike impatience. Ever since thesteamer had rounded Punta Mala, to enter thedeeper shadow of the gulf, he had remained onthe bridge in a group of officers as excited ashimself. Distracted between the coaxings andmenaces of Sotillo and his Staff, the miserablecommander of the steamer kept her movingwith as much prudence as they would let himexercise. Some of them had been drinking hea-vily, no doubt; but the prospect of laying handson so much wealth made them absurdly fool-hardy, and, at the same time, extremelyanxious. The old major of the battalion, a stu-pid, suspicious man, who had never been afloatin his life, distinguished himself by putting outsuddenly the binnacle light, the only one allo-wed on board for the necessities of navigation.He could not understand of what use it could

be for finding the way. To the vehement protes-tations of the ship's captain, he stamped hisfoot and tapped the handle of his sword. "Aha!I have unmasked you," he cried, triumphantly."You are tearing your hair from despair at myacuteness. Am I a child to believe that a light inthat brass box can show you where the harbouris? I am an old soldier, I am. I can smell a traitora league off. You wanted that gleam to betrayour approach to your friend the Englishman. Athing like that show you the way! What a mise-rable lie! Que picardia! You Sulaco people areall in the pay of those foreigners. You deserveto be run through the body with my sword."Other officers, crowding round, tried to calmhis indignation, repeating persuasively, "No,no! This is an appliance of the mariners, major.This is no treachery." The captain of the trans-port flung himself face downwards on thebridge, and refused to rise. "Put an end to me atonce," he repeated in a stifled voice. Sotillo hadto interfere.

The uproar and confusion on the bridge beca-me so great that the helmsman fled from thewheel. He took refuge in the engine-room, andalarmed the engineers, who, disregarding thethreats of the soldiers set on guard over them,stopped the engines, protesting that theywould rather be shot than run the risk of beingdrowned down below.

This was the first time Nostromo and Decoudheard the steamer stop. After order had beenrestored, and the binnacle lamp relighted, shewent ahead again, passing wide of the lighterin her search for the Isabels. The group couldnot be made out, and, at the pitiful entreaties ofthe captain, Sotillo allowed the engines to bestopped again to wait for one of those periodi-cal lightenings of darkness caused by the shif-ting of the cloud canopy spread above the wa-ters of the gulf.

Sotillo, on the bridge, muttered from time totime angrily to the captain. The other, in an

apologetic and cringing tone, begged su mer-ced the colonel to take into consideration thelimitations put upon human faculties by thedarkness of the night. Sotillo swelled with rageand impatience. It was the chance of a lifetime.

"If your eyes are of no more use to you thanthis, I shall have them put out," he yelled.

The captain of the steamer made no answer, forjust then the mass of the Great Isabel loomedup darkly after a passing shower, then vanis-hed, as if swept away by a wave of greater obs-curity preceding another downpour. This wasenough for him. In the voice of a man comeback to life again, he informed Sotillo that in anhour he would be alongside the Sulaco wharf.The ship was put then full speed on the course,and a great bustle of preparation for landingarose among the soldiers on her deck.

It was heard distinctly by Decoud and Nostro-mo. The Capataz understood its meaning. They

had made out the Isabels, and were going onnow in a straight line for Sulaco. He judgedthat they would pass close; but believed thatlying still like this, with the sail lowered, thelighter could not be seen. "No, not even if theyrubbed sides with us," he muttered.

The rain began to fall again; first like a wetmist, then with a heavier touch, thickening intoa smart, perpendicular downpour; and the hissand thump of the approaching steamer wascoming extremely near. Decoud, with his eyesfull of water, and lowered head, asked himselfhow long it would be before she drew past,when unexpectedly he felt a lurch. An inrush offoam broke swishing over the stern, simultane-ously with a crack of timbers and a staggeringshock. He had the impression of an angry handlaying hold of the lighter and dragging it alongto destruction. The shock, of course, had knoc-ked him down, and he found himself rolling ina lot of water at the bottom of the lighter. A

violent churning went on alongside; a strangeand amazed voice cried out something abovehim in the night. He heard a piercing shriek forhelp from Senor Hirsch. He kept his teeth hardset all the time. It was a collision!

The steamer had struck the lighter obliquely,heeling her over till she was half swamped,starting some of her timbers, and swinging herhead parallel to her own course with the forceof the blow. The shock of it on board of her washardly perceptible. All the violence of that co-llision was, as usual, felt only on board thesmaller craft. Even Nostromo himself thoughtthat this was perhaps the end of his desperateadventure. He, too, had been flung away fromthe long tiller, which took charge in the lurch.Next moment the steamer would have passedon, leaving the lighter to sink or swim afterhaving shouldered her thus out of her way, andwithout even getting a glimpse of her form,had it not been that, being deeply laden with

stores and the great number of people on bo-ard, her anchor was low enough to hook itselfinto one of the wire shrouds of the lighter'smast. For the space of two or three gaspingbreaths that new rope held against the suddenstrain. It was this that gave Decoud the sensa-tion of the snatching pull, dragging the lighteraway to destruction. The cause of it, of course,was inexplicable to him. The whole thing wasso sudden that he had no time to think. But allhis sensations were perfectly clear; he had keptcomplete possession of himself; in fact, he waseven pleasantly aware of that calmness at thevery moment of being pitched head first overthe transom, to struggle on his back in a lot ofwater. Senor Hirsch's shriek he had heard andrecognized while he was regaining his feet,always with that mysterious sensation of beingdragged headlong through the darkness. Not aword, not a cry escaped him; he had no time tosee anything; and following upon the despai-ring screams for help, the dragging motion cea-

sed so suddenly that he staggered forward withopen arms and fell against the pile of the trea-sure boxes. He clung to them instinctively, inthe vague apprehension of being flung aboutagain; and immediately he heard another lot ofshrieks for help, prolonged and despairing, notnear him at all, but unaccountably in the dis-tance, away from the lighter altogether, as ifsome spirit in the night were mocking at SenorHirsch's terror and despair.

Then all was still—as still as when you wakeup in your bed in a dark room from a bizarreand agitated dream. The lighter rocked slightly;the rain was still falling. Two groping handstook hold of his bruised sides from behind, andthe Capataz's voice whispered, in his ear, "Si-lence, for your life! Silence! The steamer hasstopped."

Decoud listened. The gulf was dumb. He feltthe water nearly up to his knees. "Are we sin-king?" he asked in a faint breath.

"I don't know," Nostromo breathed back tohim. "Senor, make not the slightest sound."

Hirsch, when ordered forward by Nostromo,had not returned into his first hiding-place. Hehad fallen near the mast, and had no strengthto rise; moreover, he feared to move. He hadgiven himself up for dead, but not on any ra-tional grounds. It was simply a cruel and terrif-ying feeling. Whenever he tried to think whatwould become of him his teeth would startchattering violently. He was too absorbed inthe utter misery of his fear to take notice ofanything.

Though he was stifling under the lighter's sailwhich Nostromo had unwittingly lowered ontop of him, he did not even dare to put out hishead till the very moment of the steamer stri-king. Then, indeed, he leaped right out, spu-rred on to new miracles of bodily vigour by thisnew shape of danger. The inrush of water whenthe lighter heeled over unsealed his lips. His

shriek, "Save me!" was the first distinct warningof the collision for the people on board thesteamer. Next moment the wire shroud parted,and the released anchor swept over the lighter'sforecastle. It came against the breast of SenorHirsch, who simply seized hold of it, without inthe least knowing what it was, but curling hisarms and legs upon the part above the flukewith an invincible, unreasonable tenacity. Thelighter yawed off wide, and the steamer, mo-ving on, carried him away, clinging hard, andshouting for help. It was some time, however,after the steamer had stopped that his positionwas discovered. His sustained yelping for helpseemed to come from somebody swimming inthe water. At last a couple of men went overthe bows and hauled him on board. He wascarried straight off to Sotillo on the bridge. Hisexamination confirmed the impression thatsome craft had been run over and sunk, but itwas impracticable on such a dark night to lookfor the positive proof of floating wreckage. Soti-

llo was more anxious than ever now to enterthe harbour without loss of time; the idea thathe had destroyed the principal object of hisexpedition was too intolerable to be accepted.This feeling made the story he had heard appe-ar the more incredible. Senor Hirsch, afterbeing beaten a little for telling lies, was thrustinto the chartroom. But he was beaten only alittle. His tale had taken the heart out of Soti-llo's Staff, though they all repeated round theirchief, "Impossible! impossible!" with the excep-tion of the old major, who triumphed gloomily.

"I told you; I told you," he mumbled. "I couldsmell some treachery, some diableria a leagueoff."

Meantime, the steamer had kept on her waytowards Sulaco, where only the truth of thatmatter could be ascertained. Decoud and Nos-tromo heard the loud churning of her propellerdiminish and die out; and then, with no uselesswords, busied themselves in making for the

Isabels. The last shower had brought with it agentle but steady breeze. The danger was notover yet, and there was no time for talk. Thelighter was leaking like a sieve. They splashedin the water at every step. The Capataz put intoDecoud's hands the handle of the pump whichwas fitted at the side aft, and at once, withoutquestion or remark, Decoud began to pump inutter forgetfulness of every desire but that ofkeeping the treasure afloat. Nostromo hoistedthe sail, flew back to the tiller, pulled at thesheet like mad. The short flare of a match (theyhad been kept dry in a tight tin box, though theman himself was completely wet), disclosed tothe toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face,bent low over the box of the compass, and theattentive stare of his eyes. He knew now wherehe was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighterashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in twoequal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine.

Decoud pumped without intermission. Nos-tromo steered without relaxing for a second theintense, peering effort of his stare. Each of themwas as if utterly alone with his task. It did notoccur to them to speak. There was nothing incommon between them but the knowledge thatthe damaged lighter must be slowly but surelysinking. In that knowledge, which was like thecrucial test of their desires, they seemed to havebecome completely estranged, as if they haddiscovered in the very shock of the collisionthat the loss of the lighter would not mean thesame thing to them both. This common dangerbrought their differences in aim, in view, incharacter, and in position, into absolute promi-nence in the private vision of each. There wasno bond of conviction, of common idea; theywere merely two adventurers pursuing eachhis own adventure, involved in the same im-minence of deadly peril. Therefore they hadnothing to say to each other. But this peril, thisonly incontrovertible truth in which they sha-

red, seemed to act as an inspiration to theirmental and bodily powers.

There was certainly something almost miracu-lous in the way the Capataz made the covewith nothing but the shadowy hint of the is-land's shape and the vague gleam of a smallsandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opensbetween the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivu-let meanders out of the bushes to lose itself inthe sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the twomen, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, beganto discharge her precious freight, carrying eachox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyondthe bushes to a hollow place which the cavingin of the soil had made below the roots of alarge tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like afalling column far over the trickle of water run-ning amongst the loose stones.

A couple of years before Nostromo had spent awhole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island.He explained this to Decoud after their task

was done, and they sat, weary in every limb,with their legs hanging down the low bank,and their backs against the tree, like a pair ofblind men aware of each other and their su-rroundings by some indefinable sixth sense.

"Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget aplace I have carefully looked at once." He spokeslowly, almost lazily, as if there had been awhole leisurely life before him, instead of thescanty two hours before daylight. The existenceof the treasure, barely concealed in this impro-bable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon everycontemplated step, upon every intention andplan of future conduct. He felt the partial failu-re of this desperate affair entrusted to the greatreputation he had known how to make forhimself. However, it was also a partial success.His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irri-tation had subsided.

"You never know what may be of use," he pur-sued with his usual quietness of tone and man-

ner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in ex-ploring this crumb of land."

"A misanthropic sort of occupation," mutteredDecoud, viciously. "You had no money, I sup-pose, to gamble with, and to fling aboutamongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capa-taz."

"E vero!" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised intothe use of his native tongue by so much perspi-cacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want togo amongst those beggarly people accustomedto my generosity. It is looked for from the Ca-pataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men,and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst thecommon people. I don't care for cards but as apastime; and as to those girls that boast ofhaving opened their doors to my knock, youknow I wouldn't look at any one of them twiceexcept for what the people would say. They arequeer, the good people of Sulaco, and I havegot much useful information simply by liste-

ning patiently to the talk of the women thateverybody believed I was in love with. PoorTeresa could never understand that. On thatparticular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that Iwent out of the house swearing that I wouldnever darken their door again unless to fetchaway my hammock and my chest of clothes.Senor, there is nothing more exasperating thanto hear a woman you respect rail against yourgood reputation when you have not a singlebrass coin in your pocket. I untied one of thesmall boats and pulled myself out of the har-bour with nothing but three cigars in my poc-ket to help me spend the day on this island. Butthe water of this rivulet you hear under yourfeet is cool and sweet and good, senor, bothbefore and after a smoke." He was silent for awhile, then added reflectively, "That was thefirst Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down themountains from the Paramo on the top of theEntrada Pass—and in the coach, too! No coach

had gone up or down that mountain road wit-hin the memory of man, senor, till I broughtthis one down in charge of fifty peons workinglike one man with ropes, pickaxes, and polesunder my direction. That was the rich English-man who, as people say, pays for the making ofthis railway. He was very pleased with me. Butmy wages were not due till the end of themonth."

He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoudheard the splash of his feet in the brook andfollowed his footsteps down the ravine. Hisform was lost among the bushes till he had rea-ched the strip of sand under the cliff. As oftenhappens in the gulf when the showers duringthe first part of the night had been frequent andheavy, the darkness had thinned considerablytowards the morning though there were nosigns of daylight as yet.

The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious bur-den, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-

foot on the sand. A long rope stretched awaylike a black cotton thread across the strip ofwhite beach to the grapnel Nostromo had ca-rried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine.

There was nothing for Decoud but to remain onthe island. He received from Nostromo's handswhatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchellhad put on board the lighter and deposited ittemporarily in the little dinghy which on theirarrival they had hauled up out of sightamongst the bushes. It was to be left with him.The island was to be a hiding-place, not a pri-son; he could pull out to a passing ship. TheO.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close tothe islands when going into Sulaco from thenorth. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of thedisturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that thenext steamer down would get instructions tomiss the port altogether since the town, as far

as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the timebeing in the hands of the rabble. This wouldmean that there would be no steamer for amonth, as far as the mail service went; but De-coud had to take his chance of that. The islandwas his only shelter from the proscription han-ging over his head. The Capataz was, of course,going back. The unloaded lighter leaked muchless, and he thought that she would keep afloatas far as the harbour.

He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deepalongside, one of the two spades which belon-ged to the equipment of each lighter for usewhen ballasting ships. By working with it care-fully as soon as there was daylight enough tosee, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth andstones overhanging the cavity in which theyhad deposited the treasure, so that it wouldlook as if it had fallen naturally. It would coverup not only the cavity, but even all traces of

their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones,and even the broken bushes.

"Besides, who would think of looking either foryou or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued,as if he could not tear himself away from thespot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. Whatcould any man want with this piece of earth aslong as there is room for his feet on the main-land! The people in this country are not cu-rious. There are even no fishermen here to in-trude upon your worship. All the fishing that isdone in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over the-re. Senor, if you are forced to leave this islandbefore anything can be arranged for you, do nottry to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement ofthieves and matreros, where they would cutyour throat promptly for the sake of your goldwatch and chain. And, senor, think twice beforeconfiding in any one whatever; even in the offi-cers of the Company's steamers, if you ever geton board one. Honesty alone is not enough for

security. You must look to discretion and pru-dence in a man. And always remember, senor,before you open your lips for a confidence, thatthis treasure may be left safely here for hun-dreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. Andsilver is an incorruptible metal that can be trus-ted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorrup-tible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had gi-ven him a profound pleasure.

"As some men are said to be," Decoud pro-nounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, whobusied himself in baling out the lighter with awooden bucket, went on throwing the waterover the side with a regular splash. Decoud,incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cy-nically, but with general satisfaction, that thisman was made incorruptible by his enormousvanity, that finest form of egoism which cantake on the aspect of every virtue.

Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck witha sudden thought, dropped the bucket with aclatter into the lighter.

"Have you any message?" he asked in a lowe-red voice. "Remember, I shall be asked ques-tions."

"You must find the hopeful words that ought tobe spoken to the people in town. I trust for thatyour intelligence and your experience, Capataz.You understand?"

"Si, senor. . . . For the ladies."

"Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonder-ful reputation will make them attach great va-lue to your words; therefore be careful whatyou say. I am looking forward," he continued,feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himselfto which his complex nature was subject, "I amlooking forward to a glorious and successfulending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz?

Use the words glorious and successful whenyou speak to the senorita. Your own mission isaccomplished gloriously and successfully. Youhave indubitably saved the silver of the mine.Not only this silver, but probably all the silverthat shall ever come out of it."

Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say,Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "Thereare very few things that I am not equal to. Askthe foreign signori. I, a man of the people, whocannot always understand what you mean. Butas to this lot which I must leave here, let me tellyou that I would believe it in greater safety ifyou had not been with me at all."

An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a shortpause followed. "Shall I go back with you toSulaco?" he asked in an angry tone.

"Shall I strike you dead with my knife whereyou stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuous-ly. "It would be the same thing as taking you to

Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in yourpolitics, and mine is bound up with the fate ofthis silver. Do you wonder I wish there hadbeen no other man to share my knowledge? Iwanted no one with me, senor."

"You could not have kept the lighter afloat wit-hout me," Decoud almost shouted. "You wouldhave gone to the bottom with her."

"Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone."

Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemedas though he would have preferred to die rat-her than deface the perfect form of his egoism.Such a man was safe. In silence he helped theCapataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromocleared the shelving shore with one push of theheavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitaryon the beach like a man in a dream. A suddendesire to hear a human voice once more seizedupon his heart. The lighter was hardly distin-

guishable from the black water upon which shefloated.

"What do you think has become of Hirsch?" heshouted.

"Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nos-tromo's voice confidently out of the black was-tes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep closein the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out toyou in a night or two."

A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromowas setting the sail. It filled all at once with asound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoudwent back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller,looked back from time to time at the vanishingmass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little,merged into the uniform texture of the night.At last, when he turned his head again, he sawnothing but a smooth darkness, like a solidwall.

Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitu-de which had weighed heavily on Decoud afterthe lighter had slipped off the shore. But whilethe man on the island was oppressed by a biza-rre sense of unreality affecting the very groundupon which he walked, the mind of the Capa-taz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the pro-blem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties,working on parallel lines, enabled him to steerstraight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, nearwhich he had to pass, and to try to imaginewhat would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since thedawn was not very far, Sotillo would find outin what way the treasure had gone. A gang ofCargadores had been employed in loading itinto a railway truck from the Custom Housestore-rooms, and running the truck on to thewharf. There would be arrests made, and cer-tainly before noon Sotillo would know in whatmanner the silver had left Sulaco, and who itwas that took it out.

Nostromo's intention had been to sail right intothe harbour; but at this thought by a suddentouch of the tiller he threw the lighter into thewind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raisesuspicions, would cause surmises, would abso-lutely put Sotillo on the track. He himselfwould be arrested; and once in the Calabozothere was no saying what they would do to himto make him speak. He trusted himself, but hestood up to look round. Near by, Hermosashowed low its white surface as flat as a table,with the slight run of the sea raised by thebreeze washing over its edges noisily. The ligh-ter must be sunk at once.

He allowed her to drift with her sail aback.There was already a good deal of water in her.He allowed her to drift towards the harbourentrance, and, letting the tiller swing about,squatted down and busied himself in looseningthe plug. With that out she would fill very

quickly, and every lighter carried a little ironballast—enough to make her go down whenfull of water. When he stood up again the noisywash about the Hermosa sounded far away,almost inaudible; and already he could makeout the shape of land about the harbour entran-ce. This was a desperate affair, and he was agood swimmer. A mile was nothing to him,and he knew of an easy place for landing justbelow the earthworks of the old abandonedfort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascina-tion that this fort was a good place in which tosleep the day through after so many sleeplessnights.

With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for thepurpose, he knocked the plug out, but did nottake the trouble to lower the sail. He felt thewater welling up heavily about his legs beforehe leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright andmotionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he

stood waiting. When he had felt her settle hesprang far away with a mighty splash.

At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clou-ded dawn from behind the mountains showedhim on the smooth waters the upper corner ofthe sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas wavingslightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerkedunder, and then struck out for the shore.

PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE

CHAPTER ONE

Directly the cargo boat had slipped away fromthe wharf and got lost in the darkness of theharbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, toprepare for the coming of the Monterist regime,which was approaching Sulaco from the moun-tains, as well as from the sea.

This bit of manual work in loading the silverwas their last concerted action. It ended thethree days of danger, during which, accordingto the newspaper press of Europe, their energyhad preserved the town from the calamities ofpopular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty,Captain Mitchell said good-night and turnedback. His intention was to walk the planks ofthe wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda tur-ned up. The engineers of the railway staff, co-llecting their Basque and Italian workmen,marched them away to the railway yards, lea-

ving the Custom House, so well defended onthe first day of the riot, standing open to thefour winds of heaven. Their men had conduc-ted themselves bravely and faithfully duringthe famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a greatpart this faithfulness and that courage had beenexercised in self-defence rather than in the cau-se of those material interests to which CharlesGould had pinned his faith. Amongst the criesof the mob not the least loud had been the cryof death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a luckycircumstance for Sulaco that the relations ofthose imported workmen with the people ofthe country had been uniformly bad from thefirst.

Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola'skitchen, observed this retreat marking the endof the foreign interference, this withdrawal ofthe army of material progress from the field ofCostaguana revolutions.

Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts ofthe moving body sent their penetrating aromainto his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along thefront of the house, made the letters of the ins-cription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out blackfrom end to end of the long wall. His eyes blin-ked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mos-tly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of darkbronzed heads, surmounted by the glint ofslanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarlyas they went by. The doctor was a well-knowncharacter. Some of them wondered what hewas doing there. Then, on the flank of theirworkmen they tramped on, following the lineof rails.

"Withdrawing your people from the harbour?"said the doctor, addressing himself to the chiefengineer of the railway, who had accompaniedCharles Gould so far on his way to the town,walking by the side of the horse, with his handon the saddle-bow. They had stopped just out-

side the open door to let the workmen cross theroad.

"As quick as I can. We are not a political fac-tion," answered the engineer, meaningly. "Andwe are not going to give our new rulers a hand-le against the railway. You approve me,Gould?"

"Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassivevoice, high up and outside the dim parallelo-gram of light falling on the road through theopen door.

With Sotillo expected from one side, and PedroMontero from the other, the engineer-in-chief'sonly anxiety now was to avoid a collision witheither. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, aterminus, workshops, a great accumulation ofstores. As against the mob the railway defen-ded its property, but politically the railway wasneutral. He was a brave man; and in that spiritof neutrality he had carried proposals of truce

to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular par-ty, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bulletswere still flying about when he had crossed thePlaza on that mission, waving above his head awhite napkin belonging to the table linen of theAmarilla Club.

He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflec-ting that the doctor, busy all day with thewounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, hadnot had time to hear the news, he began a suc-cinct narrative. He had communicated to themthe intelligence from the Construction Camp asto Pedro Montero. The brother of the victoriousgeneral, he had assured them, could be expec-ted at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as heanticipated), when shouted out of the windowby Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mobalong the Campo Road towards Rincon. Thetwo deputies also, after shaking hands withhim effusively, mounted and galloped off tomeet the great man. "I have misled them a little

as to the time," the chief engineer confessed."However hard he rides, he can scarcely gethere before the morning. But my object is attai-ned. I've secured several hours' peace for thelosing party. But I did not tell them anythingabout Sotillo, for fear they would take it intotheir heads to try to get hold of the harbouragain, either to oppose him or welcome him—there's no saying which. There was Gould'ssilver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes.Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. Ithink the railway has done pretty well by itsfriends without compromising itself hopelessly.Now the parties must be left to themselves."

"Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjectedthe doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country,and they have raised a fine crop of hates, ven-geance, murder, and rapine—those sons of thecountry."

"Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voicesounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see

to my own crop of trouble. My wife has drivenstraight on, doctor?"

"Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould hastaken the two girls with her."

Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors.

"That man is calmness personified," he said,appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stret-ching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockingsnearly across the doorway. "He must be extre-mely sure of himself."

"If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of not-hing," said the doctor. He had perched himselfagain on the end of the table. He nursed hischeek in the palm of one hand, while the othersustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a manought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumedand burning dimly with a long wick, lighted upfrom below his inclined face, whose expression

affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the che-eks, had something vaguely unnatural, anexaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he satthere he had the air of meditating upon sinisterthings. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for atime before he protested.

"I really don't see that. For me there seems to benothing else. However——"

He was a wise man, but he could not quite con-ceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; infact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Euro-peans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an out-cast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould'sdrawing-room, provoked unfavourable criti-cism. There could be no doubt of his intelligen-ce; and as he had lived for over twenty years inthe country, the pessimism of his outlook couldnot be altogether ignored. But instinctively, inself-defence of their activities and hopes, hishearers put it to the account of some hiddenimperfection in the man's character. It was

known that many years before, when quiteyoung, he had been made by Guzman Bentochief medical officer of the army. Not one of theEuropeans then in the service of Costaguanahad been so much liked and trusted by the fier-ce old Dictator.

Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lostitself amongst the innumerable tales of conspi-racies and plots against the tyrant as a stream islost in an arid belt of sandy country before itemerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, onthe other side. The doctor made no secret of itthat he had lived for years in the wildest partsof the Republic, wandering with almost unk-nown Indian tribes in the great forests of the farinterior where the great rivers have their sour-ces. But it was mere aimless wandering; he hadwritten nothing, collected nothing, broughtnothing for science out of the twilight of theforests, which seemed to cling to his batteredpersonality limping about Sulaco, where it had

drifted in casually, only to get stranded on theshores of the sea.

It was also known that he had lived in a state ofdestitution till the arrival of the Goulds fromEurope. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had takenup the mad English doctor, when it becameapparent that for all his savage independencehe could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it wasonly hunger that had tamed him. In years goneby he had certainly been acquainted with Char-les Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, nomatter what were the dark passages of his his-tory, as the medical officer of the San Tomemine he became a recognized personality. Hewas recognized, but not unreservedly accepted.So much defiant eccentricity and such an outs-poken scorn for mankind seemed to point tomere recklessness of judgment, the bravado ofguilt. Besides, since he had become again ofsome account, vague whispers had been heardthat years ago, when fallen into disgrace and

thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at thetime of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he hadbetrayed some of his best friends amongst theconspirators. Nobody pretended to believe thatwhisper; the whole story of the Great Conspi-racy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it isadmitted in Costaguana that there never hadbeen a conspiracy except in the diseased imagi-nation of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothingand no one to betray; though the most distin-guished Costaguaneros had been imprisonedand executed upon that accusation. The proce-dure had dragged on for years, decimating thebetter class like a pestilence. The mere expres-sion of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmenhad been punished with death. Don Jose Ave-llanos was perhaps the only one living whoknew the whole story of those unspeakablecruelties. He had suffered from them himself,and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and anervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont toput away from him, as it were, every allusion to

it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, apersonage in the administration of the GouldConcession, treated with reverent awe by theminers, and indulged in his peculiarities byMrs. Gould, remained somehow outside thepale.

It was not from any liking for the doctor thatthe engineer-in-chief had lingered in the innupon the plain. He liked old Viola much better.He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltaliaUna as a dependence of the railway. Many ofhis subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs.Gould's interest in the family conferred upon ita sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, withan army of workers under his orders, apprecia-ted the moral influence of the old Garibaldinoupon his countrymen. His austere, old-worldRepublicanism had a severe, soldier-like stan-dard of faithfulness and duty, as if the worldwere a battlefield where men had to fight for

the sake of universal love and brotherhood,instead of a more or less large share of booty.

"Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard thedoctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be ableto keep the place going by himself. I shall besorry."

"He's quite alone up there," grunted DoctorMonygham, with a toss of his heavy head to-wards the narrow staircase. "Every living soulhas cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girlsaway just now. It might not be over-safe forthem out here before very long. Of course, as adoctor I can do nothing more here; but she hasasked me to stay with old Viola, and as I haveno horse to get back to the mine, where I oughtto be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can dowithout me in the town."

"I have a good mind to remain with you, doc-tor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-

chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo'ssoldiery, who may push on as far as this at on-ce. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at theGoulds' and at the club. How that man'll everdare to look any of his friends here in the face Ican't imagine."

"He'll no doubt begin by shooting some of themto get over the first awkwardness," said thedoctor. "Nothing in this country serves betteryour military man who has changed sides thana few summary executions." He spoke with agloomy positiveness that left no room for pro-test. The engineer-in-chief did not attempt any.He simply nodded several times regretfully,then said—

"I think we shall be able to mount you in themorning, doctor. Our peons have recoveredsome of our stampeded horses. By riding hardand taking a wide circuit by Los Hatos andalong the edge of the forest, clear of Rinconaltogether, you may hope to reach the San To-

me bridge without being interfered with. Themine is just now, to my mind, the safest placefor anybody at all compromised. I only wishthe railway was as difficult to touch."

"Am I compromised?" Doctor Monyghambrought out slowly after a short silence.

"The whole Gould Concession is compromised.It could not have remained for ever outside thepolitical life of the country—if those convul-sions may be called life. The thing is—can it betouched? The moment was bound to comewhen neutrality would become impossible, andCharles Gould understood this well. I believehe is prepared for every extremity. A man ofhis sort has never contemplated remaining in-definitely at the mercy of ignorance and co-rruption. It was like being a prisoner in a ca-vern of banditti with the price of your ransomin your pocket, and buying your life from dayto day. Your mere safety, not your liberty,mind, doctor. I know what I am talking about.

The image at which you shrug your shouldersis perfectly correct, especially if you conceivesuch a prisoner endowed with the power ofreplenishing his pocket by means as remotefrom the faculties of his captors as if they weremagic. You must have understood that as wellas I do, doctor. He was in the position of thegoose with the golden eggs. I broached thismatter to him as far back as Sir John's visit here.The prisoner of stupid and greedy banditti isalways at the mercy of the first imbecile ruffian,who may blow out his brains in a fit of temperor for some prospect of an immediate big haul.The tale of killing the goose with the goldeneggs has not been evolved for nothing out ofthe wisdom of mankind. It is a story that willnever grow old. That is why Charles Gould inhis deep, dumb way has countenanced the Ri-bierist Mandate, the first public act that promi-sed him safety on other than venal grounds.Ribierism has failed, as everything merely ra-tional fails in this country. But Gould remains

logical in wishing to save this big lot of silver.Decoud's plan of a counter-revolution may bepracticable or not, it may have a chance, or itmay not have a chance. With all my experienceof this revolutionary continent, I can hardly yetlook at their methods seriously. Decoud hasbeen reading to us his draft of a proclamation,and talking very well for two hours about hisplan of action. He had arguments which shouldhave appeared solid enough if we, members ofold, stable political and national organizations,were not startled by the mere idea of a newState evolved like this out of the head of a scof-fing young man fleeing for his life, with a pro-clamation in his pocket, to a rough, jeering,half-bred swashbuckler, who in this part of theworld is called a general. It sounds like a comicfairy tale—and behold, it may come off; becau-se it is true to the very spirit of the country."

"Is the silver gone off, then?" asked the doctor,moodily.

The chief engineer pulled out his watch. "ByCaptain Mitchell's reckoning—and he ought toknow—it has been gone long enough now to besome three or four miles outside the harbour;and, as Mitchell says, Nostromo is the sort ofseaman to make the best of his opportunities."Here the doctor grunted so heavily that theother changed his tone.

"You have a poor opinion of that move, doctor?But why? Charles Gould has got to play hisgame out, though he is not the man to formula-te his conduct even to himself, perhaps, let alo-ne to others. It may be that the game has beenpartly suggested to him by Holroyd; but it ac-cords with his character, too; and that is why ithas been so successful. Haven't they come tocalling him 'El Rey de Sulaco' in Sta. Marta? Anickname may be the best record of a success.That's what I call putting the face of a jokeupon the body of a truth. My dear sir, when Ifirst arrived in Sta. Marta I was struck by the

way all those journalists, demagogues, mem-bers of Congress, and all those generals andjudges cringed before a sleepy-eyed advocatewithout practice simply because he was theplenipotentiary of the Gould Concession. SirJohn when he came out was impressed, too."

"A new State, with that plump dandy, Decoud,for the first President," mused Dr. Monygham,nursing his cheek and swinging his legs all thetime.

"Upon my word, and why not?" the chief engi-neer retorted in an unexpectedly earnest andconfidential voice. It was as if something subtlein the air of Costaguana had inoculated himwith the local faith in "pronunciamientos." Allat once he began to talk, like an expert revolu-tionist, of the instrument ready to hand in theintact army at Cayta, which could be broughtback in a few days to Sulaco if only Decoudmanaged to make his way at once down thecoast. For the military chief there was Barrios,

who had nothing but a bullet to expect fromMontero, his former professional rival and bit-ter enemy. Barrios's concurrence was assured.As to his army, it had nothing to expect fromMontero either; not even a month's pay. Fromthat point of view the existence of the treasurewas of enormous importance. The mere know-ledge that it had been saved from the Monte-rists would be a strong inducement for the Cay-ta troops to embrace the cause of the new State.

The doctor turned round and contemplated hiscompanion for some time.

"This Decoud, I see, is a persuasive young beg-gar," he remarked at last. "And pray is it forthis, then, that Charles Gould has let the wholelot of ingots go out to sea in charge of that Nos-tromo?"

"Charles Gould," said the engineer-in-chief,"has said no more about his motive than usual.You know, he doesn't talk. But we all here

know his motive, and he has only one—thesafety of the San Tome mine with the preserva-tion of the Gould Concession in the spirit of hiscompact with Holroyd. Holroyd is another un-common man. They understand each other'simaginative side. One is thirty, the other nearlysixty, and they have been made for each other.To be a millionaire, and such a millionaire asHolroyd, is like being eternally young. The au-dacity of youth reckons upon what it fancies anunlimited time at its disposal; but a millionairehas unlimited means in his hand—which isbetter. One's time on earth is an uncertainquantity, but about the long reach of millionsthere is no doubt. The introduction of a pureform of Christianity into this continent is a dre-am for a youthful enthusiast, and I have beentrying to explain to you why Holroyd at fifty-eight is like a man on the threshold of life, andbetter, too. He's not a missionary, but the SanTome mine holds just that for him. I assure you,in sober truth, that he could not manage to ke-

ep this out of a strictly business conferenceupon the finances of Costaguana he had withSir John a couple of years ago. Sir John mentio-ned it with amazement in a letter he wrote tome here, from San Francisco, when on his wayhome. Upon my word, doctor, things seem tobe worth nothing by what they are in themsel-ves. I begin to believe that the only solid thingabout them is the spiritual value which everyo-ne discovers in his own form of activity——"

"Bah!" interrupted the doctor, without stoppingfor an instant the idle swinging movement ofhis legs. "Self-flattery. Food for that vanitywhich makes the world go round. Meantime,what do you think is going to happen to thetreasure floating about the gulf with the greatCapataz and the great politician?"

"Why are you uneasy about it, doctor?"

"I uneasy! And what the devil is it to me? I putno spiritual value into my desires, or my opi-

nions, or my actions. They have not enoughvastness to give me room for self-flattery. Look,for instance, I should certainly have liked toease the last moments of that poor woman.And I can't. It's impossible. Have you met theimpossible face to face—or have you, the Napo-leon of railways, no such word in your dictio-nary?"

"Is she bound to have a very bad time of it?"asked the chief engineer, with humane concern.

Slow, heavy footsteps moved across the planksabove the heavy hard wood beams of the kit-chen. Then down the narrow opening of thestaircase made in the thickness of the wall, andnarrow enough to be defended by one managainst twenty enemies, came the murmur oftwo voices, one faint and broken, the other de-ep and gentle answering it, and in its gravertone covering the weaker sound.

The two men remained still and silent till themurmurs ceased, then the doctor shrugged hisshoulders and muttered—

"Yes, she's bound to. And I could do nothing ifI went up now."

A long period of silence above and below en-sued.

"I fancy," began the engineer, in a subdued voi-ce, "that you mistrust Captain Mitchell's Capa-taz."

"Mistrust him!" muttered the doctor throughhis teeth. "I believe him capable of anything—even of the most absurd fidelity. I am the lastperson he spoke to before he left the wharf, youknow. The poor woman up there wanted to seehim, and I let him go up to her. The dying mustnot be contradicted, you know. She seemedthen fairly calm and resigned, but the scoun-drel in those ten minutes or so has done or said

something which seems to have driven her intodespair. You know," went on the doctor, hesita-tingly, "women are so very unaccountable inevery position, and at all times of life, that Ithought sometimes she was in a way, don't yousee? in love with him—the Capataz. The rascalhas his own charm indubitably, or he wouldnot have made the conquest of all the populaceof the town. No, no, I am not absurd. I mayhave given a wrong name to some strong sen-timent for him on her part, to an unreasonableand simple attitude a woman is apt to take upemotionally towards a man. She used to abusehim to me frequently, which, of course, is notinconsistent with my idea. Not at all. It lookedto me as if she were always thinking of him. Hewas something important in her life. You know,I have seen a lot of those people. Whenever Icame down from the mine Mrs. Gould used toask me to keep my eye on them. She likes Ita-lians; she has lived a long time in Italy, I belie-ve, and she took a special fancy to that old Ga-

ribaldino. A remarkable chap enough. A rug-ged and dreamy character, living in the repu-blicanism of his young days as if in a cloud. Hehas encouraged much of the Capataz's con-founded nonsense—the high-strung, exaltedold beggar!"

"What sort of nonsense?" wondered the chiefengineer. "I found the Capataz always a veryshrewd and sensible fellow, absolutely fearless,and remarkably useful. A perfect handy man.Sir John was greatly impressed by his resource-fulness and attention when he made that over-land journey from Sta. Marta. Later on, as youmight have heard, he rendered us a service bydisclosing to the then chief of police the presen-ce in the town of some professional thieves,who came from a distance to wreck and rob ourmonthly pay train. He has certainly organizedthe lighterage service of the harbour for theO.S.N. Company with great ability. He knowshow to make himself obeyed, foreigner though

he is. It is true that the Cargadores are strangershere, too, for the most part—immigrants, Isle-nos."

"His prestige is his fortune," muttered the doc-tor, sourly.

"The man has proved his trustworthiness up tothe hilt on innumerable occasions and in allsorts of ways," argued the engineer. "When thisquestion of the silver arose, Captain Mitchellnaturally was very warmly of the opinion thathis Capataz was the only man fit for the trust.As a sailor, of course, I suppose so. But as aman, don't you know, Gould, Decoud, and my-self judged that it didn't matter in the least whowent. Any boatman would have done just aswell. Pray, what could a thief do with such a lotof ingots? If he ran off with them he wouldhave in the end to land somewhere, and howcould he conceal his cargo from the knowledgeof the people ashore? We dismissed that consi-deration from our minds. Moreover, Decoud

was going. There have been occasions when theCapataz has been more implicitly trusted."

"He took a slightly different view," the doctorsaid. "I heard him declare in this very room thatit would be the most desperate affair of his life.He made a sort of verbal will here in my hea-ring, appointing old Viola his executor; and, byJove! do you know, he—he's not grown rich byhis fidelity to you good people of the railwayand the harbour. I suppose he obtains some—how do you say that?—some spiritual value forhis labours, or else I don't know why the devilhe should be faithful to you, Gould, Mitchell, oranybody else. He knows this country well. Heknows, for instance, that Gamacho, the Deputyfrom Javira, has been nothing else but a 'tram-poso' of the commonest sort, a petty pedlar ofthe Campo, till he managed to get enough go-ods on credit from Anzani to open a little storein the wilds, and got himself elected by thedrunken mozos that hang about the Estancias

and the poorest sort of rancheros who were inhis debt. And Gamacho, who to-morrow willbe probably one of our high officials, is a stran-ger, too—an Isleno. He might have been a Car-gador on the O. S. N. wharf had he not (theposadero of Rincon is ready to swear it) murde-red a pedlar in the woods and stolen his packto begin life on. And do you think that Gama-cho, then, would have ever become a hero withthe democracy of this place, like our Capataz?Of course not. He isn't half the man. No; deci-dedly, I think that Nostromo is a fool."

The doctor's talk was distasteful to the builderof railways. "It is impossible to argue thatpoint," he said, philosophically. "Each man hashis gifts. You should have heard Gamachoharanguing his friends in the street. He has ahowling voice, and he shouted like mad, liftinghis clenched fist right above his head, andthrowing his body half out of the window. Atevery pause the rabble below yelled, 'Down

with the Oligarchs! Viva la Libertad!' Fuentesinside looked extremely miserable. You know,he is the brother of Jorge Fuentes, who has beenMinister of the Interior for six months or so,some few years back. Of course, he has noconscience; but he is a man of birth and educa-tion—at one time the director of the Customs ofCayta. That idiot-brute Gamacho fastened him-self upon him with his following of the lowestrabble. His sickly fear of that ruffian was themost rejoicing sight imaginable."

He got up and went to the door to look out to-wards the harbour. "All quiet," he said; "I won-der if Sotillo really means to turn up here?"

CHAPTER TWO

Captain Mitchell, pacing the wharf, was askinghimself the same question. There was alwaysthe doubt whether the warning of the Esmeral-da telegraphist—a fragmentary and interruptedmessage—had been properly understood.However, the good man had made up his mindnot to go to bed till daylight, if even then. Heimagined himself to have rendered an enor-mous service to Charles Gould. When hethought of the saved silver he rubbed his handstogether with satisfaction. In his simple way hewas proud at being a party to this extremelyclever expedient. It was he who had given it apractical shape by suggesting the possibility ofintercepting at sea the north-bound steamer.And it was advantageous to his Company, too,which would have lost a valuable freight if thetreasure had been left ashore to be confiscated.The pleasure of disappointing the Monterists

was also very great. Authoritative by tempera-ment and the long habit of command, CaptainMitchell was no democrat. He even went so faras to profess a contempt for parliamentarismitself. "His Excellency Don Vincente Ribiera," heused to say, "whom I and that fellow of mine,Nostromo, had the honour, sir, and the pleasu-re of saving from a cruel death, deferred toomuch to his Congress. It was a mistake—a dis-tinct mistake, sir."

The guileless old seaman superintending theO.S.N. service imagined that the last three dayshad exhausted every startling surprise the poli-tical life of Costaguana could offer. He used toconfess afterwards that the events which follo-wed surpassed his imagination. To begin with,Sulaco (because of the seizure of the cables andthe disorganization of the steam service) re-mained for a whole fortnight cut off from therest of the world like a besieged city.

"One would not have believed it possible; butso it was, sir. A full fortnight."

The account of the extraordinary things thathappened during that time, and the powerfulemotions he experienced, acquired a comic im-pressiveness from the pompous manner of hispersonal narrative. He opened it always byassuring his hearer that he was "in the thick ofthings from first to last." Then he would beginby describing the getting away of the silver,and his natural anxiety lest "his fellow" in char-ge of the lighter should make some mistake.Apart from the loss of so much precious metal,the life of Senor Martin Decoud, an agreeable,wealthy, and well-informed young gentleman,would have been jeopardized through his fa-lling into the hands of his political enemies.Captain Mitchell also admitted that in his soli-tary vigil on the wharf he had felt a certainmeasure of concern for the future of the wholecountry.

"A feeling, sir," he explained, "perfectly com-prehensible in a man properly grateful for themany kindnesses received from the best fami-lies of merchants and other native gentlemen ofindependent means, who, barely saved by usfrom the excesses of the mob, seemed, to mymind's eye, destined to become the prey in per-son and fortune of the native soldiery, which,as is well known, behave with regrettable bar-barity to the inhabitants during their civilcommotions. And then, sir, there were theGoulds, for both of whom, man and wife, Icould not but entertain the warmest feelingsdeserved by their hospitality and kindness. Ifelt, too, the dangers of the gentlemen of theAmarilla Club, who had made me honorarymember, and had treated me with uniform re-gard and civility, both in my capacity of Consu-lar Agent and as Superintendent of an impor-tant Steam Service. Miss Antonia Avellanos, themost beautiful and accomplished young ladywhom it had ever been my privilege to speak

to, was not a little in my mind, I confess. Howthe interests of my Company would be affectedby the impending change of officials claimed alarge share of my attention, too. In short, sir, Iwas extremely anxious and very tired, as youmay suppose, by the exciting and memorableevents in which I had taken my little part. TheCompany's building containing my residencewas within five minutes' walk, with the attrac-tion of some supper and of my hammock (Ialways take my nightly rest in a hammock, asthe most suitable to the climate); but somehow,sir, though evidently I could do nothing for anyone by remaining about, I could not tear myselfaway from that wharf, where the fatigue mademe stumble painfully at times. The night wasexcessively dark—the darkest I remember inmy life; so that I began to think that the arrivalof the transport from Esmeralda could not pos-sibly take place before daylight, owing to thedifficulty of navigating the gulf. The mosquito-es bit like fury. We have been infested here

with mosquitoes before the late improvements;a peculiar harbour brand, sir, renowned for itsferocity. They were like a cloud about my head,and I shouldn't wonder that but for their at-tacks I would have dozed off as I walked upand down, and got a heavy fall. I kept on smo-king cigar after cigar, more to protect myselffrom being eaten up alive than from any realrelish for the weed. Then, sir, when perhaps forthe twentieth time I was approaching my watchto the lighted end in order to see the time, andobserving with surprise that it wanted yet tenminutes to midnight, I heard the splash of aship's propeller—an unmistakable sound to asailor's ear on such a calm night. It was faintindeed, because they were advancing with pre-caution and dead slow, both on account of thedarkness and from their desire of not revealingtoo soon their presence: a very unnecessarycare, because, I verily believe, in all the enor-mous extent of this harbour I was the only li-ving soul about. Even the usual staff of watch-

men and others had been absent from theirposts for several nights owing to the disturban-ces. I stood stock still, after dropping andstamping out my cigar—a circumstance highlyagreeable, I should think, to the mosquitoes, if Imay judge from the state of my face next mor-ning. But that was a trifling inconvenience incomparison with the brutal proceedings I be-came victim of on the part of Sotillo. Somethingutterly inconceivable, sir; more like the procee-dings of a maniac than the action of a saneman, however lost to all sense of honour anddecency. But Sotillo was furious at the failure ofhis thievish scheme."

In this Captain Mitchell was right. Sotillo wasindeed infuriated. Captain Mitchell, however,had not been arrested at once; a vivid curiosityinduced him to remain on the wharf (which isnearly four hundred feet long) to see, or ratherhear, the whole process of disembarkation.Concealed by the railway truck used for the

silver, which had been run back afterwards tothe shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell sawthe small detachment thrown forward, pass by,taking different directions upon the plain. Me-antime, the troops were being landed and for-med into a column, whose head crept up gra-dually so close to him that he made it out, ba-rring nearly the whole width of the wharf, onlya very few yards from him. Then the low, shuf-fling, murmuring, clinking sounds ceased, andthe whole mass remained for about an hourmotionless and silent, awaiting the return ofthe scouts. On land nothing was to be heardexcept the deep baying of the mastiffs at therailway yards, answered by the faint barking ofthe curs infesting the outer limits of the town.A detached knot of dark shapes stood in frontof the head of the column.

Presently the picket at the end of the wharfbegan to challenge in undertones single figuresapproaching from the plain. Those messengers

sent back from the scouting parties flung totheir comrades brief sentences and passed onrapidly, becoming lost in the great motionlessmass, to make their report to the Staff. It occu-rred to Captain Mitchell that his position couldbecome disagreeable and perhaps dangerous,when suddenly, at the head of the jetty, therewas a shout of command, a bugle call, followedby a stir and a rattling of arms, and a murmu-ring noise that ran right up the column. Nearby a loud voice directed hurriedly, "Push thatrailway car out of the way!" At the rush of barefeet to execute the order Captain Mitchell skip-ped back a pace or two; the car, suddenly impe-lled by many hands, flew away from him alongthe rails, and before he knew what had happe-ned he found himself surrounded and seizedby his arms and the collar of his coat.

"We have caught a man hiding here, mi tenien-te!" cried one of his captors.

"Hold him on one side till the rearguard comesalong," answered the voice. The whole columnstreamed past Captain Mitchell at a run, thethundering noise of their feet dying away sud-denly on the shore. His captors held him tigh-tly, disregarding his declaration that he was anEnglishman and his loud demands to be takenat once before their commanding officer. Fina-lly he lapsed into dignified silence. With ahollow rumble of wheels on the planks a cou-ple of field guns, dragged by hand, rolled by.Then, after a small body of men had marchedpast escorting four or five figures which wal-ked in advance, with a jingle of steel scabbards,he felt a tug at his arms, and was ordered tocome along. During the passage from the wharfto the Custom House it is to be feared that Cap-tain Mitchell was subjected to certain indigni-ties at the hands of the soldiers—such as jerks,thumps on the neck, forcible application of thebutt of a rifle to the small of his back. Their ide-as of speed were not in accord with his notion

of his dignity. He became flustered, flushed,and helpless. It was as if the world were co-ming to an end.

The long building was surrounded by troops,which were already piling arms by companiesand preparing to pass the night lying on theground in their ponchos with their sacks undertheir heads. Corporals moved with swinginglanterns posting sentries all round the wallswherever there was a door or an opening. Soti-llo was taking his measures to protect his con-quest as if it had indeed contained the treasure.His desire to make his fortune at one audaciousstroke of genius had overmastered his reaso-ning faculties. He would not believe in the pos-sibility of failure; the mere hint of such a thingmade his brain reel with rage. Every circums-tance pointing to it appeared incredible. Thestatement of Hirsch, which was so absolutelyfatal to his hopes, could by no means be admit-ted. It is true, too, that Hirsch's story had been

told so incoherently, with such excessive signsof distraction, that it really looked improbable.It was extremely difficult, as the saying is, tomake head or tail of it. On the bridge of thesteamer, directly after his rescue, Sotillo and hisofficers, in their impatience and excitement,would not give the wretched man time to co-llect such few wits as remained to him. Heought to have been quieted, soothed, and reas-sured, whereas he had been roughly handled,cuffed, shaken, and addressed in menacingtones. His struggles, his wriggles, his attemptsto get down on his knees, followed by the mostviolent efforts to break away, as if he meantincontinently to jump overboard, his shrieksand shrinkings and cowering wild glances hadfilled them first with amazement, then with adoubt of his genuineness, as men are wont tosuspect the sincerity of every great passion. HisSpanish, too, became so mixed up with Germanthat the better half of his statements remainedincomprehensible. He tried to propitiate them

by calling them hochwohlgeboren herren,which in itself sounded suspicious. When ad-monished sternly not to trifle he repeated hisentreaties and protestations of loyalty and in-nocence again in German, obstinately, becausehe was not aware in what language he wasspeaking. His identity, of course, was perfectlyknown as an inhabitant of Esmeralda, but thismade the matter no clearer. As he kept on for-getting Decoud's name, mixing him up withseveral other people he had seen in the CasaGould, it looked as if they all had been in thelighter together; and for a moment Sotillothought that he had drowned every prominentRibierist of Sulaco. The improbability of such athing threw a doubt upon the whole statement.Hirsch was either mad or playing a part—pretending fear and distraction on the spur ofthe moment to cover the truth. Sotillo's rapaci-ty, excited to the highest pitch by the prospectof an immense booty, could believe in nothingadverse. This Jew might have been very much

frightened by the accident, but he knew wherethe silver was concealed, and had invented thisstory, with his Jewish cunning, to put him enti-rely off the track as to what had been done.

Sotillo had taken up his quarters on the upperfloor in a vast apartment with heavy black be-ams. But there was no ceiling, and the eye lostitself in the darkness under the high pitch ofthe roof. The thick shutters stood open. On along table could be seen a large inkstand, somestumpy, inky quill pens, and two square woo-den boxes, each holding half a hundred-weightof sand. Sheets of grey coarse official paperbestrewed the floor. It must have been a roomoccupied by some higher official of the Cus-toms, because a large leathern armchair stoodbehind the table, with other high-backed chairsscattered about. A net hammock was swungunder one of the beams—for the official's after-noon siesta, no doubt. A couple of candlesstuck into tall iron candlesticks gave a dim red-

dish light. The colonel's hat, sword, and revol-ver lay between them, and a couple of his moretrusty officers lounged gloomily against thetable. The colonel threw himself into the arm-chair, and a big negro with a sergeant's stripeson his ragged sleeve, kneeling down, pulled offhis boots. Sotillo's ebony moustache contrastedviolently with the livid colouring of his cheeks.His eyes were sombre and as if sunk very farinto his head. He seemed exhausted by his per-plexities, languid with disappointment; butwhen the sentry on the landing thrust his headin to announce the arrival of a prisoner, he re-vived at once.

"Let him be brought in," he shouted, fiercely.

The door flew open, and Captain Mitchell, ba-reheaded, his waistcoat open, the bow of his tieunder his ear, was hustled into the room.

Sotillo recognized him at once. He could nothave hoped for a more precious capture; here

was a man who could tell him, if he chose, eve-rything he wished to know—and directly theproblem of how best to make him talk to thepoint presented itself to his mind. The resent-ment of a foreign nation had no terrors for Soti-llo. The might of the whole armed Europewould not have protected Captain Mitchellfrom insults and ill-usage, so well as the quickreflection of Sotillo that this was an Englishmanwho would most likely turn obstinate underbad treatment, and become quite unmanagea-ble. At all events, the colonel smoothed thescowl on his brow.

"What! The excellent Senor Mitchell!" he cried,in affected dismay. The pretended anger of hisswift advance and of his shout, "Release thecaballero at once," was so effective that the as-tounded soldiers positively sprang away fromtheir prisoner. Thus suddenly deprived of for-cible support, Captain Mitchell reeled asthough about to fall. Sotillo took him familiarly

under the arm, led him to a chair, waved hishand at the room. "Go out, all of you," he com-manded.

When they had been left alone he stood lookingdown, irresolute and silent, watching till Cap-tain Mitchell had recovered his power of spe-ech.

Here in his very grasp was one of the men con-cerned in the removal of the silver. Sotillo'stemperament was of that sort that he experien-ced an ardent desire to beat him; just as former-ly when negotiating with difficulty a loan fromthe cautious Anzani, his fingers always itchedto take the shopkeeper by the throat. As to Cap-tain Mitchell, the suddenness, unexpectedness,and general inconceivableness of this experien-ce had confused his thoughts. Moreover, hewas physically out of breath.

"I've been knocked down three times betweenthis and the wharf," he gasped out at last. "So-

mebody shall be made to pay for this." He hadcertainly stumbled more than once, and hadbeen dragged along for some distance before hecould regain his stride. With his recovered bre-ath his indignation seemed to madden him. Hejumped up, crimson, all his white hair bristling,his eyes glaring vengefully, and shook violentlythe flaps of his ruined waistcoat before the dis-concerted Sotillo. "Look! Those uniformed thie-ves of yours downstairs have robbed me of mywatch."

The old sailor's aspect was very threatening.Sotillo saw himself cut off from the table onwhich his sabre and revolver were lying.

"I demand restitution and apologies," Mitchellthundered at him, quite beside himself. "Fromyou! Yes, from you!"

For the space of a second or so the colonel sto-od with a perfectly stony expression of face;then, as Captain Mitchell flung out an arm to-

wards the table as if to snatch up the revolver,Sotillo, with a yell of alarm, bounded to thedoor and was gone in a flash, slamming it afterhim. Surprise calmed Captain Mitchell's fury.Behind the closed door Sotillo shouted on thelanding, and there was a great tumult of feet onthe wooden staircase.

"Disarm him! Bind him!" the colonel could beheard vociferating.

Captain Mitchell had just the time to glanceonce at the windows, with three perpendicularbars of iron each and some twenty feet from theground, as he well knew, before the door flewopen and the rush upon him took place. In anincredibly short time he found himself boundwith many turns of a hide rope to a high-backed chair, so that his head alone remainedfree. Not till then did Sotillo, who had beenleaning in the doorway trembling visibly, ven-ture again within. The soldiers, picking upfrom the floor the rifles they had dropped to

grapple with the prisoner, filed out of the room.The officers remained leaning on their swordsand looking on.

"The watch! the watch!" raved the colonel, pa-cing to and fro like a tiger in a cage. "Give methat man's watch."

It was true, that when searched for arms in thehall downstairs, before being taken into Soti-llo's presence, Captain Mitchell had been relie-ved of his watch and chain; but at the colonel'sclamour it was produced quickly enough, acorporal bringing it up, carried carefully in thepalms of his joined hands. Sotillo snatched it,and pushed the clenched fist from which itdangled close to Captain Mitchell's face.

"Now then! You arrogant Englishman! Youdare to call the soldiers of the army thieves!Behold your watch."

He flourished his fist as if aiming blows at theprisoner's nose. Captain Mitchell, helpless as aswathed infant, looked anxiously at the sixty-guinea gold half-chronometer, presented tohim years ago by a Committee of Underwritersfor saving a ship from total loss by fire. Sotillo,too, seemed to perceive its valuable appearan-ce. He became silent suddenly, stepped aside tothe table, and began a careful examination inthe light of the candles. He had never seenanything so fine. His officers closed in and cra-ned their necks behind his back.

He became so interested that for an instant heforgot his precious prisoner. There is alwayssomething childish in the rapacity of the pas-sionate, clear-minded, Southern races, wantingin the misty idealism of the Northerners, whoat the smallest encouragement dream of not-hing less than the conquest of the earth. Sotillowas fond of jewels, gold trinkets, of personaladornment. After a moment he turned about,

and with a commanding gesture made all hisofficers fall back. He laid down the watch onthe table, then, negligently, pushed his hat overit.

"Ha!" he began, going up very close to thechair. "You dare call my valiant soldiers of theEsmeralda regiment, thieves. You dare! Whatimpudence! You foreigners come here to robour country of its wealth. You never haveenough! Your audacity knows no bounds."

He looked towards the officers, amongst whomthere was an approving murmur. The oldermajor was moved to declare—

"Si, mi colonel. They are all traitors."

"I shall say nothing," continued Sotillo, fixingthe motionless and powerless Mitchell with anangry but uneasy stare. "I shall say nothing ofyour treacherous attempt to get possession ofmy revolver to shoot me while I was trying to

treat you with consideration you did not deser-ve. You have forfeited your life. Your only hopeis in my clemency."

He watched for the effect of his words, but the-re was no obvious sign of fear on Captain Mit-chell's face. His white hair was full of dust,which covered also the rest of his helpless per-son. As if he had heard nothing, he twitched aneyebrow to get rid of a bit of straw which hungamongst the hairs.

Sotillo advanced one leg and put his armsakimbo. "It is you, Mitchell," he said, emphati-cally, "who are the thief, not my soldiers!" Hepointed at his prisoner a forefinger with a long,almond-shaped nail. "Where is the silver of theSan Tome mine? I ask you, Mitchell, where isthe silver that was deposited in this CustomHouse? Answer me that! You stole it. You werea party to stealing it. It was stolen from the Go-vernment. Aha! you think I do not know what Isay; but I am up to your foreign tricks. It is go-

ne, the silver! No? Gone in one of your lanchas,you miserable man! How dared you?"

This time he produced his effect. "How on earthcould Sotillo know that?" thought Mitchell. Hishead, the only part of his body that could mo-ve, betrayed his surprise by a sudden jerk.

"Ha! you tremble," Sotillo shouted, suddenly."It is a conspiracy. It is a crime against the State.Did you not know that the silver belongs to theRepublic till the Government claims are satis-fied? Where is it? Where have you hidden it,you miserable thief?"

At this question Captain Mitchell's sinking spi-rits revived. In whatever incomprehensiblemanner Sotillo had already got his informationabout the lighter, he had not captured it. Thatwas clear. In his outraged heart, Captain Mit-chell had resolved that nothing would inducehim to say a word while he remained so dis-gracefully bound, but his desire to help the

escape of the silver made him depart from thisresolution. His wits were very much at work.He detected in Sotillo a certain air of doubt, ofirresolution.

"That man," he said to himself, "is not certain ofwhat he advances." For all his pomposity insocial intercourse, Captain Mitchell could meetthe realities of life in a resolute and ready spirit.Now he had got over the first shock of theabominable treatment he was cool and collec-ted enough. The immense contempt he felt forSotillo steadied him, and he said oracularly,"No doubt it is well concealed by this time."

Sotillo, too, had time to cool down. "Muy bien,Mitchell," he said in a cold and threateningmanner. "But can you produce the Governmentreceipt for the royalty and the Custom Housepermit of embarkation, hey? Can you? No.Then the silver has been removed illegally, andthe guilty shall be made to suffer, unless it isproduced within five days from this." He gave

orders for the prisoner to be unbound and loc-ked up in one of the smaller rooms downstairs.He walked about the room, moody and silent,till Captain Mitchell, with each of his arms heldby a couple of men, stood up, shook himself,and stamped his feet.

"How did you like to be tied up, Mitchell?" heasked, derisively.

"It is the most incredible, abominable use ofpower!" Captain Mitchell declared in a loudvoice. "And whatever your purpose, you shallgain nothing from it, I can promise you."

The tall colonel, livid, with his coal-black rin-glets and moustache, crouched, as it were, tolook into the eyes of the short, thick-set, red-faced prisoner with rumpled white hair.

"That we shall see. You shall know my power alittle better when I tie you up to a potalon out-side in the sun for a whole day." He drew him-

self up haughtily, and made a sign for CaptainMitchell to be led away.

"What about my watch?" cried Captain Mit-chell, hanging back from the efforts of the menpulling him towards the door.

Sotillo turned to his officers. "No! But only lis-ten to this picaro, caballeros," he pronouncedwith affected scorn, and was answered by achorus of derisive laughter. "He demands hiswatch!" . . . He ran up again to Captain Mit-chell, for the desire to relieve his feelings byinflicting blows and pain upon this Englishmanwas very strong within him. "Your watch! Youare a prisoner in war time, Mitchell! In war ti-me! You have no rights and no property! Ca-ramba! The very breath in your body belongs tome. Remember that."

"Bosh!" said Captain Mitchell, concealing a di-sagreeable impression.

Down below, in a great hall, with the earthenfloor and with a tall mound thrown up by whi-te ants in a corner, the soldiers had kindled asmall fire with broken chairs and tables nearthe arched gateway, through which the faintmurmur of the harbour waters on the beachcould be heard. While Captain Mitchell wasbeing led down the staircase, an officer passedhim, running up to report to Sotillo the captureof more prisoners. A lot of smoke hung aboutin the vast gloomy place, the fire crackled, and,as if through a haze, Captain Mitchell madeout, surrounded by short soldiers with fixedbayonets, the heads of three tall prisoners—thedoctor, the engineer-in-chief, and the whiteleonine mane of old Viola, who stood half-turned away from the others with his chin onhis breast and his arms crossed. Mitchell's asto-nishment knew no bounds. He cried out; theother two exclaimed also. But he hurried on,diagonally, across the big cavern-like hall. Lots

of thoughts, surmises, hints of caution, and soon, crowded his head to distraction.

"Is he actually keeping you?" shouted the chiefengineer, whose single eyeglass glittered in thefirelight.

An officer from the top of the stairs was shou-ting urgently, "Bring them all up—all three."

In the clamour of voices and the rattle of arms,Captain Mitchell made himself heard imperfec-tly: "By heavens! the fellow has stolen mywatch."

The engineer-in-chief on the staircase resistedthe pressure long enough to shout, "What?What did you say?"

"My chronometer!" Captain Mitchell yelledviolently at the very moment of being thrusthead foremost through a small door into a sortof cell, perfectly black, and so narrow that he

fetched up against the opposite wall. The doorhad been instantly slammed. He knew wherethey had put him. This was the strong room ofthe Custom House, whence the silver had beenremoved only a few hours earlier. It was almostas narrow as a corridor, with a small squareaperture, barred by a heavy grating, at the dis-tant end. Captain Mitchell staggered for a fewsteps, then sat down on the earthen floor withhis back to the wall. Nothing, not even a gleamof light from anywhere, interfered with CaptainMitchell's meditation. He did some hard butnot very extensive thinking. It was not of agloomy cast. The old sailor, with all his smallweaknesses and absurdities, was constitutiona-lly incapable of entertaining for any length oftime a fear of his personal safety. It was not somuch firmness of soul as the lack of a certainkind of imagination—the kind whose unduedevelopment caused intense suffering to SenorHirsch; that sort of imagination which adds theblind terror of bodily suffering and of death,

envisaged as an accident to the body alone,strictly—to all the other apprehensions onwhich the sense of one's existence is based. Un-fortunately, Captain Mitchell had not muchpenetration of any kind; characteristic, illumi-nating trifles of expression, action, or move-ment, escaped him completely. He was toopompously and innocently aware of his ownexistence to observe that of others. For instance,he could not believe that Sotillo had been reallyafraid of him, and this simply because it wouldnever have entered into his head to shoot anyone except in the most pressing case of self-defence. Anybody could see he was not a mur-dering kind of man, he reflected quite gravely.Then why this preposterous and insultingcharge? he asked himself. But his thoughtsmainly clung around the astounding andunanswerable question: How the devil the fe-llow got to know that the silver had gone off inthe lighter? It was obvious that he had not cap-tured it. And, obviously, he could not have

captured it! In this last conclusion Captain Mit-chell was misled by the assumption drawnfrom his observation of the weather during hislong vigil on the wharf. He thought that therehad been much more wind than usual thatnight in the gulf; whereas, as a matter of fact,the reverse was the case.

"How in the name of all that's marvellous didthat confounded fellow get wind of the affair?"was the first question he asked directly after thebang, clatter, and flash of the open door (whichwas closed again almost before he could lift hisdropped head) informed him that he had acompanion of captivity. Dr. Monygham's voicestopped muttering curses in English and Spa-nish.

"Is that you, Mitchell?" he made answer, surlily."I struck my forehead against this confoundedwall with enough force to fell an ox. Where areyou?"

Captain Mitchell, accustomed to the darkness,could make out the doctor stretching out hishands blindly.

"I am sitting here on the floor. Don't fall overmy legs," Captain Mitchell's voice announcedwith great dignity of tone. The doctor, entrea-ted not to walk about in the dark, sank down tothe ground, too. The two prisoners of Sotillo,with their heads nearly touching, began to ex-change confidences.

"Yes," the doctor related in a low tone to Cap-tain Mitchell's vehement curiosity, "we havebeen nabbed in old Viola's place. It seems thatone of their pickets, commanded by an officer,pushed as far as the town gate. They had ordersnot to enter, but to bring along every soul theycould find on the plain. We had been talking inthere with the door open, and no doubt theysaw the glimmer of our light. They must havebeen making their approaches for some time.The engineer laid himself on a bench in a recess

by the fire-place, and I went upstairs to have alook. I hadn't heard any sound from there for along time. Old Viola, as soon as he saw me co-me up, lifted his arm for silence. I stole in ontiptoe. By Jove, his wife was lying down andhad gone to sleep. The woman had actuallydropped off to sleep! 'Senor Doctor,' Violawhispers to me, 'it looks as if her oppressionwas going to get better.' 'Yes,' I said, very muchsurprised; 'your wife is a wonderful woman,Giorgio.' Just then a shot was fired in the kit-chen, which made us jump and cower as if at athunder-clap. It seems that the party of soldiershad stolen quite close up, and one of them hadcrept up to the door. He looked in, thoughtthere was no one there, and, holding his rifleready, entered quietly. The chief told me thathe had just closed his eyes for a moment. Whenhe opened them, he saw the man already in themiddle of the room peering into the dark cor-ners. The chief was so startled that, withoutthinking, he made one leap from the recess

right out in front of the fireplace. The soldier,no less startled, up with his rifle and pulls thetrigger, deafening and singeing the engineer,but in his flurry missing him completely. But,look what happens! At the noise of the reportthe sleeping woman sat up, as if moved by aspring, with a shriek, 'The children, Gian' Bat-tista! Save the children!' I have it in my earsnow. It was the truest cry of distress I everheard. I stood as if paralyzed, but the old hus-band ran across to the bedside, stretching outhis hands. She clung to them! I could see hereyes go glazed; the old fellow lowered herdown on the pillows and then looked round atme. She was dead! All this took less than fiveminutes, and then I ran down to see what wasthe matter. It was no use thinking of any resis-tance. Nothing we two could say availed withthe officer, so I volunteered to go up with acouple of soldiers and fetch down old Viola. Hewas sitting at the foot of the bed, looking at hiswife's face, and did not seem to hear what I

said; but after I had pulled the sheet over herhead, he got up and followed us downstairsquietly, in a sort of thoughtful way. They mar-ched us off along the road, leaving the dooropen and the candle burning. The chief engine-er strode on without a word, but I looked backonce or twice at the feeble gleam. After we hadgone some considerable distance, the Garibal-dino, who was walking by my side, suddenlysaid, 'I have buried many men on battlefieldson this continent. The priests talk of consecra-ted ground! Bah! All the earth made by God isholy; but the sea, which knows nothing of kingsand priests and tyrants, is the holiest of all.Doctor! I should like to bury her in the sea. Nomummeries, candles, incense, no holy watermumbled over by priests. The spirit of liberty isupon the waters.' . . . Amazing old man. Hewas saying all this in an undertone as if talkingto himself."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Captain Mitchell, impa-tiently. "Poor old chap! But have you any ideahow that ruffian Sotillo obtained his informa-tion? He did not get hold of any of our Carga-dores who helped with the truck, did he? Butno, it is impossible! These were picked menwe've had in our boats for these five years, andI paid them myself specially for the job, withinstructions to keep out of the way for twenty-four hours at least. I saw them with my owneyes march on with the Italians to the railwayyards. The chief promised to give them rationsas long as they wanted to remain there."

"Well," said the doctor, slowly, "I can tell youthat you may say good-bye for ever to yourbest lighter, and to the Capataz of Cargadores."

At this, Captain Mitchell scrambled up to hisfeet in the excess of his excitement. The doctor,without giving him time to exclaim, stated brie-fly the part played by Hirsch during the night.

Captain Mitchell was overcome. "Drowned!" hemuttered, in a bewildered and appalled whis-per. "Drowned!" Afterwards he kept still, appa-rently listening, but too absorbed in the news ofthe catastrophe to follow the doctor's narrativewith attention.

The doctor had taken up an attitude of perfectignorance, till at last Sotillo was induced tohave Hirsch brought in to repeat the wholestory, which was got out of him again with thegreatest difficulty, because every moment hewould break out into lamentations. At last,Hirsch was led away, looking more dead thanalive, and shut up in one of the upstairs roomsto be close at hand. Then the doctor, keepingup his character of a man not admitted to theinner councils of the San Tome Administration,remarked that the story sounded incredible. Ofcourse, he said, he couldn't tell what had beenthe action of the Europeans, as he had beenexclusively occupied with his own work in loo-

king after the wounded, and also in attendingDon Jose Avellanos. He had succeeded in as-suming so well a tone of impartial indifference,that Sotillo seemed to be completely deceived.Till then a show of regular inquiry had beenkept up; one of the officers sitting at the tablewrote down the questions and the answers, theothers, lounging about the room, listened atten-tively, puffing at their long cigars and keepingtheir eyes on the doctor. But at that point Sotilloordered everybody out.

CHAPTER THREE

Directly they were alone, the colonel's severeofficial manner changed. He rose and approa-ched the doctor. His eyes shone with rapacityand hope; he became confidential. "The silver

might have been indeed put on board the ligh-ter, but it was not conceivable that it shouldhave been taken out to sea." The doctor, wat-ching every word, nodded slightly, smokingwith apparent relish the cigar which Sotillo hadoffered him as a sign of his friendly intentions.The doctor's manner of cold detachment fromthe rest of the Europeans led Sotillo on, till,from conjecture to conjecture, he arrived at hin-ting that in his opinion this was a putup job onthe part of Charles Gould, in order to get holdof that immense treasure all to himself. Thedoctor, observant and self-possessed, muttered,"He is very capable of that."

Here Captain Mitchell exclaimed with amaze-ment, amusement, and indignation, "You saidthat of Charles Gould!" Disgust, and even somesuspicion, crept into his tone, for to him, too, asto other Europeans, there appeared to be so-mething dubious about the doctor's personali-ty.

"What on earth made you say that to thiswatch-stealing scoundrel?" he asked. "What'sthe object of an infernal lie of that sort? Thatconfounded pick-pocket was quite capable ofbelieving you."

He snorted. For a time the doctor remainedsilent in the dark.

"Yes, that is exactly what I did say," he utteredat last, in a tone which would have made itclear enough to a third party that the pause wasnot of a reluctant but of a reflective character.Captain Mitchell thought that he had neverheard anything so brazenly impudent in hislife.

"Well, well!" he muttered to himself, but he hadnot the heart to voice his thoughts. They wereswept away by others full of astonishment andregret. A heavy sense of discomfiture crushedhim: the loss of the silver, the death of Nostro-mo, which was really quite a blow to his sensi-

bilities, because he had become attached to hisCapataz as people get attached to their inferiorsfrom love of ease and almost unconscious grati-tude. And when he thought of Decoud beingdrowned, too, his sensibility was almost over-come by this miserable end. What a heavy blowfor that poor young woman! Captain Mitchelldid not belong to the species of crabbed oldbachelors; on the contrary, he liked to seeyoung men paying attentions to young women.It seemed to him a natural and proper thing.Proper especially. As to sailors, it was different;it was not their place to marry, he maintained,but it was on moral grounds as a matter of self-denial, for, he explained, life on board ship isnot fit for a woman even at best, and if youleave her on shore, first of all it is not fair, andnext she either suffers from it or doesn't care abit, which, in both cases, is bad. He couldn'thave told what upset him most—CharlesGould's immense material loss, the death ofNostromo, which was a heavy loss to himself,

or the idea of that beautiful and accomplishedyoung woman being plunged into mourning.

"Yes," the doctor, who had been apparentlyreflecting, began again, "he believed me rightenough. I thought he would have hugged me.'Si, si,' he said, 'he will write to that partner ofhis, the rich Americano in San Francisco, that itis all lost. Why not? There is enough to sharewith many people.'"

"But this is perfectly imbecile!" cried CaptainMitchell.

The doctor remarked that Sotillo was imbecile,and that his imbecility was ingenious enoughto lead him completely astray. He had helpedhim only but a little way.

"I mentioned," the doctor said, "in a sort of ca-sual way, that treasure is generally buried inthe earth rather than set afloat upon the sea. Atthis my Sotillo slapped his forehead. 'Por Dios,

yes,' he said; 'they must have buried it on theshores of this harbour somewhere before theysailed out.'"

"Heavens and earth!" muttered Captain Mit-chell, "I should not have believed that anybodycould be ass enough—" He paused, then wenton mournfully: "But what's the good of all this?It would have been a clever enough lie if thelighter had been still afloat. It would have keptthat inconceivable idiot perhaps from sendingout the steamer to cruise in the gulf. That wasthe danger that worried me no end." CaptainMitchell sighed profoundly.

"I had an object," the doctor pronounced, slow-ly.

"Had you?" muttered Captain Mitchell. "Well,that's lucky, or else I would have thought thatyou went on fooling him for the fun of thething. And perhaps that was your object. Well,I must say I personally wouldn't condescend to

that sort of thing. It is not to my taste. No, no.Blackening a friend's character is not my idea offun, if it were to fool the greatest blackguard onearth."

Had it not been for Captain Mitchell's depres-sion, caused by the fatal news, his disgust ofDr. Monygham would have taken a more outs-poken shape; but he thought to himself thatnow it really did not matter what that man,whom he had never liked, would say and do.

"I wonder," he grumbled, "why they have shutus up together, or why Sotillo should have shutyou up at all, since it seems to me you havebeen fairly chummy up there?"

"Yes, I wonder," said the doctor grimly.

Captain Mitchell's heart was so heavy that hewould have preferred for the time being acomplete solitude to the best of company. Butany company would have been preferable to

the doctor's, at whom he had always lookedaskance as a sort of beachcomber of superiorintelligence partly reclaimed from his abasedstate. That feeling led him to ask—

"What has that ruffian done with the othertwo?"

"The chief engineer he would have let go in anycase," said the doctor. "He wouldn't like to havea quarrel with the railway upon his hands. Notjust yet, at any rate. I don't think, Captain Mit-chell, that you understand exactly what Soti-llo's position is—"

"I don't see why I should bother my head aboutit," snarled Captain Mitchell.

"No," assented the doctor, with the same grimcomposure. "I don't see why you should. Itwouldn't help a single human being in theworld if you thought ever so hard upon anysubject whatever."

"No," said Captain Mitchell, simply, and withevident depression. "A man locked up in a con-founded dark hole is not much use to anybo-dy."

"As to old Viola," the doctor continued, asthough he had not heard, "Sotillo released himfor the same reason he is presently going torelease you."

"Eh? What?" exclaimed Captain Mitchell, sta-ring like an owl in the darkness. "What is therein common between me and old Viola? Morelikely because the old chap has no watch andchain for the pickpocket to steal. And I tell youwhat, Dr. Monygham," he went on with risingcholer, "he will find it more difficult than hethinks to get rid of me. He will burn his fingersover that job yet, I can tell you. To begin with, Iwon't go without my watch, and as to therest—we shall see. I dare say it is no great mat-ter for you to be locked up. But Joe Mitchell is adifferent kind of man, sir. I don't mean to sub-

mit tamely to insult and robbery. I am a publiccharacter, sir."

And then Captain Mitchell became aware thatthe bars of the opening had become visible, ablack grating upon a square of grey. The co-ming of the day silenced Captain Mitchell as ifby the reflection that now in all the future dayshe would be deprived of the invaluable servicesof his Capataz. He leaned against the wall withhis arms folded on his breast, and the doctorwalked up and down the whole length of theplace with his peculiar hobbling gait, as if slin-king about on damaged feet. At the end furt-hest from the grating he would be lost altoget-her in the darkness. Only the slight limpingshuffle could be heard. There was an air ofmoody detachment in that painful prowl keptup without a pause. When the door of the pri-son was suddenly flung open and his nameshouted out he showed no surprise. He swer-ved sharply in his walk, and passed out at on-

ce, as though much depended upon his speed;but Captain Mitchell remained for some timewith his shoulders against the wall, quite unde-cided in the bitterness of his spirit whether itwouldn't be better to refuse to stir a limb in theway of protest. He had half a mind to get him-self carried out, but after the officer at the doorhad shouted three or four times in tones of re-monstrance and surprise he condescended towalk out.

Sotillo's manner had changed. The colonel's off-hand civility was slightly irresolute, as thoughhe were in doubt if civility were the propercourse in this case. He observed Captain Mit-chell attentively before he spoke from the bigarmchair behind the table in a condescendingvoice—

"I have concluded not to detain you, Senor Mit-chell. I am of a forgiving disposition. I makeallowances. Let this be a lesson to you, howe-ver."

The peculiar dawn of Sulaco, which seems tobreak far away to the westward and creep backinto the shade of the mountains, mingled withthe reddish light of the candles. Captain Mit-chell, in sign of contempt and indifference, lethis eyes roam all over the room, and he gave ahard stare to the doctor, perched already on thecasement of one of the windows, with his eye-lids lowered, careless and thoughtful—or per-haps ashamed.

Sotillo, ensconced in the vast armchair, remar-ked, "I should have thought that the feelings ofa caballero would have dictated to you an ap-propriate reply."

He waited for it, but Captain Mitchell remai-ning mute, more from extreme resentment thanfrom reasoned intention, Sotillo hesitated, glan-ced towards the doctor, who looked up andnodded, then went on with a slight effort—

"Here, Senor Mitchell, is your watch. Learnhow hasty and unjust has been your judgmentof my patriotic soldiers."

Lying back in his seat, he extended his armover the table and pushed the watch awayslightly. Captain Mitchell walked up with un-disguised eagerness, put it to his ear, then slip-ped it into his pocket coolly.

Sotillo seemed to overcome an immense reluc-tance. Again he looked aside at the doctor, whostared at him unwinkingly.

But as Captain Mitchell was turning away, wit-hout as much as a nod or a glance, he hastenedto say—

"You may go and wait downstairs for the senordoctor, whom I am going to liberate, too. Youforeigners are insignificant, to my mind."

He forced a slight, discordant laugh out of him-self, while Captain Mitchell, for the first time,looked at him with some interest.

"The law shall take note later on of your trans-gressions," Sotillo hurried on. "But as for me,you can live free, unguarded, unobserved. Doyou hear, Senor Mitchell? You may depart toyour affairs. You are beneath my notice. Myattention is claimed by matters of the very hig-hest importance."

Captain Mitchell was very nearly provoked toan answer. It displeased him to be liberatedinsultingly; but want of sleep, prolonged anxie-ties, a profound disappointment with the fatalending of the silver-saving business weighedupon his spirits. It was as much as he could doto conceal his uneasiness, not about himselfperhaps, but about things in general. It occu-rred to him distinctly that something under-hand was going on. As he went out he ignoredthe doctor pointedly.

"A brute!" said Sotillo, as the door shut.

Dr. Monygham slipped off the window-sill,and, thrusting his hands into the pockets of thelong, grey dust coat he was wearing, made afew steps into the room.

Sotillo got up, too, and, putting himself in theway, examined him from head to foot.

"So your countrymen do not confide in youvery much, senor doctor. They do not love you,eh? Why is that, I wonder?"

The doctor, lifting his head, answered by along, lifeless stare and the words, "Perhaps be-cause I have lived too long in Costaguana."

Sotillo had a gleam of white teeth under theblack moustache.

"Aha! But you love yourself," he said, encoura-gingly.

"If you leave them alone," the doctor said, loo-king with the same lifeless stare at Sotillo'shandsome face, "they will betray themselvesvery soon. Meantime, I may try to make DonCarlos speak?"

"Ah! senor doctor," said Sotillo, wagging hishead, "you are a man of quick intelligence. Wewere made to understand each other." He tur-ned away. He could bear no longer that expres-sionless and motionless stare, which seemed tohave a sort of impenetrable emptiness like theblack depth of an abyss.

Even in a man utterly devoid of moral sensethere remains an appreciation of rascalitywhich, being conventional, is perfectly clear.Sotillo thought that Dr. Monygham, so diffe-rent from all Europeans, was ready to sell hiscountrymen and Charles Gould, his employer,for some share of the San Tome silver. Sotillodid not despise him for that. The colonel's wantof moral sense was of a profound and innocent

character. It bordered upon stupidity, moralstupidity. Nothing that served his ends couldappear to him really reprehensible. Nevert-heless, he despised Dr. Monygham. He had forhim an immense and satisfactory contempt. Hedespised him with all his heart because he didnot mean to let the doctor have any reward atall. He despised him, not as a man withoutfaith and honour, but as a fool. Dr. Monyg-ham's insight into his character had deceivedSotillo completely. Therefore he thought thedoctor a fool.

Since his arrival in Sulaco the colonel's ideashad undergone some modification.

He no longer wished for a political career inMontero's administration. He had alwaysdoubted the safety of that course. Since he hadlearned from the chief engineer that at daylightmost likely he would be confronted by PedroMontero his misgivings on that point had con-siderably increased. The guerrillero brother of

the general—the Pedrito of popular speech—had a reputation of his own. He wasn't safe todeal with. Sotillo had vaguely planned seizingnot only the treasure but the town itself, andthen negotiating at leisure. But in the face offacts learned from the chief engineer (who hadfrankly disclosed to him the whole situation)his audacity, never of a very dashing kind, hadbeen replaced by a most cautious hesitation.

"An army—an army crossed the mountainsunder Pedrito already," he had repeated, una-ble to hide his consternation. "If it had not beenthat I am given the news by a man of your posi-tion I would never have believed it. Astonis-hing!"

"An armed force," corrected the engineer, sua-vely. His aim was attained. It was to keep Sula-co clear of any armed occupation for a fewhours longer, to let those whom fear impelledleave the town. In the general dismay therewere families hopeful enough to fly upon the

road towards Los Hatos, which was left openby the withdrawal of the armed rabble underSenores Fuentes and Gamacho, to Rincon, withtheir enthusiastic welcome for Pedro Montero.It was a hasty and risky exodus, and it was saidthat Hernandez, occupying with his band thewoods about Los Hatos, was receiving the fugi-tives. That a good many people he knew werecontemplating such a flight had been wellknown to the chief engineer.

Father Corbelan's efforts in the cause of thatmost pious robber had not been altogether frui-tless. The political chief of Sulaco had yieldedat the last moment to the urgent entreaties ofthe priest, had signed a provisional nominationappointing Hernandez a general, and callingupon him officially in this new capacity to pre-serve order in the town. The fact is that the po-litical chief, seeing the situation desperate, didnot care what he signed. It was the last officialdocument he signed before he left the palace of

the Intendencia for the refuge of the O.S.N.Company's office. But even had he meant hisact to be effective it was already too late. Theriot which he feared and expected broke out inless than an hour after Father Corbelan had lefthim. Indeed, Father Corbelan, who had appoin-ted a meeting with Nostromo in the DominicanConvent, where he had his residence in one ofthe cells, never managed to reach the place.From the Intendencia he had gone straight onto the Avellanos's house to tell his brother-in-law, and though he stayed there no more thanhalf an hour he had found himself cut off fromhis ascetic abode. Nostromo, after waiting therefor some time, watching uneasily the increasinguproar in the street, had made his way to theoffices of the Porvenir, and stayed there tilldaylight, as Decoud had mentioned in the letterto his sister. Thus the Capataz, instead of ridingtowards the Los Hatos woods as bearer of Her-nandez's nomination, had remained in town tosave the life of the President Dictator, to assist

in repressing the outbreak of the mob, and atlast to sail out with the silver of the mine.

But Father Corbelan, escaping to Hernandez,had the document in his pocket, a piece of offi-cial writing turning a bandit into a general in amemorable last official act of the Ribierist par-ty, whose watchwords were honesty, peace,and progress. Probably neither the priest northe bandit saw the irony of it. Father Corbelanmust have found messengers to send into thetown, for early on the second day of the distur-bances there were rumours of Hernandez beingon the road to Los Hatos ready to receive thosewho would put themselves under his protec-tion. A strange-looking horseman, elderly andaudacious, had appeared in the town, ridingslowly while his eyes examined the fronts ofthe houses, as though he had never seen suchhigh buildings before. Before the cathedral hehad dismounted, and, kneeling in the middle ofthe Plaza, his bridle over his arm and his hat

lying in front of him on the ground, had bowedhis head, crossing himself and beating his bre-ast for some little time. Remounting his horse,with a fearless but not unfriendly look roundthe little gathering formed about his publicdevotions, he had asked for the Casa Avella-nos. A score of hands were extended in answer,with fingers pointing up the Calle de la Consti-tucion.

The horseman had gone on with only a glanceof casual curiosity upwards to the windows ofthe Amarilla Club at the corner. His stentorianvoice shouted periodically in the empty street,"Which is the Casa Avellanos?" till an answercame from the scared porter, and he disappea-red under the gate. The letter he was bringing,written by Father Corbelan with a pencil by thecamp-fire of Hernandez, was addressed to DonJose, of whose critical state the priest was notaware. Antonia read it, and, after consultingCharles Gould, sent it on for the information of

the gentlemen garrisoning the Amarilla Club.For herself, her mind was made up; she wouldrejoin her uncle; she would entrust the lastday—the last hours perhaps—of her father'slife to the keeping of the bandit, whose existen-ce was a protest against the irresponsible ty-ranny of all parties alike, against the moraldarkness of the land. The gloom of Los Hatoswoods was preferable; a life of hardships in thetrain of a robber band less debasing. Antoniaembraced with all her soul her uncle's obstinatedefiance of misfortune. It was grounded in thebelief in the man whom she loved.

In his message the Vicar-General answeredupon his head for Hernandez's fidelity. As tohis power, he pointed out that he had remainedunsubdued for so many years. In that letterDecoud's idea of the new Occidental State(whose flourishing and stable condition is amatter of common knowledge now) was for thefirst time made public and used as an argu-

ment. Hernandez, ex-bandit and the last gene-ral of Ribierist creation, was confident of beingable to hold the tract of country between thewoods of Los Hatos and the coast range till thatdevoted patriot, Don Martin Decoud, couldbring General Barrios back to Sulaco for thereconquest of the town.

"Heaven itself wills it. Providence is on ourside," wrote Father Corbelan; there was no timeto reflect upon or to controvert his statement;and if the discussion started upon the readingof that letter in the Amarilla Club was violent,it was also shortlived. In the general bewilder-ment of the collapse some jumped at the ideawith joyful astonishment as upon the amazingdiscovery of a new hope. Others became fasci-nated by the prospect of immediate personalsafety for their women and children. The majo-rity caught at it as a drowning man catches at astraw. Father Corbelan was unexpectedly offe-ring them a refuge from Pedrito Montero with

his llaneros allied to Senores Fuentes and Ga-macho with their armed rabble.

All the latter part of the afternoon an animateddiscussion went on in the big rooms of theAmarilla Club. Even those members posted atthe windows with rifles and carbines to guardthe end of the street in case of an offensive re-turn of the populace shouted their opinionsand arguments over their shoulders. As duskfell Don Juste Lopez, inviting those caballeroswho were of his way of thinking to follow him,withdrew into the corredor, where at a littletable in the light of two candles he busied him-self in composing an address, or rather a so-lemn declaration to be presented to PedritoMontero by a deputation of such members ofAssembly as had elected to remain in town. Hisidea was to propitiate him in order to save theform at least of parliamentary institutions. Sea-ted before a blank sheet of paper, a goose-quillpen in his hand and surged upon from all sides,

he turned to the right and to the left, repeatingwith solemn insistence—

"Caballeros, a moment of silence! A moment ofsilence! We ought to make it clear that we bowin all good faith to the accomplished facts."

The utterance of that phrase seemed to givehim a melancholy satisfaction. The hubbub ofvoices round him was growing strained andhoarse. In the sudden pauses the excited grima-cing of the faces would sink all at once into thestillness of profound dejection.

Meantime, the exodus had begun. Carretas fullof ladies and children rolled swaying across thePlaza, with men walking or riding by their side;mounted parties followed on mules and horses;the poorest were setting out on foot, men andwomen carrying bundles, clasping babies intheir arms, leading old people, dragging alongthe bigger children. When Charles Gould, afterleaving the doctor and the engineer at the Casa

Viola, entered the town by the harbour gate, allthose that had meant to go were gone, and theothers had barricaded themselves in their hou-ses. In the whole dark street there was only onespot of flickering lights and moving figures,where the Senor Administrador recognized hiswife's carriage waiting at the door of the Ave-llanos's house. He rode up, almost unnoticed,and looked on without a word while some ofhis own servants came out of the gate carryingDon Jose Avellanos, who, with closed eyes andmotionless features, appeared perfectly lifeless.His wife and Antonia walked on each side ofthe improvised stretcher, which was put at on-ce into the carriage. The two women embraced;while from the other side of the landau FatherCorbelan's emissary, with his ragged beard allstreaked with grey, and high, bronzed cheek-bones, stared, sitting upright in the saddle.Then Antonia, dry-eyed, got in by the side ofthe stretcher, and, after making the sign of thecross rapidly, lowered a thick veil upon her

face. The servants and the three or four neigh-bours who had come to assist, stood back, un-covering their heads. On the box, Ignacio, re-signed now to driving all night (and to havingperhaps his throat cut before daylight) lookedback surlily over his shoulder.

"Drive carefully," cried Mrs. Gould in a tremu-lous voice.

"Si, carefully; si nina," he mumbled, chewinghis lips, his round leathery cheeks quivering.And the landau rolled slowly out of the light.

"I will see them as far as the ford," said CharlesGould to his wife. She stood on the edge of thesidewalk with her hands clasped lightly, andnodded to him as he followed after the carria-ge. And now the windows of the Amarilla Clubwere dark. The last spark of resistance had diedout. Turning his head at the corner, CharlesGould saw his wife crossing over to their owngate in the lighted patch of the street. One of

their neighbours, a well-known merchant andlandowner of the province, followed at her el-bow, talking with great gestures. As she passedin all the lights went out in the street, whichremained dark and empty from end to end.

The houses of the vast Plaza were lost in thenight. High up, like a star, there was a smallgleam in one of the towers of the cathedral; andthe equestrian statue gleamed pale against theblack trees of the Alameda, like a ghost of ro-yalty haunting the scenes of revolution. Therare prowlers they met ranged themselvesagainst the wall. Beyond the last houses thecarriage rolled noiselessly on the soft cushionof dust, and with a greater obscurity a feelingof freshness seemed to fall from the foliage ofthe trees bordering the country road. The emis-sary from Hernandez's camp pushed his horseclose to Charles Gould.

"Caballero," he said in an interested voice, "youare he whom they call the King of Sulaco, themaster of the mine? Is it not so?"

"Yes, I am the master of the mine," answeredCharles Gould.

The man cantered for a time in silence, thensaid, "I have a brother, a sereno in your servicein the San Tome valley. You have proved your-self a just man. There has been no wrong doneto any one since you called upon the people towork in the mountains. My brother says that noofficial of the Government, no oppressor of theCampo, has been seen on your side of the stre-am. Your own officials do not oppress the peo-ple in the gorge. Doubtless they are afraid ofyour severity. You are a just man and a power-ful one," he added.

He spoke in an abrupt, independent tone, butevidently he was communicative with a purpo-se. He told Charles Gould that he had been a

ranchero in one of the lower valleys, far south,a neighbour of Hernandez in the old days, andgodfather to his eldest boy; one of those whojoined him in his resistance to the recruitingraid which was the beginning of all their mis-fortunes. It was he that, when his compadrehad been carried off, had buried his wife andchildren, murdered by the soldiers.

"Si, senor," he muttered, hoarsely, "I and two orthree others, the lucky ones left at liberty, bu-ried them all in one grave near the ashes oftheir ranch, under the tree that had shaded itsroof."

It was to him, too, that Hernandez came afterhe had deserted, three years afterwards. Hehad still his uniform on with the sergeant'sstripes on the sleeve, and the blood of his colo-nel upon his hands and breast. Three troopersfollowed him, of those who had started in pur-suit but had ridden on for liberty. And he toldCharles Gould how he and a few friends, se-

eing those soldiers, lay in ambush behind somerocks ready to pull the trigger on them, whenhe recognized his compadre and jumped upfrom cover, shouting his name, because heknew that Hernandez could not have been co-ming back on an errand of injustice and op-pression. Those three soldiers, together withthe party who lay behind the rocks, had formedthe nucleus of the famous band, and he, thenarrator, had been the favourite lieutenant ofHernandez for many, many years. He mentio-ned proudly that the officials had put a priceupon his head, too; but it did not prevent itgetting sprinkled with grey upon his shoulders.And now he had lived long enough to see hiscompadre made a general.

He had a burst of muffled laughter. "And nowfrom robbers we have become soldiers. Butlook, Caballero, at those who made us soldiersand him a general! Look at these people!"

Ignacio shouted. The light of the carriagelamps, running along the nopal hedges thatcrowned the bank on each side, flashed uponthe scared faces of people standing aside in theroad, sunk deep, like an English country lane,into the soft soil of the Campo. They cowered;their eyes glistened very big for a second; andthen the light, running on, fell upon the half-denuded roots of a big tree, on another stretchof nopal hedge, caught up another bunch offaces glaring back apprehensively. Three wo-men—of whom one was carrying a child—anda couple of men in civilian dress—one armedwith a sabre and another with a gun—weregrouped about a donkey carrying two bundlestied up in blankets. Further on Ignacio shoutedagain to pass a carreta, a long wooden box ontwo high wheels, with the door at the backswinging open. Some ladies in it must haverecognized the white mules, because theyscreamed out, "Is it you, Dona Emilia?"

At the turn of the road the glare of a big firefilled the short stretch vaulted over by thebranches meeting overhead. Near the ford of ashallow stream a roadside rancho of wovenrushes and a roof of grass had been set on fireby accident, and the flames, roaring viciously,lit up an open space blocked with horses, mu-les, and a distracted, shouting crowd of people.When Ignacio pulled up, several ladies on footassailed the carriage, begging Antonia for aseat. To their clamour she answered by poin-ting silently to her father.

"I must leave you here," said Charles Gould, inthe uproar. The flames leaped up sky-high, andin the recoil from the scorching heat across theroad the stream of fugitives pressed against thecarriage. A middle-aged lady dressed in blacksilk, but with a coarse manta over her head anda rough branch for a stick in her hand, stagge-red against the front wheel. Two young girls,

frightened and silent, were clinging to herarms. Charles Gould knew her very well.

"Misericordia! We are getting terribly bruisedin this crowd!" she exclaimed, smiling up cou-rageously to him. "We have started on foot. Allour servants ran away yesterday to join thedemocrats. We are going to put ourselves un-der the protection of Father Corbelan, of yoursainted uncle, Antonia. He has wrought a mira-cle in the heart of a most merciless robber. Amiracle!"

She raised her voice gradually up to a screamas she was borne along by the pressure of peo-ple getting out of the way of some carts comingup out of the ford at a gallop, with loud yellsand cracking of whips. Great masses of sparksmingled with black smoke flew over the road;the bamboos of the walls detonated in the firewith the sound of an irregular fusillade. Andthen the bright blaze sank suddenly, leavingonly a red dusk crowded with aimless dark

shadows drifting in contrary directions; thenoise of voices seemed to die away with theflame; and the tumult of heads, arms, quarre-lling, and imprecations passed on fleeing intothe darkness.

"I must leave you now," repeated CharlesGould to Antonia. She turned her head slowlyand uncovered her face. The emissary andcompadre of Hernandez spurred his horse clo-se up.

"Has not the master of the mine any message tosend to Hernandez, the master of the Campo?"

The truth of the comparison struck CharlesGould heavily. In his determined purpose heheld the mine, and the indomitable bandit heldthe Campo by the same precarious tenure. Theywere equals before the lawlessness of the land.It was impossible to disentangle one's activityfrom its debasing contacts. A close-meshed netof crime and corruption lay upon the whole

country. An immense and weary discourage-ment sealed his lips for a time.

"You are a just man," urged the emissary ofHernandez. "Look at those people who mademy compadre a general and have turned us allinto soldiers. Look at those oligarchs fleeing forlife, with only the clothes on their backs. Mycompadre does not think of that, but our follo-wers may be wondering greatly, and I wouldspeak for them to you. Listen, senor! For manymonths now the Campo has been our own. Weneed ask no man for anything; but soldiersmust have their pay to live honestly when thewars are over. It is believed that your soul is sojust that a prayer from you would cure thesickness of every beast, like the orison of theupright judge. Let me have some words fromyour lips that would act like a charm upon thedoubts of our partida, where all are men."

"Do you hear what he says?" Charles Gouldsaid in English to Antonia.

"Forgive us our misery!" she exclaimed,hurriedly. "It is your character that is the inex-haustible treasure which may save us all yet;your character, Carlos, not your wealth. I en-treat you to give this man your word that youwill accept any arrangement my uncle maymake with their chief. One word. He will wantno more."

On the site of the roadside hut there remainednothing but an enormous heap of embers,throwing afar a darkening red glow, in whichAntonia's face appeared deeply flushed withexcitement. Charles Gould, with only a shorthesitation, pronounced the required pledge. Hewas like a man who had ventured on a precipi-tous path with no room to turn, where the onlychance of safety is to press forward. At thatmoment he understood it thoroughly as he loo-ked down at Don Jose stretched out, hardlybreathing, by the side of the erect Antonia,vanquished in a lifelong struggle with the po-

wers of moral darkness, whose stagnant depthsbreed monstrous crimes and monstrous illu-sions. In a few words the emissary from Her-nandez expressed his complete satisfaction.Stoically Antonia lowered her veil, resisting thelonging to inquire about Decoud's escape. ButIgnacio leered morosely over his shoulder.

"Take a good look at the mules, mi amo," hegrumbled. "You shall never see them again!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Charles Gould turned towards the town. Beforehim the jagged peaks of the Sierra came out allblack in the clear dawn. Here and there a muf-fled lepero whisked round the corner of agrass-grown street before the ringing hoofs of

his horse. Dogs barked behind the walls of thegardens; and with the colourless light the chillof the snows seemed to fall from the mountainsupon the disjointed pavements and the shutte-red houses with broken cornices and the plasterpeeling in patches between the flat pilasters ofthe fronts. The daybreak struggled with thegloom under the arcades on the Plaza, with nosigns of country people disposing their goodsfor the day's market, piles of fruit, bundles ofvegetables ornamented with flowers, on lowbenches under enormous mat umbrellas; withno cheery early morning bustle of villagers,women, children, and loaded donkeys. Only afew scattered knots of revolutionists stood inthe vast space, all looking one way from undertheir slouched hats for some sign of news fromRincon. The largest of those groups turnedabout like one man as Charles Gould passed,and shouted, "Viva la libertad!" after him in amenacing tone.

Charles Gould rode on, and turned into thearchway of his house. In the patio littered withstraw, a practicante, one of Dr. Monygham'snative assistants, sat on the ground with hisback against the rim of the fountain, fingering aguitar discreetly, while two girls of the lowerclass, standing up before him, shuffled theirfeet a little and waved their arms, humming apopular dance tune.

Most of the wounded during the two days ofrioting had been taken away already by theirfriends and relations, but several figures couldbe seen sitting up balancing their bandagedheads in time to the music. Charles Gould dis-mounted. A sleepy mozo coming out of thebakery door took hold of the horse's bridle; thepracticante endeavoured to conceal his guitarhastily; the girls, unabashed, stepped back smi-ling; and Charles Gould, on his way to thestaircase, glanced into a dark corner of the patioat another group, a mortally wounded Carga-

dor with a woman kneeling by his side; shemumbled prayers rapidly, trying at the sametime to force a piece of orange between the stif-fening lips of the dying man.

The cruel futility of things stood unveiled in thelevity and sufferings of that incorrigible people;the cruel futility of lives and of deaths thrownaway in the vain endeavour to attain an endu-ring solution of the problem. Unlike Decoud,Charles Gould could not play lightly a part in atragic farce. It was tragic enough for him in allconscience, but he could see no farcical ele-ment. He suffered too much under a convictionof irremediable folly. He was too severely prac-tical and too idealistic to look upon its terriblehumours with amusement, as Martin Decoud,the imaginative materialist, was able to do inthe dry light of his scepticism. To him, as to allof us, the compromises with his conscience ap-peared uglier than ever in the light of failure.His taciturnity, assumed with a purpose, had

prevented him from tampering openly with histhoughts; but the Gould Concession had insi-diously corrupted his judgment. He might haveknown, he said to himself, leaning over thebalustrade of the corredor, that Ribierism couldnever come to anything. The mine had corrup-ted his judgment by making him sick of bribingand intriguing merely to have his work leftalone from day to day. Like his father, he didnot like to be robbed. It exasperated him. Hehad persuaded himself that, apart from higherconsiderations, the backing up of Don Jose'shopes of reform was good business. He hadgone forth into the senseless fray as his pooruncle, whose sword hung on the wall of hisstudy, had gone forth—in the defence of thecommonest decencies of organized society. On-ly his weapon was the wealth of the mine, morefar-reaching and subtle than an honest blade ofsteel fitted into a simple brass guard.

More dangerous to the wielder, too, this wea-pon of wealth, double-edged with the cupidityand misery of mankind, steeped in all the vicesof self-indulgence as in a concoction of poiso-nous roots, tainting the very cause for which itis drawn, always ready to turn awkwardly inthe hand. There was nothing for it now but togo on using it. But he promised himself to see itshattered into small bits before he let it bewrenched from his grasp.

After all, with his English parentage and En-glish upbringing, he perceived that he was anadventurer in Costaguana, the descendant ofadventurers enlisted in a foreign legion, of menwho had sought fortune in a revolutionary war,who had planned revolutions, who had belie-ved in revolutions. For all the uprightness ofhis character, he had something of an adventu-rer's easy morality which takes count of perso-nal risk in the ethical appraising of his action.He was prepared, if need be, to blow up the

whole San Tome mountain sky high out of theterritory of the Republic. This resolution ex-pressed the tenacity of his character, the remor-se of that subtle conjugal infidelity throughwhich his wife was no longer the sole mistressof his thoughts, something of his father's ima-ginative weakness, and something, too, of thespirit of a buccaneer throwing a lighted matchinto the magazine rather than surrender hisship.

Down below in the patio the wounded Carga-dor had breathed his last. The woman cried outonce, and her cry, unexpected and shrill, madeall the wounded sit up. The practicante scram-bled to his feet, and, guitar in hand, gazedsteadily in her direction with elevated eye-brows. The two girls—sitting now one on eachside of their wounded relative, with their kneesdrawn up and long cigars between their lips—nodded at each other significantly.

Charles Gould, looking down over the balus-trade, saw three men dressed ceremoniously inblack frock-coats with white shirts, and wea-ring European round hats, enter the patio fromthe street. One of them, head and shoulderstaller than the two others, advanced with mar-ked gravity, leading the way. This was DonJuste Lopez, accompanied by two of his friends,members of Assembly, coming to call upon theAdministrador of the San Tome mine at thisearly hour. They saw him, too, waved theirhands to him urgently, walking up the stairs asif in procession.

Don Juste, astonishingly changed by havingshaved off altogether his damaged beard, hadlost with it nine-tenths of his outward dignity.Even at that time of serious pre-occupationCharles Gould could not help noting the revea-led ineptitude in the aspect of the man. Hiscompanions looked crestfallen and sleepy. Onekept on passing the tip of his tongue over his

parched lips; the other's eyes strayed dully overthe tiled floor of the corredor, while Don Juste,standing a little in advance, harangued the Se-nor Administrador of the San Tome mine. Itwas his firm opinion that forms had to be ob-served. A new governor is always visited bydeputations from the Cabildo, which is theMunicipal Council, from the Consulado, thecommercial Board, and it was proper that theProvincial Assembly should send a deputation,too, if only to assert the existence of parliamen-tary institutions. Don Juste proposed that DonCarlos Gould, as the most prominent citizen ofthe province, should join the Assembly's depu-tation. His position was exceptional, his perso-nality known through the length and breadthof the whole Republic. Official courtesies mustnot be neglected, if they are gone through witha bleeding heart. The acceptance of accomplis-hed facts may save yet the precious vestiges ofparliamentary institutions. Don Juste's eyesglowed dully; he believed in parliamentary

institutions—and the convinced drone of hisvoice lost itself in the stillness of the house likethe deep buzzing of some ponderous insect.

Charles Gould had turned round to listen pa-tiently, leaning his elbow on the balustrade. Heshook his head a little, refusing, almost touchedby the anxious gaze of the President of the Pro-vincial Assembly. It was not Charles Gould'spolicy to make the San Tome mine a party toany formal proceedings.

"My advice, senores, is that you should wait foryour fate in your houses. There is no necessityfor you to give yourselves up formally intoMontero's hands. Submission to the inevitable,as Don Juste calls it, is all very well, but whenthe inevitable is called Pedrito Montero there isno need to exhibit pointedly the whole extent ofyour surrender. The fault of this country is thewant of measure in political life. Flat acquies-cence in illegality, followed by sanguinary reac-

tion—that, senores, is not the way to a stableand prosperous future."

Charles Gould stopped before the sad bewil-derment of the faces, the wondering, anxiousglances of the eyes. The feeling of pity for thosemen, putting all their trust into words of somesort, while murder and rapine stalked over theland, had betrayed him into what seemed emp-ty loquacity. Don Juste murmured—

"You are abandoning us, Don Carlos. . . . Andyet, parliamentary institutions—"

He could not finish from grief. For a momenthe put his hand over his eyes. Charles Gould,in his fear of empty loquacity, made no answerto the charge. He returned in silence their ce-remonious bows. His taciturnity was his refu-ge. He understood that what they sought wasto get the influence of the San Tome mine ontheir side. They wanted to go on a conciliatingerrand to the victor under the wing of the

Gould Concession. Other public bodies—theCabildo, the Consulado—would be coming,too, presently, seeking the support of the moststable, the most effective force they had everknown to exist in their province.

The doctor, arriving with his sharp, jerky walk,found that the master had retired into his ownroom with orders not to be disturbed on anyaccount. But Dr. Monygham was not anxious tosee Charles Gould at once. He spent some timein a rapid examination of his wounded. Hegazed down upon each in turn, rubbing hischin between his thumb and forefinger; hissteady stare met without expression their silen-tly inquisitive look. All these cases were doingwell; but when he came to the dead Cargadorhe stopped a little longer, surveying not theman who had ceased to suffer, but the womankneeling in silent contemplation of the rigidface, with its pinched nostrils and a white gle-

am in the imperfectly closed eyes. She lifted herhead slowly, and said in a dull voice—

"It is not long since he had become a Carga-dor—only a few weeks. His worship the Capa-taz had accepted him after many entreaties."

"I am not responsible for the great Capataz,"muttered the doctor, moving off.

Directing his course upstairs towards the doorof Charles Gould's room, the doctor at the lastmoment hesitated; then, turning away from thehandle with a shrug of his uneven shoulders,slunk off hastily along the corredor in search ofMrs. Gould's camerista.

Leonardo told him that the senora had not risenyet. The senora had given into her charge thegirls belonging to that Italian posadero. She,Leonarda, had put them to bed in her own ro-om. The fair girl had cried herself to sleep, butthe dark one—the bigger—had not closed her

eyes yet. She sat up in bed clutching the sheetsright up under her chin and staring before herlike a little witch. Leonarda did not approve ofthe Viola children being admitted to the house.She made this feeling clear by the indifferenttone in which she inquired whether their mot-her was dead yet. As to the senora, she must beasleep. Ever since she had gone into her roomafter seeing the departure of Dona Antoniawith her dying father, there had been no soundbehind her door.

The doctor, rousing himself out of profoundreflection, told her abruptly to call her mistressat once. He hobbled off to wait for Mrs. Gouldin the sala. He was very tired, but too excited tosit down. In this great drawing-room, nowempty, in which his withered soul had beenrefreshed after many arid years and his outcastspirit had accepted silently the toleration ofmany side-glances, he wandered haphazardamongst the chairs and tables till Mrs. Gould,

enveloped in a morning wrapper, came in ra-pidly.

"You know that I never approved of the silverbeing sent away," the doctor began at once, as apreliminary to the narrative of his night's ad-ventures in association with Captain Mitchell,the engineer-in-chief, and old Viola, at Sotillo'sheadquarters. To the doctor, with his specialconception of this political crisis, the removal ofthe silver had seemed an irrational and ill-omened measure. It was as if a general weresending the best part of his troops away on theeve of battle upon some recondite pretext. Thewhole lot of ingots might have been concealedsomewhere where they could have been got atfor the purpose of staving off the dangerswhich were menacing the security of the GouldConcession. The Administrador had acted as ifthe immense and powerful prosperity of themine had been founded on methods of probity,on the sense of usefulness. And it was nothing

of the kind. The method followed had been theonly one possible. The Gould Concession hadransomed its way through all those years. Itwas a nauseous process. He quite understoodthat Charles Gould had got sick of it and hadleft the old path to back up that hopeless at-tempt at reform. The doctor did not believe inthe reform of Costaguana. And now the minewas back again in its old path, with the disad-vantage that henceforth it had to deal not onlywith the greed provoked by its wealth, but withthe resentment awakened by the attempt to freeitself from its bondage to moral corruption.That was the penalty of failure. What made himuneasy was that Charles Gould seemed to himto have weakened at the decisive momentwhen a frank return to the old methods was theonly chance. Listening to Decoud's wild schemehad been a weakness.

The doctor flung up his arms, exclaiming, "De-coud! Decoud!" He hobbled about the room

with slight, angry laughs. Many years ago bothhis ankles had been seriously damaged in thecourse of a certain investigation conducted inthe castle of Sta. Marta by a commission com-posed of military men. Their nomination hadbeen signified to them unexpectedly at the de-ad of night, with scowling brow, flashing eyes,and in a tempestuous voice, by Guzman Bento.The old tyrant, maddened by one of his suddenaccesses of suspicion, mingled spluttering ap-peals to their fidelity with imprecations andhorrible menaces. The cells and casements ofthe castle on the hill had been already filledwith prisoners. The commission was chargednow with the task of discovering the iniquitousconspiracy against the Citizen-Saviour of hiscountry.

Their dread of the raving tyrant translated itselfinto a hasty ferocity of procedure. The Citizen-Saviour was not accustomed to wait. A conspi-racy had to be discovered. The courtyards of

the castle resounded with the clanking of leg-irons, sounds of blows, yells of pain; and thecommission of high officers laboured feverish-ly, concealing their distress and apprehensionsfrom each other, and especially from their se-cretary, Father Beron, an army chaplain, at thattime very much in the confidence of the Citi-zen-Saviour. That priest was a big round-shouldered man, with an unclean-looking,overgrown tonsure on the top of his flat head,of a dingy, yellow complexion, softly fat, withgreasy stains all down the front of his lieute-nant's uniform, and a small cross embroideredin white cotton on his left breast. He had a hea-vy nose and a pendant lip. Dr. Monygham re-membered him still. He remembered himagainst all the force of his will striving its ut-most to forget. Father Beron had been adjoinedto the commission by Guzman Bento expresslyfor the purpose that his enlightened zeal shouldassist them in their labours. Dr. Monyghamcould by no manner of means forget the zeal of

Father Beron, or his face, or the pitiless, mono-tonous voice in which he pronounced thewords, "Will you confess now?"

This memory did not make him shudder, but ithad made of him what he was in the eyes ofrespectable people, a man careless of commondecencies, something between a clever vaga-bond and a disreputable doctor. But not all res-pectable people would have had the necessarydelicacy of sentiment to understand with whattrouble of mind and accuracy of vision Dr. Mo-nygham, medical officer of the San Tome mine,remembered Father Beron, army chaplain, andonce a secretary of a military commission. Afterall these years Dr. Monygham, in his rooms atthe end of the hospital building in the San To-me gorge, remembered Father Beron as distinc-tly as ever. He remembered that priest at night,sometimes, in his sleep. On such nights the doc-tor waited for daylight with a candle lighted,and walking the whole length of his rooms to

and fro, staring down at his bare feet, his armshugging his sides tightly. He would dream ofFather Beron sitting at the end of a long blacktable, behind which, in a row, appeared theheads, shoulders, and epaulettes of the militarymembers, nibbling the feather of a quill pen,and listening with weary and impatient scornto the protestations of some prisoner callingheaven to witness of his innocence, till he burstout, "What's the use of wasting time over thatmiserable nonsense! Let me take him outsidefor a while." And Father Beron would go outsi-de after the clanking prisoner, led away betwe-en two soldiers. Such interludes happened onmany days, many times, with many prisoners.When the prisoner returned he was ready tomake a full confession, Father Beron woulddeclare, leaning forward with that dull, surfei-ted look which can be seen in the eyes of glut-tonous persons after a heavy meal.

The priest's inquisitorial instincts suffered butlittle from the want of classical apparatus of theInquisition At no time of the world's historyhave men been at a loss how to inflict mentaland bodily anguish upon their fellow-creatures.This aptitude came to them in the growingcomplexity of their passions and the early refi-nement of their ingenuity. But it may safely besaid that primeval man did not go to the trou-ble of inventing tortures. He was indolent andpure of heart. He brained his neighbour fero-ciously with a stone axe from necessity andwithout malice. The stupidest mind may inventa rankling phrase or brand the innocent with acruel aspersion. A piece of string and a ramrod;a few muskets in combination with a length ofhide rope; or even a simple mallet of heavy,hard wood applied with a swing to human fin-gers or to the joints of a human body is enoughfor the infliction of the most exquisite torture.The doctor had been a very stubborn prisoner,and, as a natural consequence of that "bad dis-

position" (so Father Beron called it), his subju-gation had been very crushing and very com-plete. That is why the limp in his walk, thetwist of his shoulders, the scars on his cheekswere so pronounced. His confessions, whenthey came at last, were very complete, too. So-metimes on the nights when he walked the flo-or, he wondered, grinding his teeth with shameand rage, at the fertility of his imaginationwhen stimulated by a sort of pain which makestruth, honour, selfrespect, and life itself mattersof little moment.

And he could not forget Father Beron with hismonotonous phrase, "Will you confess now?"reaching him in an awful iteration and lucidityof meaning through the delirious incoherenceof unbearable pain. He could not forget. Butthat was not the worst. Had he met Father Be-ron in the street after all these years Dr. Mo-nygham was sure he would have quailed befo-re him. This contingency was not to be feared

now. Father Beron was dead; but the sickeningcertitude prevented Dr. Monygham from loo-king anybody in the face.

Dr. Monygham had become, in a manner, theslave of a ghost. It was obviously impossible totake his knowledge of Father Beron home toEurope. When making his extorted confessionsto the Military Board, Dr. Monygham was notseeking to avoid death. He longed for it. Sittinghalf-naked for hours on the wet earth of hisprison, and so motionless that the spiders, hiscompanions, attached their webs to his mattedhair, he consoled the misery of his soul withacute reasonings that he had confessed to cri-mes enough for a sentence of death—that theyhad gone too far with him to let him live to tellthe tale.

But, as if by a refinement of cruelty, Dr. Mo-nygham was left for months to decay slowly inthe darkness of his grave-like prison. It was nodoubt hoped that it would finish him off wit-

hout the trouble of an execution; but Dr. Mo-nygham had an iron constitution. It was Guz-man Bento who died, not by the knife thrust ofa conspirator, but from a stroke of apoplexy,and Dr. Monygham was liberated hastily. Hisfetters were struck off by the light of a candle,which, after months of gloom, hurt his eyes somuch that he had to cover his face with hishands. He was raised up. His heart was beatingviolently with the fear of this liberty. When hetried to walk the extraordinary lightness of hisfeet made him giddy, and he fell down. Twosticks were thrust into his hands, and he waspushed out of the passage. It was dusk; candlesglimmered already in the windows of the offi-cers' quarters round the courtyard; but the twi-light sky dazed him by its enormous andoverwhelming brilliance. A thin poncho hungover his naked, bony shoulders; the rags of histrousers came down no lower than his knees;an eighteen months' growth of hair fell in dirtygrey locks on each side of his sharp cheek-

bones. As he dragged himself past the guard-room door, one of the soldiers, lolling outside,moved by some obscure impulse, leaped for-ward with a strange laugh and rammed a bro-ken old straw hat on his head. And Dr. Mo-nygham, after having tottered, continued on hisway. He advanced one stick, then one maimedfoot, then the other stick; the other foot follo-wed only a very short distance along theground, toilfully, as though it were almost tooheavy to be moved at all; and yet his legs underthe hanging angles of the poncho appeared nothicker than the two sticks in his hands. A cea-seless trembling agitated his bent body, all hiswasted limbs, his bony head, the conical, rag-ged crown of the sombrero, whose ample flatrim rested on his shoulders.

In such conditions of manner and attire did Dr.Monygham go forth to take possession of hisliberty. And these conditions seemed to bindhim indissolubly to the land of Costaguana like

an awful procedure of naturalization, involvinghim deep in the national life, far deeper thanany amount of success and honour could havedone. They did away with his Europeanism; forDr. Monygham had made himself an ideal con-ception of his disgrace. It was a conceptioneminently fit and proper for an officer and agentleman. Dr. Monygham, before he went outto Costaguana, had been surgeon in one of HerMajesty's regiments of foot. It was a conceptionwhich took no account of physiological facts orreasonable arguments; but it was not stupid forall that. It was simple. A rule of conduct restingmainly on severe rejections is necessarily sim-ple. Dr. Monygham's view of what it behovedhim to do was severe; it was an ideal view, inso much that it was the imaginative exaggera-tion of a correct feeling. It was also, in its force,influence, and persistency, the view of an emi-nently loyal nature.

There was a great fund of loyalty in Dr. Mo-nygham's nature. He had settled it all on Mrs.Gould's head. He believed her worthy of everydevotion. At the bottom of his heart he felt anangry uneasiness before the prosperity of theSan Tome mine, because its growth was rob-bing her of all peace of mind. Costaguana wasno place for a woman of that kind. What couldCharles Gould have been thinking of when hebrought her out there! It was outrageous! Andthe doctor had watched the course of eventswith a grim and distant reserve which, he ima-gined, his lamentable history imposed uponhim.

Loyalty to Mrs. Gould could not, however, lea-ve out of account the safety of her husband.The doctor had contrived to be in town at thecritical time because he mistrusted CharlesGould. He considered him hopelessly infectedwith the madness of revolutions. That is whyhe hobbled in distress in the drawing-room of

the Casa Gould on that morning, exclaiming,"Decoud, Decoud!" in a tone of mournful irrita-tion.

Mrs. Gould, her colour heightened, and withglistening eyes, looked straight before her atthe sudden enormity of that disaster. The fin-ger-tips on one hand rested lightly on a lowlittle table by her side, and the arm trembledright up to the shoulder. The sun, which lookslate upon Sulaco, issuing in all the fulness of itspower high up on the sky from behind thedazzling snow-edge of Higuerota, had precipi-tated the delicate, smooth, pearly greyness oflight, in which the town lies steeped during theearly hours, into sharp-cut masses of blackshade and spaces of hot, blinding glare. Threelong rectangles of sunshine fell through thewindows of the sala; while just across the streetthe front of the Avellanos's house appearedvery sombre in its own shadow seen throughthe flood of light.

A voice said at the door, "What of Decoud?"

It was Charles Gould. They had not heard himcoming along the corredor. His glance just gli-ded over his wife and struck full at the doctor.

"You have brought some news, doctor?"

Dr. Monygham blurted it all out at once, in therough. For some time after he had done, theAdministrador of the San Tome mine remainedlooking at him without a word. Mrs. Gouldsank into a low chair with her hands lying onher lap. A silence reigned between those threemotionless persons. Then Charles Gould spo-ke—

"You must want some breakfast."

He stood aside to let his wife pass first. Shecaught up her husband's hand and pressed it asshe went out, raising her handkerchief to hereyes. The sight of her husband had brought

Antonia's position to her mind, and she couldnot contain her tears at the thought of the poorgirl. When she rejoined the two men in the di-ningroom after having bathed her face, CharlesGould was saying to the doctor across the ta-ble—

"No, there does not seem any room for doubt."

And the doctor assented.

"No, I don't see myself how we could questionthat wretched Hirsch's tale. It's only too true, Ifear."

She sat down desolately at the head of the tableand looked from one to the other. The two men,without absolutely turning their heads away,tried to avoid her glance. The doctor even madea show of being hungry; he seized his knife andfork, and began to eat with emphasis, as if onthe stage. Charles Gould made no pretence ofthe sort; with his elbows raised squarely, he

twisted both ends of his flaming moustaches—they were so long that his hands were quiteaway from his face.

"I am not surprised," he muttered, abandoninghis moustaches and throwing one arm over theback of his chair. His face was calm with thatimmobility of expression which betrays theintensity of a mental struggle. He felt that thisaccident had brought to a point all the conse-quences involved in his line of conduct, with itsconscious and subconscious intentions. Theremust be an end now of this silent reserve, ofthat air of impenetrability behind which he hadbeen safeguarding his dignity. It was the leastignoble form of dissembling forced upon himby that parody of civilized institutions whichoffended his intelligence, his uprightness, andhis sense of right. He was like his father. Hehad no ironic eye. He was not amused at theabsurdities that prevail in this world. They hurthim in his innate gravity. He felt that the mise-

rable death of that poor Decoud took from himhis inaccessible position of a force in the back-ground. It committed him openly unless hewished to throw up the game—and that wasimpossible. The material interests requiredfrom him the sacrifice of his aloofness—perhaps his own safety too. And he reflectedthat Decoud's separationist plan had not goneto the bottom with the lost silver.

The only thing that was not changed was hisposition towards Mr. Holroyd. The head ofsilver and steel interests had entered into Cos-taguana affairs with a sort of passion. Costa-guana had become necessary to his existence; inthe San Tome mine he had found the imagina-tive satisfaction which other minds would getfrom drama, from art, or from a risky and fas-cinating sport. It was a special form of the greatman's extravagance, sanctioned by a moral in-tention, big enough to flatter his vanity. Even inthis aberration of his genius he served the pro-

gress of the world. Charles Gould felt sure ofbeing understood with precision and judgedwith the indulgence of their common passion.Nothing now could surprise or startle this greatman. And Charles Gould imagined himselfwriting a letter to San Francisco in some suchwords: ". . . . The men at the head of the move-ment are dead or have fled; the civil organiza-tion of the province is at an end for the present;the Blanco party in Sulaco has collapsed inex-cusably, but in the characteristic manner of thiscountry. But Barrios, untouched in Cayta, re-mains still available. I am forced to take upopenly the plan of a provincial revolution asthe only way of placing the enormous materialinterests involved in the prosperity and peaceof Sulaco in a position of permanent safety. . . ."That was clear. He saw these words as if writ-ten in letters of fire upon the wall at which hewas gazing abstractedly.

Mrs Gould watched his abstraction with dread.It was a domestic and frightful phenomenonthat darkened and chilled the house for her likea thundercloud passing over the sun. CharlesGould's fits of abstraction depicted the energe-tic concentration of a will haunted by a fixedidea. A man haunted by a fixed idea is insane.He is dangerous even if that idea is an idea ofjustice; for may he not bring the heaven downpitilessly upon a loved head? The eyes of Mrs.Gould, watching her husband's profile, filledwith tears again. And again she seemed to seethe despair of the unfortunate Antonia.

"What would I have done if Charley had beendrowned while we were engaged?" she exclai-med, mentally, with horror. Her heart turned toice, while her cheeks flamed up as if scorchedby the blaze of a funeral pyre consuming all herearthly affections. The tears burst out of hereyes.

"Antonia will kill herself!" she cried out.

This cry fell into the silence of the room withstrangely little effect. Only the doctor, crum-bling up a piece of bread, with his head incli-ned on one side, raised his face, and the fewlong hairs sticking out of his shaggy eyebrowsstirred in a slight frown. Dr. Monyghamthought quite sincerely that Decoud was a sin-gularly unworthy object for any woman's affec-tion. Then he lowered his head again, with acurl of his lip, and his heart full of tender admi-ration for Mrs. Gould.

"She thinks of that girl," he said to himself; "shethinks of the Viola children; she thinks of me; ofthe wounded; of the miners; she always thinksof everybody who is poor and miserable! Butwhat will she do if Charles gets the worst of itin this infernal scrimmage those confoundedAvellanos have drawn him into? No one seemsto be thinking of her."

Charles Gould, staring at the wall, pursued hisreflections subtly.

"I shall write to Holroyd that the San Tomemine is big enough to take in hand the makingof a new State. It'll please him. It'll reconcilehim to the risk."

But was Barrios really available? Perhaps. Buthe was inaccessible. To send off a boat to Caytawas no longer possible, since Sotillo was masterof the harbour, and had a steamer at his dispo-sal. And now, with all the democrats in theprovince up, and every Campo township in astate of disturbance, where could he find a manwho would make his way successfully over-land to Cayta with a message, a ten days' rideat least; a man of courage and resolution, whowould avoid arrest or murder, and if arrestedwould faithfully eat the paper? The Capataz deCargadores would have been just such a man.But the Capataz of the Cargadores was no mo-re.

And Charles Gould, withdrawing his eyes fromthe wall, said gently, "That Hirsch! What an

extraordinary thing! Saved himself by clingingto the anchor, did he? I had no idea that he wasstill in Sulaco. I thought he had gone back over-land to Esmeralda more than a week ago. Hecame here once to talk to me about his hidebusiness and some other things. I made it clearto him that nothing could be done."

"He was afraid to start back on account of Her-nandez being about," remarked the doctor.

"And but for him we might not have knownanything of what has happened," marvelledCharles Gould.

Mrs. Gould cried out—

"Antonia must not know! She must not be told.Not now."

"Nobody's likely to carry the news," remarkedthe doctor. "It's no one's interest. Moreover, thepeople here are afraid of Hernandez as if he

were the devil." He turned to Charles Gould."It's even awkward, because if you wanted tocommunicate with the refugees you could findno messenger. When Hernandez was ranginghundreds of miles away from here the Sulacopopulace used to shudder at the tales of himroasting his prisoners alive."

"Yes," murmured Charles Gould; "Captain Mit-chell's Capataz was the only man in the townwho had seen Hernandez eye to eye. FatherCorbelan employed him. He opened the com-munications first. It is a pity that—"

His voice was covered by the booming of thegreat bell of the cathedral. Three single strokes,one after another, burst out explosively, dyingaway in deep and mellow vibrations. And thenall the bells in the tower of every church, con-vent, or chapel in town, even those that hadremained shut up for years, pealed out togetherwith a crash. In this furious flood of metallicuproar there was a power of suggesting images

of strife and violence which blanched Mrs.Gould's cheek. Basilio, who had been waiting attable, shrinking within himself, clung to thesideboard with chattering teeth. It was impos-sible to hear yourself speak.

"Shut these windows!" Charles Gould yelled athim, angrily. All the other servants, terrified atwhat they took for the signal of a general mas-sacre, had rushed upstairs, tumbling over eachother, men and women, the obscure and gene-rally invisible population of the ground flooron the four sides of the patio. The women,screaming "Misericordia!" ran right into theroom, and, falling on their knees against thewalls, began to cross themselves convulsively.The staring heads of men blocked the doorwayin an instant—mozos from the stable, garde-ners, nondescript helpers living on the crumbsof the munificent house—and Charles Gouldbeheld all the extent of his domestic establish-ment, even to the gatekeeper. This was a half-

paralyzed old man, whose long white locks felldown to his shoulders: an heirloom taken upby Charles Gould's familial piety. He couldremember Henry Gould, an Englishman and aCostaguanero of the second generation, chief ofthe Sulaco province; he had been his personalmozo years and years ago in peace and war;had been allowed to attend his master in pri-son; had, on the fatal morning, followed thefiring squad; and, peeping from behind one ofthe cypresses growing along the wall of theFranciscan Convent, had seen, with his eyesstarting out of his head, Don Enrique throw uphis hands and fall with his face in the dust.Charles Gould noted particularly the big pa-triarchal head of that witness in the rear of theother servants. But he was surprised to see ashrivelled old hag or two, of whose existencewithin the walls of his house he had not beenaware. They must have been the mothers, oreven the grandmothers of some of his people.There were a few children, too, more or less

naked, crying and clinging to the legs of theirelders. He had never before noticed any sign ofa child in his patio. Even Leonarda, the came-rista, came in a fright, pushing through, withher spoiled, pouting face of a favourite maid,leading the Viola girls by the hand. The crocke-ry rattled on table and sideboard, and the who-le house seemed to sway in the deafening waveof sound.

CHAPTER FIVE

During the night the expectant populace hadtaken possession of all the belfries in the townin order to welcome Pedrito Montero, who wasmaking his entry after having slept the night inRincon. And first came straggling in throughthe land gate the armed mob of all colours,

complexions, types, and states of raggedness,calling themselves the Sulaco National Guard,and commanded by Senor Gamacho. Throughthe middle of the street streamed, like a torrentof rubbish, a mass of straw hats, ponchos, gun-barrels, with an enormous green and yellowflag flapping in their midst, in a cloud of dust,to the furious beating of drums. The spectatorsrecoiled against the walls of the houses shou-ting their Vivas! Behind the rabble could beseen the lances of the cavalry, the "army" ofPedro Montero. He advanced between SenoresFuentes and Gamacho at the head of his llane-ros, who had accomplished the feat of crossingthe Paramos of the Higuerota in a snow-storm.They rode four abreast, mounted on confisca-ted Campo horses, clad in the heterogeneousstock of roadside stores they had lootedhurriedly in their rapid ride through the nort-hern part of the province; for Pedro Monterohad been in a great hurry to occupy Sulaco. Thehandkerchiefs knotted loosely around their

bare throats were glaringly new, and all theright sleeves of their cotton shirts had been cutoff close to the shoulder for greater freedom inthrowing the lazo. Emaciated greybeards rodeby the side of lean dark youths, marked by allthe hardships of campaigning, with strips ofraw beef twined round the crowns of their hats,and huge iron spurs fastened to their nakedheels. Those that in the passes of the mountainhad lost their lances had provided themselveswith the goads used by the Campo cattlemen:slender shafts of palm fully ten feet long, with alot of loose rings jingling under the ironshodpoint. They were armed with knives and revol-vers. A haggard fearlessness characterized theexpression of all these sun-blacked countenan-ces; they glared down haughtily with theirscorched eyes at the crowd, or, blinking up-wards insolently, pointed out to each other so-me particular head amongst the women at thewindows. When they had ridden into the Plazaand caught sight of the equestrian statue of the

King dazzlingly white in the sunshine, towe-ring enormous and motionless above the surgesof the crowd, with its eternal gesture of salu-ting, a murmur of surprise ran through theirranks. "What is that saint in the big hat?" theyasked each other.

They were a good sample of the cavalry of theplains with which Pedro Montero had helpedso much the victorious career of his brother thegeneral. The influence which that man, broughtup in coast towns, acquired in a short time overthe plainsmen of the Republic can be ascribedonly to a genius for treachery of so effective akind that it must have appeared to those vio-lent men but little removed from a state of uttersavagery, as the perfection of sagacity and vir-tue. The popular lore of all nations testifies thatduplicity and cunning, together with bodilystrength, were looked upon, even more thancourage, as heroic virtues by primitive man-kind. To overcome your adversary was the gre-

at affair of life. Courage was taken for granted.But the use of intelligence awakened wonderand respect. Stratagems, providing they did notfail, were honourable; the easy massacre of anunsuspecting enemy evoked no feelings butthose of gladness, pride, and admiration. Notperhaps that primitive men were more faithlessthan their descendants of to-day, but that theywent straighter to their aim, and were moreartless in their recognition of success as the on-ly standard of morality.

We have changed since. The use of intelligenceawakens little wonder and less respect. But theignorant and barbarous plainsmen engaging incivil strife followed willingly a leader who of-ten managed to deliver their enemies bound, asit were, into their hands. Pedro Montero had atalent for lulling his adversaries into a sense ofsecurity. And as men learn wisdom with ex-treme slowness, and are always ready to belie-ve promises that flatter their secret hopes, Pe-

dro Montero was successful time after time.Whether only a servant or some inferior officialin the Costaguana Legation in Paris, he hadrushed back to his country directly he heardthat his brother had emerged from the obscuri-ty of his frontier commandancia. He had ma-naged to deceive by his gift of plausibility thechiefs of the Ribierist movement in the capital,and even the acute agent of the San Tome minehad failed to understand him thoroughly. Atonce he had obtained an enormous influenceover his brother. They were very much alike inappearance, both bald, with bunches of crisphair above their ears, arguing the presence ofsome negro blood. Only Pedro was smallerthan the general, more delicate altogether, withan ape-like faculty for imitating all the outwardsigns of refinement and distinction, and with aparrot-like talent for languages. Both brothershad received some elementary instruction bythe munificence of a great European traveller,to whom their father had been a body-servant

during his journeys in the interior of the coun-try. In General Montero's case it enabled him torise from the ranks. Pedrito, the younger, inco-rrigibly lazy and slovenly, had drifted aimless-ly from one coast town to another, hangingabout counting-houses, attaching himself tostrangers as a sort of valet-de-place, picking upan easy and disreputable living. His ability toread did nothing for him but fill his head withabsurd visions. His actions were usually de-termined by motives so improbable in themsel-ves as to escape the penetration of a rationalperson.

Thus at first sight the agent of the Gould Con-cession in Sta. Marta had credited him with thepossession of sane views, and even with a res-training power over the general's everlastinglydiscontented vanity. It could never have ente-red his head that Pedrito Montero, lackey orinferior scribe, lodged in the garrets of the va-rious Parisian hotels where the Costaguana

Legation used to shelter its diplomatic dignity,had been devouring the lighter sort of historicalworks in the French language, such, for instan-ce as the books of Imbert de Saint Amand uponthe Second Empire. But Pedrito had been struckby the splendour of a brilliant court, and hadconceived the idea of an existence for himselfwhere, like the Duc de Morny, he would asso-ciate the command of every pleasure with theconduct of political affairs and enjoy powersupremely in every way. Nobody could haveguessed that. And yet this was one of the im-mediate causes of the Monterist Revolution.This will appear less incredible by the reflectionthat the fundamental causes were the same asever, rooted in the political immaturity of thepeople, in the indolence of the upper classesand the mental darkness of the lower.

Pedrito Montero saw in the elevation of hisbrother the road wide open to his wildest ima-ginings. This was what made the Monterist

pronunciamiento so unpreventable. The gene-ral himself probably could have been boughtoff, pacified with flatteries, despatched on adiplomatic mission to Europe. It was his brot-her who had egged him on from first to last. Hewanted to become the most brilliant statesmanof South America. He did not desire supremepower. He would have been afraid of its labourand risk, in fact. Before all, Pedrito Montero,taught by his European experience, meant toacquire a serious fortune for himself. With thisobject in view he obtained from his brother, onthe very morrow of the successful battle, thepermission to push on over the mountains andtake possession of Sulaco. Sulaco was the landof future prosperity, the chosen land of mate-rial progress, the only province in the Republicof interest to European capitalists. PedritoMontero, following the example of the Duc deMorny, meant to have his share of this prospe-rity. This is what he meant literally. Now hisbrother was master of the country, whether as

President, Dictator, or even as Emperor—whynot as an Emperor?—he meant to demand ashare in every enterprise—in railways, in mi-nes, in sugar estates, in cotton mills, in landcompanies, in each and every undertaking—asthe price of his protection. The desire to be onthe spot early was the real cause of the celebra-ted ride over the mountains with some twohundred llaneros, an enterprise of which thedangers had not appeared at first clearly to hisimpatience. Coming from a series of victories, itseemed to him that a Montero had only to ap-pear to be master of the situation. This illusionhad betrayed him into a rashness of which hewas becoming aware. As he rode at the head ofhis llaneros he regretted that there were so fewof them. The enthusiasm of the populace reas-sured him. They yelled "Viva Montero! VivaPedrito!" In order to make them still more ent-husiastic, and from the natural pleasure he hadin dissembling, he dropped the reins on hishorse's neck, and with a tremendous effect of

familiarity and confidence slipped his handsunder the arms of Senores Fuentes and Gama-cho. In that posture, with a ragged town mozoholding his horse by the bridle, he rodetriumphantly across the Plaza to the door of theIntendencia. Its old gloomy walls seemed toshake in the acclamations that rent the air andcovered the crashing peals of the cathedralbells.

Pedro Montero, the brother of the general, dis-mounted into a shouting and perspiring throngof enthusiasts whom the ragged Nationals werepushing back fiercely. Ascending a few steps hesurveyed the large crowd gaping at him andthe bullet-speckled walls of the houses oppositelightly veiled by a sunny haze of dust. Theword "Pourvenir" in immense black capitals,alternating with broken windows, stared at himacross the vast space; and he thought with de-light of the hour of vengeance, because he wasvery sure of laying his hands upon Decoud. On

his left hand, Gamacho, big and hot, wiping hishairy wet face, uncovered a set of yellow fangsin a grin of stupid hilarity. On his right, SenorFuentes, small and lean, looked on with com-pressed lips. The crowd stared literally open-mouthed, lost in eager stillness, as though theyhad expected the great guerrillero, the famousPedrito, to begin scattering at once some sort ofvisible largesse. What he began was a speech.He began it with the shouted word "Citizens!"which reached even those in the middle of thePlaza. Afterwards the greater part of the citi-zens remained fascinated by the orator's actionalone, his tip-toeing, the arms flung above hishead with the fists clenched, a hand laid flatupon the heart, the silver gleam of rolling eyes,the sweeping, pointing, embracing gestures, ahand laid familiarly on Gamacho's shoulder; ahand waved formally towards the little black-coated person of Senor Fuentes, advocate andpolitician and a true friend of the people. Thevivas of those nearest to the orator bursting out

suddenly propagated themselves irregularly tothe confines of the crowd, like flames runningover dry grass, and expired in the opening ofthe streets. In the intervals, over the swarmingPlaza brooded a heavy silence, in which themouth of the orator went on opening and shut-ting, and detached phrases—"The happiness ofthe people," "Sons of the country," "The entireworld, el mundo entiero"—reached even thepacked steps of the cathedral with a feeble clearring, thin as the buzzing of a mosquito. But theorator struck his breast; he seemed to prancebetween his two supporters. It was the supre-me effort of his peroration. Then the two sma-ller figures disappeared from the public gazeand the enormous Gamacho, left alone, advan-ced, raising his hat high above his head. Thenhe covered himself proudly and yelled out,"Ciudadanos!" A dull roar greeted Senor Ga-macho, ex-pedlar of the Campo, Commandanteof the National Guards.

Upstairs Pedrito Montero walked about rapidlyfrom one wrecked room of the Intendencia toanother, snarling incessantly—

"What stupidity! What destruction!"

Senor Fuentes, following, would relax his taci-turn disposition to murmur—

"It is all the work of Gamacho and his Natio-nals;" and then, inclining his head on his leftshoulder, would press together his lips so firm-ly that a little hollow would appear at each cor-ner. He had his nomination for Political Chiefof the town in his pocket, and was all impatien-ce to enter upon his functions.

In the long audience room, with its tall mirrorsall starred by stones, the hangings torn downand the canopy over the platform at the upperend pulled to pieces, the vast, deep mutteringof the crowd and the howling voice of Gama-cho speaking just below reached them through

the shutters as they stood idly in dimness anddesolation.

"The brute!" observed his Excellency Don PedroMontero through clenched teeth. "We mustcontrive as quickly as possible to send him andhis Nationals out there to fight Hernandez."

The new Gefe Politico only jerked his head si-deways, and took a puff at his cigarette in signof his agreement with this method for riddingthe town of Gamacho and his inconvenientrabble.

Pedrito Montero looked with disgust at theabsolutely bare floor, and at the belt of heavygilt picture-frames running round the room,out of which the remnants of torn and slashedcanvases fluttered like dingy rags.

"We are not barbarians," he said.

This was what said his Excellency, the popularPedrito, the guerrillero skilled in the art of la-ying ambushes, charged by his brother at hisown demand with the organization of Sulacoon democratic principles. The night before, du-ring the consultation with his partisans, whohad come out to meet him in Rincon, he hadopened his intentions to Senor Fuentes—

"We shall organize a popular vote, by yes or no,confiding the destinies of our beloved countryto the wisdom and valiance of my heroic brot-her, the invincible general. A plebiscite. Do youunderstand?"

And Senor Fuentes, puffing out his leatherycheeks, had inclined his head slightly to theleft, letting a thin, bluish jet of smoke escapethrough his pursed lips. He had understood.

His Excellency was exasperated at the devasta-tion. Not a single chair, table, sofa, etagere orconsole had been left in the state rooms of the

Intendencia. His Excellency, though twitchingall over with rage, was restrained from burstinginto violence by a sense of his remoteness andisolation. His heroic brother was very far away.Meantime, how was he going to take his siesta?He had expected to find comfort and luxury inthe Intendencia after a year of hard camp life,ending with the hardships and privations of thedaring dash upon Sulaco—upon the provincewhich was worth more in wealth and influencethan all the rest of the Republic's territory. Hewould get even with Gamacho by-and-by. AndSenor Gamacho's oration, delectable to popularears, went on in the heat and glare of the Plazalike the uncouth howlings of an inferior sort ofdevil cast into a white-hot furnace. Every mo-ment he had to wipe his streaming face with hisbare fore-arm; he had flung off his coat, andhad turned up the sleeves of his shirt high abo-ve the elbows; but he kept on his head the largecocked hat with white plumes. His ingenuous-ness cherished this sign of his rank as Com-

mandante of the National Guards. Approvingand grave murmurs greeted his periods. Hisopinion was that war should be declared atonce against France, England, Germany, andthe United States, who, by introducing rail-ways, mining enterprises, colonization, andunder such other shallow pretences, aimed atrobbing poor people of their lands, and withthe help of these Goths and paralytics, the aris-tocrats would convert them into toiling andmiserable slaves. And the leperos, flingingabout the corners of their dirty white mantas,yelled their approbation. General Montero,Gamacho howled with conviction, was the onlyman equal to the patriotic task. They assentedto that, too.

The morning was wearing on; there were al-ready signs of disruption, currents and eddiesin the crowd. Some were seeking the shade ofthe walls and under the trees of the Alameda.Horsemen spurred through, shouting; groups

of sombreros set level on heads against the ver-tical sun were drifting away into the streets,where the open doors of pulperias revealed anenticing gloom resounding with the gentle tin-kling of guitars. The National Guards werethinking of siesta, and the eloquence of Gama-cho, their chief, was exhausted. Later on, when,in the cooler hours of the afternoon, they triedto assemble again for further consideration ofpublic affairs, detachments of Montero's caval-ry camped on the Alameda charged them wit-hout parley, at speed, with long lances levelledat their flying backs as far as the ends of thestreets. The National Guards of Sulaco weresurprised by this proceeding. But they were notindignant. No Costaguanero had ever learnedto question the eccentricities of a military force.They were part of the natural order of things.This must be, they concluded, some kind ofadministrative measure, no doubt. But the mo-tive of it escaped their unaided intelligence,and their chief and orator, Gamacho, Com-

mandante of the National Guard, was lyingdrunk and asleep in the bosom of his family.His bare feet were upturned in the shadowsrepulsively, in the manner of a corpse. His elo-quent mouth had dropped open. His youngestdaughter, scratching her head with one hand,with the other waved a green bough over hisscorched and peeling face.

CHAPTER SIX

The declining sun had shifted the shadowsfrom west to east amongst the houses of thetown. It had shifted them upon the whole ex-tent of the immense Campo, with the whitewalls of its haciendas on the knolls dominatingthe green distances; with its grass-thatchedranches crouching in the folds of ground by the

banks of streams; with the dark islands of clus-tered trees on a clear sea of grass, and the pre-cipitous range of the Cordillera, immense andmotionless, emerging from the billows of thelower forests like the barren coast of a land ofgiants. The sunset rays striking the snow-slopeof Higuerota from afar gave it an air of rosyyouth, while the serrated mass of distant peaksremained black, as if calcined in the fiery ra-diance. The undulating surface of the forestsseemed powdered with pale gold dust; andaway there, beyond Rincon, hidden from thetown by two wooded spurs, the rocks of theSan Tome gorge, with the flat wall of the moun-tain itself crowned by gigantic ferns, took onwarm tones of brown and yellow, with red rus-ty streaks, and the dark green clumps of bushesrooted in crevices. From the plain the stampsheds and the houses of the mine appeareddark and small, high up, like the nests of birdsclustered on the ledges of a cliff. The zigzagpaths resembled faint tracings scratched on the

wall of a cyclopean blockhouse. To the twoserenos of the mine on patrol duty, strolling,carbine in hand, and watchful eyes, in the sha-de of the trees lining the stream near the bridge,Don Pepe, descending the path from the upperplateau, appeared no bigger than a large beetle.

With his air of aimless, insect-like going to andfro upon the face of the rock, Don Pepe's figurekept on descending steadily, and, when nearthe bottom, sank at last behind the roofs of sto-re-houses, forges, and workshops. For a timethe pair of serenos strolled back and forth befo-re the bridge, on which they had stopped a hor-seman holding a large white envelope in hishand. Then Don Pepe, emerging in the villagestreet from amongst the houses, not a stone'sthrow from the frontier bridge, approached,striding in wide dark trousers tucked into bo-ots, a white linen jacket, sabre at his side, andrevolver at his belt. In this disturbed time not-

hing could find the Senor Gobernador with hisboots off, as the saying is.

At a slight nod from one of the serenos, theman, a messenger from the town, dismounted,and crossed the bridge, leading his horse by thebridle.

Don Pepe received the letter from his otherhand, slapped his left side and his hips in suc-cession, feeling for his spectacle case. After set-tling the heavy silvermounted affair astride hisnose, and adjusting it carefully behind his ears,he opened the envelope, holding it up at abouta foot in front of his eyes. The paper he pulledout contained some three lines of writing. Helooked at them for a long time. His grey mous-tache moved slightly up and down, and thewrinkles, radiating at the corners of his eyes,ran together. He nodded serenely. "Bueno," hesaid. "There is no answer."

Then, in his quiet, kindly way, he engaged in acautious conversation with the man, who waswilling to talk cheerily, as if something luckyhad happened to him recently. He had seenfrom a distance Sotillo's infantry camped alongthe shore of the harbour on each side of theCustom House. They had done no damage tothe buildings. The foreigners of the railwayremained shut up within the yards. They wereno longer anxious to shoot poor people. Hecursed the foreigners; then he reported Monte-ro's entry and the rumours of the town. Thepoor were going to be made rich now. That wasvery good. More he did not know, and, brea-king into propitiatory smiles, he intimated thathe was hungry and thirsty. The old major direc-ted him to go to the alcalde of the first village.The man rode off, and Don Pepe, striding slow-ly in the direction of a little wooden belfry, loo-ked over a hedge into a little garden, and sawFather Roman sitting in a white hammock

slung between two orange trees in front of thepresbytery.

An enormous tamarind shaded with its darkfoliage the whole white framehouse. A youngIndian girl with long hair, big eyes, and smallhands and feet, carried out a wooden chair,while a thin old woman, crabbed and vigilant,watched her all the time from the verandah.

Don Pepe sat down in the chair and lighted acigar; the priest drew in an immense quantityof snuff out of the hollow of his palm. On hisreddish-brown face, worn, hollowed as ifcrumbled, the eyes, fresh and candid, sparkledlike two black diamonds.

Don Pepe, in a mild and humorous voice, in-formed Father Roman that Pedrito Montero, bythe hand of Senor Fuentes, had asked him onwhat terms he would surrender the mine inproper working order to a legally constitutedcommission of patriotic citizens, escorted by a

small military force. The priest cast his eyes upto heaven. However, Don Pepe continued, themozo who brought the letter said that Don Car-los Gould was alive, and so far unmolested.

Father Roman expressed in a few words histhankfulness at hearing of the Senor Adminis-trador's safety.

The hour of oration had gone by in the silveryringing of a bell in the little belfry. The belt offorest closing the entrance of the valley stoodlike a screen between the low sun and the streetof the village. At the other end of the rockygorge, between the walls of basalt and granite,a forest-clad mountain, hiding all the rangefrom the San Tome dwellers, rose steeply, ligh-ted up and leafy to the very top. Three smallrosy clouds hung motionless overhead in thegreat depth of blue. Knots of people sat in thestreet between the wattled huts. Before the casaof the alcalde, the foremen of the night-shift,already assembled to lead their men, squatted

on the ground in a circle of leather skull-caps,and, bowing their bronze backs, were passinground the gourd of mate. The mozo from thetown, having fastened his horse to a woodenpost before the door, was telling them the newsof Sulaco as the blackened gourd of the decoc-tion passed from hand to hand. The grave al-calde himself, in a white waistcloth and a flo-wered chintz gown with sleeves, open wideupon his naked stout person with an effect of agaudy bathing robe, stood by, wearing a roughbeaver hat at the back of his head, and graspinga tall staff with a silver knob in his hand. Theseinsignia of his dignity had been conferred uponhim by the Administration of the mine, thefountain of honour, of prosperity, and peace.He had been one of the first immigrants intothis valley; his sons and sons-in-law workedwithin the mountain which seemed with itstreasures to pour down the thundering oreshoots of the upper mesa, the gifts of well-being, security, and justice upon the toilers. He

listened to the news from the town with curio-sity and indifference, as if concerning anotherworld than his own. And it was true that theyappeared to him so. In a very few years thesense of belonging to a powerful organizationhad been developed in these harassed, half-wild Indians. They were proud of, and attachedto, the mine. It had secured their confidenceand belief. They invested it with a protectingand invincible virtue as though it were a fetishmade by their own hands, for they were igno-rant, and in other respects did not differ appre-ciably from the rest of mankind which putsinfinite trust in its own creations. It never ente-red the alcalde's head that the mine could fail inits protection and force. Politics were goodenough for the people of the town and theCampo. His yellow, round face, with wide nos-trils, and motionless in expression, resembled afierce full moon. He listened to the excited va-pourings of the mozo without misgivings, wit-

hout surprise, without any active sentimentwhatever.

Padre Roman sat dejectedly balancing himself,his feet just touching the ground, his handsgripping the edge of the hammock. With lessconfidence, but as ignorant as his flock, he as-ked the major what did he think was going tohappen now.

Don Pepe, bolt upright in the chair, folded hishands peacefully on the hilt of his sword, stan-ding perpendicular between his thighs, andanswered that he did not know. The minecould be defended against any force likely to besent to take possession. On the other hand,from the arid character of the valley, when theregular supplies from the Campo had been cutoff, the population of the three villages couldbe starved into submission. Don Pepe exposedthese contingencies with serenity to FatherRoman, who, as an old campaigner, was able tounderstand the reasoning of a military man.

They talked with simplicity and directness.Father Roman was saddened at the idea of hisflock being scattered or else enslaved. He hadno illusions as to their fate, not from penetra-tion, but from long experience of political atro-cities, which seemed to him fatal and unavoi-dable in the life of a State. The working of theusual public institutions presented itself to himmost distinctly as a series of calamities overta-king private individuals and flowing logicallyfrom each other through hate, revenge, folly,and rapacity, as though they had been part of adivine dispensation. Father Roman's clear-sightedness was served by an uninformed inte-lligence; but his heart, preserving its tendernessamongst scenes of carnage, spoliation, and vio-lence, abhorred these calamities the more as hisassociation with the victims was closer. He en-tertained towards the Indians of the valley fee-lings of paternal scorn. He had been marrying,baptizing, confessing, absolving, and buryingthe workers of the San Tome mine with dignity

and unction for five years or more; and he be-lieved in the sacredness of these ministrations,which made them his own in a spiritual sense.They were dear to his sacerdotal supremacy.Mrs. Gould's earnest interest in the concerns ofthese people enhanced their importance in thepriest's eyes, because it really augmented hisown. When talking over with her the innume-rable Marias and Brigidas of the villages, he felthis own humanity expand. Padre Roman wasincapable of fanaticism to an almost reprehen-sible degree. The English senora was evidentlya heretic; but at the same time she seemed tohim wonderful and angelic. Whenever thatconfused state of his feelings occurred to him,while strolling, for instance, his breviary underhis arm, in the wide shade of the tamarind, hewould stop short to inhale with a strong snuf-fling noise a large quantity of snuff, and shakehis head profoundly. At the thought of whatmight befall the illustrious senora presently, hebecame gradually overcome with dismay. He

voiced it in an agitated murmur. Even Don Pe-pe lost his serenity for a moment. He leanedforward stiffly.

"Listen, Padre. The very fact that those thievingmacaques in Sulaco are trying to find out theprice of my honour proves that Senor Don Car-los and all in the Casa Gould are safe. As to myhonour, that also is safe, as every man, woman,and child knows. But the negro Liberals whohave snatched the town by surprise do notknow that. Bueno. Let them sit and wait. Whilethey wait they can do no harm."

And he regained his composure. He regained iteasily, because whatever happened his honourof an old officer of Paez was safe. He had pro-mised Charles Gould that at the approach of anarmed force he would defend the gorge justlong enough to give himself time to destroyscientifically the whole plant, buildings, andworkshops of the mine with heavy charges ofdynamite; block with ruins the main tunnel,

break down the pathways, blow up the dam ofthe water-power, shatter the famous GouldConcession into fragments, flying sky high outof a horrified world. The mine had got hold ofCharles Gould with a grip as deadly as ever ithad laid upon his father. But this extreme reso-lution had seemed to Don Pepe the most natu-ral thing in the world. His measures had beentaken with judgment. Everything was preparedwith a careful completeness. And Don Pepefolded his hands pacifically on his sword hilt,and nodded at the priest. In his excitement,Father Roman had flung snuff in handfuls athis face, and, all besmeared with tobacco,round-eyed, and beside himself, had got out ofthe hammock to walk about, uttering exclama-tions.

Don Pepe stroked his grey and pendant mous-tache, whose fine ends hung far below the cle-an-cut line of his jaw, and spoke with a cons-cious pride in his reputation.

"So, Padre, I don't know what will happen. ButI know that as long as I am here Don Carlos canspeak to that macaque, Pedrito Montero, andthreaten the destruction of the mine with per-fect assurance that he will be taken seriously.For people know me."

He began to turn the cigar in his lips a littlenervously, and went on—

"But that is talk—good for the politicos. I am amilitary man. I do not know what may happen.But I know what ought to be done—the mineshould march upon the town with guns, axes,knives tied up to sticks—por Dios. That is whatshould be done. Only—"

His folded hands twitched on the hilt. The cigarturned faster in the corner of his lips.

"And who should lead but I? Unfortunately—observe—I have given my word of honour toDon Carlos not to let the mine fall into the

hands of these thieves. In war—you know this,Padre—the fate of battles is uncertain, andwhom could I leave here to act for me in case ofdefeat? The explosives are ready. But it wouldrequire a man of high honour, of intelligence, ofjudgment, of courage, to carry out the prepareddestruction. Somebody I can trust with myhonour as I can trust myself. Another old offi-cer of Paez, for instance. Or—or—perhaps oneof Paez's old chaplains would do."

He got up, long, lank, upright, hard, with hismartial moustache and the bony structure ofhis face, from which the glance of the sunkeneyes seemed to transfix the priest, who stoodstill, an empty wooden snuff-box held upsidedown in his hand, and glared back, speechless,at the governor of the mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

At about that time, in the Intendencia of Sulaco,Charles Gould was assuring Pedrito Montero,who had sent a request for his presence there,that he would never let the mine pass out of hishands for the profit of a Government who hadrobbed him of it. The Gould Concession couldnot be resumed. His father had not desired it.The son would never surrender it. He wouldnever surrender it alive. And once dead, wherewas the power capable of resuscitating such anenterprise in all its vigour and wealth out of theashes and ruin of destruction? There was nosuch power in the country. And where was theskill and capital abroad that would condescendto touch such an ill-omened corpse? CharlesGould talked in the impassive tone which hadfor many years served to conceal his anger andcontempt. He suffered. He was disgusted withwhat he had to say. It was too much like

heroics. In him the strictly practical instinct wasin profound discord with the almost mysticview he took of his right. The Gould Conces-sion was symbolic of abstract justice. Let theheavens fall. But since the San Tome mine haddeveloped into world-wide fame his threat hadenough force and effectiveness to reach therudimentary intelligence of Pedro Montero,wrapped up as it was in the futilities of histori-cal anecdotes. The Gould Concession was aserious asset in the country's finance, and, whatwas more, in the private budgets of many offi-cials as well. It was traditional. It was known. Itwas said. It was credible. Every Minister ofInterior drew a salary from the San Tome mine.It was natural. And Pedrito intended to be Mi-nister of the Interior and President of the Coun-cil in his brother's Government. The Duc deMorny had occupied those high posts duringthe Second French Empire with conspicuousadvantage to himself.

A table, a chair, a wooden bedstead had beenprocured for His Excellency, who, after a shortsiesta, rendered absolutely necessary by thelabours and the pomps of his entry into Sulaco,had been getting hold of the administrativemachine by making appointments, giving or-ders, and signing proclamations. Alone withCharles Gould in the audience room, His Exce-llency managed with his well-known skill toconceal his annoyance and consternation. Hehad begun at first to talk loftily of confiscation,but the want of all proper feeling and mobilityin the Senor Administrador's features ended byaffecting adversely his power of masterful ex-pression. Charles Gould had repeated: "TheGovernment can certainly bring about the des-truction of the San Tome mine if it likes; butwithout me it can do nothing else." It was analarming pronouncement, and well calculatedto hurt the sensibilities of a politician whosemind is bent upon the spoils of victory. AndCharles Gould said also that the destruction of

the San Tome mine would cause the ruin ofother undertakings, the withdrawal of Europe-an capital, the withholding, most probably, ofthe last instalment of the foreign loan. That sto-ny fiend of a man said all these things (whichwere accessible to His Excellency's intelligence)in a coldblooded manner which made oneshudder.

A long course of reading historical works, lightand gossipy in tone, carried out in garrets ofParisian hotels, sprawling on an untidy bed, tothe neglect of his duties, menial or otherwise,had affected the manners of Pedro Montero.Had he seen around him the splendour of theold Intendencia, the magnificent hangings, thegilt furniture ranged along the walls; had hestood upon a dais on a noble square of red car-pet, he would have probably been very dange-rous from a sense of success and elevation. Butin this sacked and devastated residence, withthe three pieces of common furniture huddled

up in the middle of the vast apartment, Pedri-to's imagination was subdued by a feeling ofinsecurity and impermanence. That feeling andthe firm attitude of Charles Gould who had notonce, so far, pronounced the word "Excellency,"diminished him in his own eyes. He assumedthe tone of an enlightened man of the world,and begged Charles Gould to dismiss from hismind every cause for alarm. He was now con-versing, he reminded him, with the brother ofthe master of the country, charged with a reor-ganizing mission. The trusted brother of themaster of the country, he repeated. Nothingwas further from the thoughts of that wise andpatriotic hero than ideas of destruction. "I en-treat you, Don Carlos, not to give way to youranti-democratic prejudices," he cried, in a burstof condescending effusion.

Pedrito Montero surprised one at first sight bythe vast development of his bald forehead, ashiny yellow expanse between the crinkly coal-

black tufts of hair without any lustre, the enga-ging form of his mouth, and an unexpectedlycultivated voice. But his eyes, very glistening asif freshly painted on each side of his hookednose, had a round, hopeless, birdlike starewhen opened fully. Now, however, he narro-wed them agreeably, throwing his square chinup and speaking with closed teeth slightlythrough the nose, with what he imagined to bethe manner of a grand seigneur.

In that attitude, he declared suddenly that thehighest expression of democracy was Caesa-rism: the imperial rule based upon the directpopular vote. Caesarism was conservative. Itwas strong. It recognized the legitimate needsof democracy which requires orders, titles, anddistinctions. They would be showered upondeserving men. Caesarism was peace. It wasprogressive. It secured the prosperity of a coun-try. Pedrito Montero was carried away. Look atwhat the Second Empire had done for France. It

was a regime which delighted to honour menof Don Carlos's stamp. The Second Empire fell,but that was because its chief was devoid ofthat military genius which had raised GeneralMontero to the pinnacle of fame and glory. Pe-drito elevated his hand jerkily to help the ideaof pinnacle, of fame. "We shall have many talksyet. We shall understand each other thorough-ly, Don Carlos!" he cried in a tone of fellowship.Republicanism had done its work. Imperialdemocracy was the power of the future. Pedri-to, the guerrillero, showing his hand, loweredhis voice forcibly. A man singled out by hisfellow-citizens for the honourable nickname ofEl Rey de Sulaco could not but receive a fullrecognition from an imperial democracy as agreat captain of industry and a person ofweighty counsel, whose popular designationwould be soon replaced by a more solid title."Eh, Don Carlos? No! What do you say? Condede Sulaco—Eh?—or marquis . . ."

He ceased. The air was cool on the Plaza, wherea patrol of cavalry rode round and round wit-hout penetrating into the streets, which re-sounded with shouts and the strumming ofguitars issuing from the open doors of pulpe-rias. The orders were not to interfere with theenjoyments of the people. And above the roofs,next to the perpendicular lines of the cathedraltowers the snowy curve of Higuerota blocked alarge space of darkening blue sky before thewindows of the Intendencia. After a time Pedri-to Montero, thrusting his hand in the bosom ofhis coat, bowed his head with slow dignity. Theaudience was over.

Charles Gould on going out passed his handover his forehead as if to disperse the mists ofan oppressive dream, whose grotesque extra-vagance leaves behind a subtle sense of bodilydanger and intellectual decay. In the passagesand on the staircases of the old palace Monte-ro's troopers lounged about insolently, smo-

king and making way for no one; the clankingof sabres and spurs resounded all over thebuilding. Three silent groups of civilians insevere black waited in the main gallery, formaland helpless, a little huddled up, each keepingapart from the others, as if in the exercise of apublic duty they had been overcome by a desi-re to shun the notice of every eye. These werethe deputations waiting for their audience. Theone from the Provincial Assembly, more res-tless and uneasy in its corporate expression,was overtopped by the big face of Don JusteLopez, soft and white, with prominent eyelidsand wreathed in impenetrable solemnity as if ina dense cloud. The President of the ProvincialAssembly, coming bravely to save the lastshred of parliamentary institutions (on the En-glish model), averted his eyes from the Admi-nistrador of the San Tome mine as a dignifiedrebuke of his little faith in that only savingprinciple.

The mournful severity of that reproof did notaffect Charles Gould, but he was sensible to theglances of the others directed upon him wit-hout reproach, as if only to read their own fateupon his face. All of them had talked, shouted,and declaimed in the great sala of the CasaGould. The feeling of compassion for thosemen, struck with a strange impotence in thetoils of moral degradation, did not induce himto make a sign. He suffered from his fellowshipin evil with them too much. He crossed the Pla-za unmolested. The Amarilla Club was full offestive ragamuffins. Their frowsy heads pro-truded from every window, and from withincame drunken shouts, the thumping of feet,and the twanging of harps. Broken bottlesstrewed the pavement below. Charles Gouldfound the doctor still in his house.

Dr. Monygham came away from the crack inthe shutter through which he had been wat-ching the street.

"Ah! You are back at last!" he said in a tone ofrelief. "I have been telling Mrs. Gould that youwere perfectly safe, but I was not by any meanscertain that the fellow would have let you go."

"Neither was I," confessed Charles Gould, la-ying his hat on the table.

"You will have to take action."

The silence of Charles Gould seemed to admitthat this was the only course. This was as far asCharles Gould was accustomed to go towardsexpressing his intentions.

"I hope you did not warn Montero of what youmean to do," the doctor said, anxiously.

"I tried to make him see that the existence of themine was bound up with my personal safety,"continued Charles Gould, looking away fromthe doctor, and fixing his eyes upon the water-colour sketch upon the wall.

"He believed you?" the doctor asked, eagerly.

"God knows!" said Charles Gould. "I owed it tomy wife to say that much. He is well enoughinformed. He knows that I have Don Pepe the-re. Fuentes must have told him. They knowthat the old major is perfectly capable of blo-wing up the San Tome mine without hesitationor compunction. Had it not been for that I don'tthink I'd have left the Intendencia a free man.He would blow everything up from loyalty andfrom hate—from hate of these Liberals, as theycall themselves. Liberals! The words one knowsso well have a nightmarish meaning in thiscountry. Liberty, democracy, patriotism, go-vernment—all of them have a flavour of follyand murder. Haven't they, doctor? . . . I alonecan restrain Don Pepe. If they were to—to doaway with me, nothing could prevent him."

"They will try to tamper with him," the doctorsuggested, thoughtfully.

"It is very possible," Charles Gould said verylow, as if speaking to himself, and still gazingat the sketch of the San Tome gorge upon thewall. "Yes, I expect they will try that." CharlesGould looked for the first time at the doctor. "Itwould give me time," he added.

"Exactly," said Dr. Monygham, suppressing hisexcitement. "Especially if Don Pepe behavesdiplomatically. Why shouldn't he give themsome hope of success? Eh? Otherwise youwouldn't gain so much time. Couldn't he beinstructed to—"

Charles Gould, looking at the doctor steadily,shook his head, but the doctor continued with acertain amount of fire—

"Yes, to enter into negotiations for the surren-der of the mine. It is a good notion. You wouldmature your plan. Of course, I don't ask what itis. I don't want to know. I would refuse to listen

to you if you tried to tell me. I am not fit forconfidences."

"What nonsense!" muttered Charles Gould,with displeasure.

He disapproved of the doctor's sensitivenessabout that far-off episode of his life. So muchmemory shocked Charles Gould. It was likemorbidness. And again he shook his head. Herefused to tamper with the open rectitude ofDon Pepe's conduct, both from taste and frompolicy. Instructions would have to be eitherverbal or in writing. In either case they ran therisk of being intercepted. It was by no meanscertain that a messenger could reach the mine;and, besides, there was no one to send. It wason the tip of Charles's tongue to say that onlythe late Capataz de Cargadores could have be-en employed with some chance of success andthe certitude of discretion. But he did not saythat. He pointed out to the doctor that it wouldhave been bad policy. Directly Don Pepe let it

be supposed that he could be bought over, theAdministrador's personal safety and the safetyof his friends would become endangered. Forthere would be then no reason for moderation.The incorruptibility of Don Pepe was the essen-tial and restraining fact. The doctor hung hishead and admitted that in a way it was so.

He couldn't deny to himself that the reasoningwas sound enough. Don Pepe's usefulness con-sisted in his unstained character. As to his ownusefulness, he reflected bitterly it was also hisown character. He declared to Charles Gouldthat he had the means of keeping Sotillo fromjoining his forces with Montero, at least for thepresent.

"If you had had all this silver here," the doctorsaid, "or even if it had been known to be at themine, you could have bribed Sotillo to throwoff his recent Monterism. You could have indu-ced him either to go away in his steamer oreven to join you."

"Certainly not that last," Charles Gould decla-red, firmly. "What could one do with a man likethat, afterwards—tell me, doctor? The silver isgone, and I am glad of it. It would have been animmediate and strong temptation. The scram-ble for that visible plunder would have precipi-tated a disastrous ending. I would have had todefend it, too. I am glad we've removed it—even if it is lost. It would have been a dangerand a curse."

"Perhaps he is right," the doctor, an hour later,said hurriedly to Mrs. Gould, whom he met inthe corridor. "The thing is done, and the sha-dow of the treasure may do just as well as thesubstance. Let me try to serve you to the wholeextent of my evil reputation. I am off now toplay my game of betrayal with Sotillo, and ke-ep him off the town."

She put out both her hands impulsively. "Dr.Monygham, you are running a terrible risk,"she whispered, averting from his face her eyes,

full of tears, for a short glance at the door of herhusband's room. She pressed both his hands,and the doctor stood as if rooted to the spot,looking down at her, and trying to twist his lipsinto a smile.

"Oh, I know you will defend my memory," heuttered at last, and ran tottering down the stairsacross the patio, and out of the house. In thestreet he kept up a great pace with his smarthobbling walk, a case of instruments under hisarm. He was known for being loco. Nobodyinterfered with him. From under the seawardgate, across the dusty, arid plain, interspersedwith low bushes, he saw, more than a mileaway, the ugly enormity of the Custom House,and the two or three other buildings which atthat time constituted the seaport of Sulaco. Faraway to the south groves of palm trees edgedthe curve of the harbour shore. The distant pe-aks of the Cordillera had lost their identity ofclearcut shapes in the steadily deepening blue

of the eastern sky. The doctor walked briskly. Adarkling shadow seemed to fall upon him fromthe zenith. The sun had set. For a time thesnows of Higuerota continued to glow with thereflected glory of the west. The doctor, holdinga straight course for the Custom House, appea-red lonely, hopping amongst the dark busheslike a tall bird with a broken wing.

Tints of purple, gold, and crimson were mirro-red in the clear water of the harbour. A longtongue of land, straight as a wall, with thegrass-grown ruins of the fort making a sort ofrounded green mound, plainly visible from theinner shore, closed its circuit; while beyond thePlacid Gulf repeated those splendours of colou-ring on a greater scale and with a more sombremagnificence. The great mass of cloud fillingthe head of the gulf had long red smearsamongst its convoluted folds of grey and black,as of a floating mantle stained with blood. Thethree Isabels, overshadowed and clear cut in a

great smoothness confounding the sea and sky,appeared suspended, purple-black, in the air.The little wavelets seemed to be tossing tinyred sparks upon the sandy beaches. The glassybands of water along the horizon gave out afiery red glow, as if fire and water had beenmingled together in the vast bed of the ocean.

At last the conflagration of sea and sky, lyingembraced and still in a flaming contact uponthe edge of the world, went out. The red sparksin the water vanished together with the stainsof blood in the black mantle draping the som-bre head of the Placid Gulf; a sudden breezesprang up and died out after rustling heavilythe growth of bushes on the ruined earthworkof the fort. Nostromo woke up from a fourteenhours' sleep, and arose full length from his lairin the long grass. He stood knee deep amongstthe whispering undulations of the green bladeswith the lost air of a man just born into theworld. Handsome, robust, and supple, he

threw back his head, flung his arms open, andstretched himself with a slow twist of the waistand a leisurely growling yawn of white teeth,as natural and free from evil in the moment ofwaking as a magnificent and unconscious wildbeast. Then, in the suddenly steadied glancefixed upon nothing from under a thoughtfulfrown, appeared the man.

CHAPTER EIGHT

After landing from his swim Nostromo hadscrambled up, all dripping, into the main qua-drangle of the old fort; and there, amongst rui-ned bits of walls and rotting remnants of roofsand sheds, he had slept the day through. Hehad slept in the shadow of the mountains, inthe white blaze of noon, in the stillness and

solitude of that overgrown piece of land betwe-en the oval of the harbour and the spacioussemi-circle of the gulf. He lay as if dead. A rey-zamuro, appearing like a tiny black speck in theblue, stooped, circling prudently with a stealt-hiness of flight startling in a bird of that greatsize. The shadow of his pearly-white body, ofhis black-tipped wings, fell on the grass no mo-re silently than he alighted himself on a hillockof rubbish within three yards of that man, lyingas still as a corpse. The bird stretched his bareneck, craned his bald head, loathsome in thebrilliance of varied colouring, with an air ofvoracious anxiety towards the promising still-ness of that prostrate body. Then, sinking hishead deeply into his soft plumage, he settledhimself to wait. The first thing upon whichNostromo's eyes fell on waking was this patientwatcher for the signs of death and corruption.When the man got up the vulture hopped awayin great, side-long, fluttering jumps. He linge-red for a while, morose and reluctant, before he

rose, circling noiselessly with a sinister droopof beak and claws.

Long after he had vanished, Nostromo, liftinghis eyes up to the sky, muttered, "I am not deadyet."

The Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores had li-ved in splendour and publicity up to the verymoment, as it were, when he took charge of thelighter containing the treasure of silver ingots.

The last act he had performed in Sulaco was incomplete harmony with his vanity, and as suchperfectly genuine. He had given his last dollarto an old woman moaning with the grief andfatigue of a dismal search under the arch of theancient gate. Performed in obscurity and wit-hout witnesses, it had still the characteristics ofsplendour and publicity, and was in strict kee-ping with his reputation. But this awakening insolitude, except for the watchful vulture,amongst the ruins of the fort, had no such cha-

racteristics. His first confused feeling was exac-tly this—that it was not in keeping. It was morelike the end of things. The necessity of livingconcealed somehow, for God knows how long,which assailed him on his return to conscious-ness, made everything that had gone before foryears appear vain and foolish, like a flatteringdream come suddenly to an end.

He climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart,and, putting aside the bushes, looked upon theharbour. He saw a couple of ships at anchorupon the sheet of water reflecting the last gle-ams of light, and Sotillo's steamer moored tothe jetty. And behind the pale long front of theCustom House, there appeared the extent of thetown like a grove of thick timber on the plainwith a gateway in front, and the cupolas, to-wers, and miradors rising above the trees, alldark, as if surrendered already to the night. Thethought that it was no longer open to him toride through the streets, recognized by everyo-

ne, great and little, as he used to do every eve-ning on his way to play monte in the posada ofthe Mexican Domingo; or to sit in the place ofhonour, listening to songs and looking at dan-ces, made it appear to him as a town that hadno existence.

For a long time he gazed on, then let the partedbushes spring back, and, crossing over to theother side of the fort, surveyed the vaster emp-tiness of the great gulf. The Isabels stood outheavily upon the narrowing long band of red inthe west, which gleamed low between theirblack shapes, and the Capataz thought of De-coud alone there with the treasure. That manwas the only one who cared whether he fellinto the hands of the Monterists or not, the Ca-pataz reflected bitterly. And that merely wouldbe an anxiety for his own sake. As to the rest,they neither knew nor cared. What he hadheard Giorgio Viola say once was very true.Kings, ministers, aristocrats, the rich in general,

kept the people in poverty and subjection; theykept them as they kept dogs, to fight and huntfor their service.

The darkness of the sky had descended to theline of the horizon, enveloping the whole gulf,the islets, and the lover of Antonia alone withthe treasure on the Great Isabel. The Capataz,turning his back on these things invisible andexisting, sat down and took his face betweenhis fists. He felt the pinch of poverty for thefirst time in his life. To find himself withoutmoney after a run of bad luck at monte in thelow, smoky room of Domingo's posada, wherethe fraternity of Cargadores gambled, sang,and danced of an evening; to remain with emp-ty pockets after a burst of public generosity tosome peyne d'oro girl or other (for whom hedid not care), had none of the humiliation ofdestitution. He remained rich in glory and re-putation. But since it was no longer possible forhim to parade the streets of the town, and be

hailed with respect in the usual haunts of hisleisure, this sailor felt himself destitute indeed.

His mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sle-ep and extremely anxious thinking, as it hadnever been dry before. It may be said that Nos-tromo tasted the dust and ashes of the fruit oflife into which he had bitten deeply in his hun-ger for praise. Without removing his head frombetween his fists, he tried to spit before him—"Tfui"—and muttered a curse upon the selfish-ness of all the rich people.

Since everything seemed lost in Sulaco (andthat was the feeling of his waking), the idea ofleaving the country altogether had presenteditself to Nostromo. At that thought he had seen,like the beginning of another dream, a vision ofsteep and tideless shores, with dark pines onthe heights and white houses low down near avery blue sea. He saw the quays of a big port,where the coasting feluccas, with their lateensails outspread like motionless wings, enter

gliding silently between the end of long molesof squared blocks that project angularly to-wards each other, hugging a cluster of shippingto the superb bosom of a hill covered with pa-laces. He remembered these sights not withoutsome filial emotion, though he had been habi-tually and severely beaten as a boy on one ofthese feluccas by a short-necked, shaven Ge-noese, with a deliberate and distrustful man-ner, who (he firmly believed) had cheated himout of his orphan's inheritance. But it is merci-fully decreed that the evils of the past shouldappear but faintly in retrospect. Under the sen-se of loneliness, abandonment, and failure, theidea of return to these things appeared tolera-ble. But, what? Return? With bare feet andhead, with one check shirt and a pair of cottoncalzoneros for all worldly possessions?

The renowned Capataz, his elbows on his kne-es and a fist dug into each cheek, laughed withself-derision, as he had spat with disgust,

straight out before him into the night. The con-fused and intimate impressions of universaldissolution which beset a subjective nature atany strong check to its ruling passion had abitterness approaching that of death itself. Hewas simple. He was as ready to become theprey of any belief, superstition, or desire as achild.

The facts of his situation he could appreciatelike a man with a distinct experience of thecountry. He saw them clearly. He was as if so-bered after a long bout of intoxication. His fide-lity had been taken advantage of. He had per-suaded the body of Cargadores to side with theBlancos against the rest of the people; he hadhad interviews with Don Jose; he had been ma-de use of by Father Corbelan for negotiatingwith Hernandez; it was known that Don MartinDecoud had admitted him to a sort of intimacy,so that he had been free of the offices of thePorvenir. All these things had flattered him in

the usual way. What did he care about theirpolitics? Nothing at all. And at the end of itall—Nostromo here and Nostromo there—where is Nostromo? Nostromo can do this andthat—work all day and ride all night—behold!he found himself a marked Ribierist for anysort of vengeance Gamacho, for instance,would choose to take, now the Montero party,had, after all, mastered the town. The Europe-ans had given up; the Caballeros had given up.Don Martin had indeed explained it was onlytemporary—that he was going to bring Barriosto the rescue. Where was that now—with DonMartin (whose ironic manner of talk had al-ways made the Capataz feel vaguely uneasy)stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody hadgiven up. Even Don Carlos had given up. Thehurried removal of the treasure out to sea me-ant nothing else than that. The Capataz de Car-gadores, on a revulsion of subjectiveness, exas-perated almost to insanity, beheld all his world

without faith and courage. He had been betra-yed!

With the boundless shadows of the sea behindhim, out of his silence and immobility, facingthe lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowdedaround the white, misty sheen of Higuerota,Nostromo laughed aloud again, sprang abrup-tly to his feet, and stood still. He must go. Butwhere?

"There is no mistake. They keep us and encou-rage us as if we were dogs born to fight andhunt for them. The vecchio is right," he said,slowly and scathingly. He remembered oldGiorgio taking his pipe out of his mouth tothrow these words over his shoulder at the ca-fe, full of engine-drivers and fitters from therailway workshops. This image fixed his wave-ring purpose. He would try to find old Giorgioif he could. God knows what might have hap-pened to him! He made a few steps, then stop-ped again and shook his head. To the left and

right, in front and behind him, the scrubbybush rustled mysteriously in the darkness.

"Teresa was right, too," he added in a low tonetouched with awe. He wondered whether shewas dead in her anger with him or still alive.As if in answer to this thought, half of remorseand half of hope, with a soft flutter and obliqueflight, a big owl, whose appalling cry: "Ya-acabo! Ya-acabo!—it is finished; it is finished"—announces calamity and death in the popularbelief, drifted vaguely like a large dark ballacross his path. In the downfall of all the reali-ties that made his force, he was affected by thesuperstition, and shuddered slightly. SignoraTeresa must have died, then. It could meannothing else. The cry of the ill-omened bird, thefirst sound he was to hear on his return, was afitting welcome for his betrayed individuality.The unseen powers which he had offended byrefusing to bring a priest to a dying womanwere lifting up their voice against him. She was

dead. With admirable and human consistencyhe referred everything to himself. She had beena woman of good counsel always. And the be-reaved old Giorgio remained stunned by hisloss just as he was likely to require the adviceof his sagacity. The blow would render thedreamy old man quite stupid for a time.

As to Captain Mitchell, Nostromo, after themanner of trusted subordinates, consideredhim as a person fitted by education perhaps tosign papers in an office and to give orders, butotherwise of no use whatever, and somethingof a fool. The necessity of winding round hislittle finger, almost daily, the pompous andtesty self-importance of the old seaman hadgrown irksome with use to Nostromo. At first ithad given him an inward satisfaction. But thenecessity of overcoming small obstacles beco-mes wearisome to a self-confident personalityas much by the certitude of success as by themonotony of effort. He mistrusted his supe-

rior's proneness to fussy action. That old En-glishman had no judgment, he said to himself.It was useless to suppose that, acquainted withthe true state of the case, he would keep it tohimself. He would talk of doing impracticablethings. Nostromo feared him as one would fearsaddling one's self with some persistent worry.He had no discretion. He would betray thetreasure. And Nostromo had made up his mindthat the treasure should not be betrayed.

The word had fixed itself tenaciously in hisintelligence. His imagination had seized uponthe clear and simple notion of betrayal to ac-count for the dazed feeling of enlightenment asto being done for, of having inadvertently goneout of his existence on an issue in which hispersonality had not been taken into account. Aman betrayed is a man destroyed. Signora Te-resa (may God have her soul!) had been right.He had never been taken into account. Destro-yed! Her white form sitting up bowed in bed,

the falling black hair, the wide-browed suffe-ring face raised to him, the anger of her denun-ciations appeared to him now majestic with theawfulness of inspiration and of death. For itwas not for nothing that the evil bird had utte-red its lamentable shriek over his head. She wasdead—may God have her soul!

Sharing in the anti-priestly freethought of themasses, his mind used the pious formula fromthe superficial force of habit, but with a deep-seated sincerity. The popular mind is incapableof scepticism; and that incapacity delivers theirhelpless strength to the wiles of swindlers andto the pitiless enthusiasms of leaders inspiredby visions of a high destiny. She was dead. Butwould God consent to receive her soul? Shehad died without confession or absolution, be-cause he had not been willing to spare heranother moment of his time. His scorn ofpriests as priests remained; but after all, it wasimpossible to know whether what they affir-

med was not true. Power, punishment, pardon,are simple and credible notions. The magnifi-cent Capataz de Cargadores, deprived of cer-tain simple realities, such as the admiration ofwomen, the adulation of men, the admired pu-blicity of his life, was ready to feel the burdenof sacrilegious guilt descend upon his shoul-ders.

Bareheaded, in a thin shirt and drawers, he feltthe lingering warmth of the fine sand under thesoles of his feet. The narrow strand gleamed farahead in a long curve, defining the outline ofthis wild side of the harbour. He flitted alongthe shore like a pursued shadow between thesombre palm-groves and the sheet of waterlying as still as death on his right hand. Hestrode with headlong haste in the silence andsolitude as though he had forgotten all pruden-ce and caution. But he knew that on this side ofthe water he ran no risk of discovery. The onlyinhabitant was a lonely, silent, apathetic Indian

in charge of the palmarias, who brought some-times a load of cocoanuts to the town for sale.He lived without a woman in an open shed,with a perpetual fire of dry sticks smoulderingnear an old canoe lying bottom up on the be-ach. He could be easily avoided.

The barking of the dogs about that man's ran-che was the first thing that checked his speed.He had forgotten the dogs. He swerved shar-ply, and plunged into the palm-grove, as into awilderness of columns in an immense hall,whose dense obscurity seemed to whisper andrustle faintly high above his head. He traversedit, entered a ravine, and climbed to the top of asteep ridge free of trees and bushes.

From there, open and vague in the starlight, hesaw the plain between the town and the har-bour. In the woods above some night-bird ma-de a strange drumming noise. Below beyondthe palmaria on the beach, the Indian's dogscontinued to bark uproariously. He wondered

what had upset them so much, and, peeringdown from his elevation, was surprised to de-tect unaccountable movements of the groundbelow, as if several oblong pieces of the plainhad been in motion. Those dark, shifting pat-ches, alternately catching and eluding the eye,altered their place always away from the har-bour, with a suggestion of consecutive orderand purpose. A light dawned upon him. It wasa column of infantry on a night march towardsthe higher broken country at the foot of thehills. But he was too much in the dark abouteverything for wonder and speculation.

The plain had resumed its shadowy immobili-ty. He descended the ridge and found himselfin the open solitude, between the harbour andthe town. Its spaciousness, extended indefinite-ly by an effect of obscurity, rendered more sen-sible his profound isolation. His pace becameslower. No one waited for him; no one thoughtof him; no one expected or wished his return.

"Betrayed! Betrayed!" he muttered to himself.No one cared. He might have been drowned bythis time. No one would have cared—unless,perhaps, the children, he thought to himself.But they were with the English signora, and notthinking of him at all.

He wavered in his purpose of making straightfor the Casa Viola. To what end? What could heexpect there? His life seemed to fail him in allits details, even to the scornful reproaches ofTeresa. He was aware painfully of his reluctan-ce. Was it that remorse which she had prop-hesied with, what he saw now, was her lastbreath?

Meantime, he had deviated from the straightcourse, inclining by a sort of instinct to theright, towards the jetty and the harbour, thescene of his daily labours. The great length ofthe Custom House loomed up all at once likethe wall of a factory. Not a soul challenged hisapproach, and his curiosity became excited as

he passed cautiously towards the front by theunexpected sight of two lighted windows.

They had the fascination of a lonely vigil keptby some mysterious watcher up there, thosetwo windows shining dimly upon the harbourin the whole vast extent of the abandoned buil-ding. The solitude could almost be felt. Astrong smell of wood smoke hung about in athin haze, which was faintly perceptible to hisraised eyes against the glitter of the stars. As headvanced in the profound silence, the shrillingof innumerable cicalas in the dry grass seemedpositively deafening to his strained ears. Slow-ly, step by step, he found himself in the greathall, sombre and full of acrid smoke.

A fire built against the staircase had burntdown impotently to a low heap of embers. Thehard wood had failed to catch; only a few stepsat the bottom smouldered, with a creepingglow of sparks defining their charred edges. Atthe top he saw a streak of light from an open

door. It fell upon the vast landing, all foggywith a slow drift of smoke. That was the room.He climbed the stairs, then checked himself,because he had seen within the shadow of aman cast upon one of the walls. It was a shape-less, high-shouldered shadow of somebodystanding still, with lowered head, out of his lineof sight. The Capataz, remembering that he wastotally unarmed, stepped aside, and, effacinghimself upright in a dark corner, waited withhis eyes fixed on the door.

The whole enormous ruined barrack of a place,unfinished, without ceilings under its lofty ro-of, was pervaded by the smoke swaying to andfro in the faint cross draughts playing in theobscurity of many lofty rooms and barnlikepassages. Once one of the swinging shutterscame against the wall with a single sharp crack,as if pushed by an impatient hand. A piece ofpaper scurried out from somewhere, rustlingalong the landing. The man, whoever he was,

did not darken the lighted doorway. Twice theCapataz, advancing a couple of steps out of hiscorner, craned his neck in the hope of catchingsight of what he could be at, so quietly, in there.But every time he saw only the distorted sha-dow of broad shoulders and bowed head. Hewas doing apparently nothing, and stirred notfrom the spot, as though he were meditating—or, perhaps, reading a paper. And not a soundissued from the room.

Once more the Capataz stepped back. He won-dered who it was—some Monterist? But hedreaded to show himself. To discover his pre-sence on shore, unless after many days, would,he believed, endanger the treasure. With hisown knowledge possessing his whole soul, itseemed impossible that anybody in Sulacoshould fail to jump at the right surmise. After acouple of weeks or so it would be different.Who could tell he had not returned overlandfrom some port beyond the limits of the Repu-

blic? The existence of the treasure confused histhoughts with a peculiar sort of anxiety, asthough his life had become bound up with it. Itrendered him timorous for a moment beforethat enigmatic, lighted door. Devil take the fe-llow! He did not want to see him. There wouldbe nothing to learn from his face, known orunknown. He was a fool to waste his time therein waiting.

Less than five minutes after entering the placethe Capataz began his retreat. He got awaydown the stairs with perfect success, gave oneupward look over his shoulder at the light onthe landing, and ran stealthily across the hall.But at the very moment he was turning out ofthe great door, with his mind fixed upon esca-ping the notice of the man upstairs, somebodyhe had not heard coming briskly along thefront ran full into him. Both muttered a stifledexclamation of surprise, and leaped back andstood still, each indistinct to the other. Nostro-

mo was silent. The other man spoke first, in anamazed and deadened tone.

"Who are you?"

Already Nostromo had seemed to recognizeDr. Monygham. He had no doubt now. Hehesitated the space of a second. The idea of bol-ting without a word presented itself to hismind. No use! An inexplicable repugnance topronounce the name by which he was knownkept him silent a little longer. At last he said ina low voice—

"A Cargador."

He walked up to the other. Dr. Monygham hadreceived a shock. He flung his arms up andcried out his wonder aloud, forgetting himselfbefore the marvel of this meeting. Nostromoangrily warned him to moderate his voice. TheCustom House was not so deserted as it looked.

There was somebody in the lighted room abo-ve.

There is no more evanescent quality in an ac-complished fact than its wonderfulness. Solici-ted incessantly by the considerations affectingits fears and desires, the human mind turnsnaturally away from the marvellous side ofevents. And it was in the most natural waypossible that the doctor asked this man whomonly two minutes before he believed to havebeen drowned in the gulf—

"You have seen somebody up there? Haveyou?"

"No, I have not seen him."

"Then how do you know?"

"I was running away from his shadow whenwe met."

"His shadow?"

"Yes. His shadow in the lighted room," saidNostromo, in a contemptuous tone. Leaningback with folded arms at the foot of the immen-se building, he dropped his head, biting his lipsslightly, and not looking at the doctor. "Now,"he thought to himself, "he will begin asking meabout the treasure."

But the doctor's thoughts were concerned withan event not as marvellous as Nostromo's ap-pearance, but in itself much less clear. Why hadSotillo taken himself off with his whole com-mand with this suddenness and secrecy? Whatdid this move portend? However, it dawnedupon the doctor that the man upstairs was oneof the officers left behind by the disappointedcolonel to communicate with him.

"I believe he is waiting for me," he said.

"It is possible."

"I must see. Do not go away yet, Capataz."

"Go away where?" muttered Nostromo.

Already the doctor had left him. He remainedleaning against the wall, staring at the darkwater of the harbour; the shrilling of cicalasfilled his ears. An invincible vagueness comingover his thoughts took from them all power todetermine his will.

"Capataz! Capataz!" the doctor's voice calledurgently from above.

The sense of betrayal and ruin floated upon hissombre indifference as upon a sluggish sea ofpitch. But he stepped out from under the wall,and, looking up, saw Dr. Monygham leaningout of a lighted window.

"Come up and see what Sotillo has done. Youneed not fear the man up here."

He answered by a slight, bitter laugh. Fear aman! The Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores

fear a man! It angered him that anybody shouldsuggest such a thing. It angered him to be di-sarmed and skulking and in danger because ofthe accursed treasure, which was of so littleaccount to the people who had tied it round hisneck. He could not shake off the worry of it. ToNostromo the doctor represented all these peo-ple. . . . And he had never even asked after it.Not a word of inquiry about the most desperateundertaking of his life.

Thinking these thoughts, Nostromo passedagain through the cavernous hall, where thesmoke was considerably thinned, and went upthe stairs, not so warm to his feet now, towardsthe streak of light at the top. The doctor appea-red in it for a moment, agitated and impatient.

"Come up! Come up!"

At the moment of crossing the doorway theCapataz experienced a shock of surprise. Theman had not moved. He saw his shadow in the

same place. He started, then stepped in with afeeling of being about to solve a mystery.

It was very simple. For an infinitesimal fractionof a second, against the light of two flaring andguttering candles, through a blue, pungent,thin haze which made his eyes smart, he sawthe man standing, as he had imagined him,with his back to the door, casting an enormousand distorted shadow upon the wall. Swifterthan a flash of lightning followed the impres-sion of his constrained, toppling attitude—theshoulders projecting forward, the head sunklow upon the breast. Then he distinguished thearms behind his back, and wrenched so terriblythat the two clenched fists, lashed together, hadbeen forced up higher than the shoulder-blades. From there his eyes traced in one ins-tantaneous glance the hide rope going upwardsfrom the tied wrists over a heavy beam anddown to a staple in the wall. He did not want tolook at the rigid legs, at the feet hanging down

nervelessly, with their bare toes some six inchesabove the floor, to know that the man had beengiven the estrapade till he had swooned. Hisfirst impulse was to dash forward and sever therope at one blow. He felt for his knife. He hadno knife—not even a knife. He stood quivering,and the doctor, perched on the edge of the ta-ble, facing thoughtfully the cruel and lamenta-ble sight, his chin in his hand, uttered, withoutstirring—

"Tortured—and shot dead through the breast—getting cold."

This information calmed the Capataz. One ofthe candles flickering in the socket went out."Who did this?" he asked.

"Sotillo, I tell you. Who else? Tortured—ofcourse. But why shot?" The doctor lookedfixedly at Nostromo, who shrugged his shoul-ders slightly. "And mark, shot suddenly, onimpulse. It is evident. I wish I had his secret."

Nostromo had advanced, and stooped slightlyto look. "I seem to have seen that face somew-here," he muttered. "Who is he?"

The doctor turned his eyes upon him again. "Imay yet come to envying his fate. What do youthink of that, Capataz, eh?"

But Nostromo did not even hear these words.Seizing the remaining light, he thrust it underthe drooping head. The doctor sat oblivious,with a lost gaze. Then the heavy iron candles-tick, as if struck out of Nostromo's hand, clatte-red on the floor.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the doctor, looking up witha start. He could hear the Capataz staggeragainst the table and gasp. In the sudden ex-tinction of the light within, the dead blacknesssealing the window-frames became alive withstars to his sight.

"Of course, of course," the doctor muttered tohimself in English. "Enough to make him jumpout of his skin."

Nostromo's heart seemed to force itself into histhroat. His head swam. Hirsch! The man wasHirsch! He held on tight to the edge of the ta-ble.

"But he was hiding in the lighter," he almostshouted His voice fell. "In the lighter, and—and—"

"And Sotillo brought him in," said the doctor."He is no more startling to you than you wereto me. What I want to know is how he inducedsome compassionate soul to shoot him."

"So Sotillo knows—" began Nostromo, in a mo-re equable voice.

"Everything!" interrupted the doctor.

The Capataz was heard striking the table withhis fist. "Everything? What are you saying, the-re? Everything? Know everything? It is impos-sible! Everything?"

"Of course. What do you mean by impossible? Itell you I have heard this Hirsch questioned lastnight, here, in this very room. He knew yourname, Decoud's name, and all about the loa-ding of the silver. . . . The lighter was cut intwo. He was grovelling in abject terror beforeSotillo, but he remembered that much. What doyou want more? He knew least about himself.They found him clinging to their anchor. Hemust have caught at it just as the lighter wentto the bottom."

"Went to the bottom?" repeated Nostromo,slowly. "Sotillo believes that? Bueno!"

The doctor, a little impatiently, was unable toimagine what else could anybody believe. Yes,Sotillo believed that the lighter was sunk, and

the Capataz de Cargadores, together with Mar-tin Decoud and perhaps one or two other poli-tical fugitives, had been drowned.

"I told you well, senor doctor," remarked Nos-tromo at that point, "that Sotillo did not knoweverything."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"He did not know I was not dead."

"Neither did we."

"And you did not care—none of you caballeroson the wharf—once you got off a man of fleshand blood like yourselves on a fool's businessthat could not end well."

"You forget, Capataz, I was not on the wharf.And I did not think well of the business. So youneed not taunt me. I tell you what, man, wehad but little leisure to think of the dead. Deathstands near behind us all. You were gone."

"I went, indeed!" broke in Nostromo. "And forthe sake of what—tell me?"

"Ah! that is your own affair," the doctor said,roughly. "Do not ask me."

Their flowing murmurs paused in the dark.Perched on the edge of the table with slightlyaverted faces, they felt their shoulders touch,and their eyes remained directed towards anupright shape nearly lost in the obscurity of theinner part of the room, that with projectinghead and shoulders, in ghastly immobility,seemed intent on catching every word.

"Muy bien!" Nostromo muttered at last. "So beit. Teresa was right. It is my own affair."

"Teresa is dead," remarked the doctor, absently,while his mind followed a new line of thoughtsuggested by what might have been called Nos-tromo's return to life. "She died, the poor wo-man."

"Without a priest?" the Capataz asked, anxious-ly.

"What a question! Who could have got a priestfor her last night?"

"May God keep her soul!" ejaculated Nostromo,with a gloomy and hopeless fervour which hadno time to surprise Dr. Monygham, before, re-verting to their previous conversation, he con-tinued in a sinister tone, "Si, senor doctor. Asyou were saying, it is my own affair. A verydesperate affair."

"There are no two men in this part of the worldthat could have saved themselves by swim-ming as you have done," the doctor said, admi-ringly.

And again there was silence between those twomen. They were both reflecting, and the diver-sity of their natures made their thoughts bornfrom their meeting swing afar from each other.

The doctor, impelled to risky action by his lo-yalty to the Goulds, wondered with thankful-ness at the chain of accident which had broughtthat man back where he would be of the grea-test use in the work of saving the San Tomemine. The doctor was loyal to the mine. It pre-sented itself to his fifty-years' old eyes in theshape of a little woman in a soft dress with along train, with a head attractively overweigh-ted by a great mass of fair hair and the delicatepreciousness of her inner worth, partaking of agem and a flower, revealed in every attitude ofher person. As the dangers thickened round theSan Tome mine this illusion acquired force,permanency, and authority. It claimed him atlast! This claim, exalted by a spiritual detach-ment from the usual sanctions of hope and re-ward, made Dr. Monygham's thinking, acting,individuality extremely dangerous to himselfand to others, all his scruples vanishing in theproud feeling that his devotion was the only

thing that stood between an admirable womanand a frightful disaster.

It was a sort of intoxication which made himutterly indifferent to Decoud's fate, but left hiswits perfectly clear for the appreciation of De-coud's political idea. It was a good idea—andBarrios was the only instrument of its realiza-tion. The doctor's soul, withered and shrunk bythe shame of a moral disgrace, became impla-cable in the expansion of its tenderness. Nos-tromo's return was providential. He did notthink of him humanely, as of a fellow-creaturejust escaped from the jaws of death. The Capa-taz for him was the only possible messenger toCayta. The very man. The doctor's misanthro-pic mistrust of mankind (the bitterer becausebased on personal failure) did not lift him suffi-ciently above common weaknesses. He wasunder the spell of an established reputation.Trumpeted by Captain Mitchell, grown in repe-tition, and fixed in general assent, Nostromo's

faithfulness had never been questioned by Dr.Monygham as a fact. It was not likely to bequestioned now he stood in desperate need ofit himself. Dr. Monygham was human; he ac-cepted the popular conception of the Capataz'sincorruptibility simply because no word or facthad ever contradicted a mere affirmation. Itseemed to be a part of the man, like his whis-kers or his teeth. It was impossible to conceivehim otherwise. The question was whether hewould consent to go on such a dangerous anddesperate errand. The doctor was observantenough to have become aware from the first ofsomething peculiar in the man's temper. Hewas no doubt sore about the loss of the silver.

"It will be necessary to take him into my fullestconfidence," he said to himself, with a certainacuteness of insight into the nature he had todeal with.

On Nostromo's side the silence had been full ofblack irresolution, anger, and mistrust. He wasthe first to break it, however.

"The swimming was no great matter," he said."It is what went before—and what comes afterthat—"

He did not quite finish what he meant to say,breaking off short, as though his thought hadbutted against a solid obstacle. The doctor'smind pursued its own schemes with Machiave-llian subtlety. He said as sympathetically as hewas able—

"It is unfortunate, Capataz. But no one wouldthink of blaming you. Very unfortunate. Tobegin with, the treasure ought never to haveleft the mountain. But it was Decoud who—however, he is dead. There is no need to talk ofhim."

"No," assented Nostromo, as the doctor paused,"there is no need to talk of dead men. But I amnot dead yet."

"You are all right. Only a man of your intrepidi-ty could have saved himself."

In this Dr. Monygham was sincere. He estee-med highly the intrepidity of that man, whomhe valued but little, being disillusioned as tomankind in general, because of the particularinstance in which his own manhood had failed.Having had to encounter singlehanded duringhis period of eclipse many physical dangers, hewas well aware of the most dangerous elementcommon to them all: of the crushing, paraly-zing sense of human littleness, which is whatreally defeats a man struggling with naturalforces, alone, far from the eyes of his fellows.He was eminently fit to appreciate the mentalimage he made for himself of the Capataz, afterhours of tension and anxiety, precipitated sud-denly into an abyss of waters and darkness,

without earth or sky, and confronting it notonly with an undismayed mind, but with sen-sible success. Of course, the man was an in-comparable swimmer, that was known, but thedoctor judged that this instance testified to astill greater intrepidity of spirit. It was pleasingto him; he augured well from it for the successof the arduous mission with which he meant toentrust the Capataz so marvellously restored tousefulness. And in a tone vaguely gratified, heobserved—

"It must have been terribly dark!"

"It was the worst darkness of the Golfo," theCapataz assented, briefly. He was mollified bywhat seemed a sign of some faint interest insuch things as had befallen him, and dropped afew descriptive phrases with an affected andcurt nonchalance. At that moment he felt com-municative. He expected the continuance ofthat interest which, whether accepted or rejec-ted, would have restored to him his personali-

ty—the only thing lost in that desperate affair.But the doctor, engrossed by a desperate ad-venture of his own, was terrible in the pursuitof his idea. He let an exclamation of regret es-cape him.

"I could almost wish you had shouted andshown a light."

This unexpected utterance astounded the Capa-taz by its character of cold-blooded atrocity. Itwas as much as to say, "I wish you had shownyourself a coward; I wish you had had yourthroat cut for your pains." Naturally he referredit to himself, whereas it related only to the sil-ver, being uttered simply and with many men-tal reservations. Surprise and rage renderedhim speechless, and the doctor pursued, practi-cally unheard by Nostromo, whose stirred blo-od was beating violently in his ears.

"For I am convinced Sotillo in possession of thesilver would have turned short round and ma-

de for some small port abroad. Economically itwould have been wasteful, but still less waste-ful than having it sunk. It was the next bestthing to having it at hand in some safe place,and using part of it to buy up Sotillo. But Idoubt whether Don Carlos would have evermade up his mind to it. He is not fit for Costa-guana, and that is a fact, Capataz."

The Capataz had mastered the fury that waslike a tempest in his ears in time to hear thename of Don Carlos. He seemed to have comeout of it a changed man—a man who spokethoughtfully in a soft and even voice.

"And would Don Carlos have been content if Ihad surrendered this treasure?"

"I should not wonder if they were all of thatway of thinking now," the doctor said, grimly."I was never consulted. Decoud had it his ownway. Their eyes are opened by this time, Ishould think. I for one know that if that silver

turned up this moment miraculously ashore Iwould give it to Sotillo. And, as things stand, Iwould be approved."

"Turned up miraculously," repeated the Capa-taz very low; then raised his voice. "That, senor,would be a greater miracle than any saint couldperform."

"I believe you, Capataz," said the doctor, drily.

He went on to develop his view of Sotillo'sdangerous influence upon the situation. Andthe Capataz, listening as if in a dream, felt him-self of as little account as the indistinct, motion-less shape of the dead man whom he sawupright under the beam, with his air of liste-ning also, disregarded, forgotten, like a terribleexample of neglect.

"Was it for an unconsidered and foolish whimthat they came to me, then?" he interruptedsuddenly. "Had I not done enough for them to

be of some account, por Dios? Is it that thehombres finos—the gentlemen—need not thinkas long as there is a man of the people ready torisk his body and soul? Or, perhaps, we haveno souls—like dogs?"

"There was Decoud, too, with his plan," thedoctor reminded him again.

"Si! And the rich man in San Francisco who hadsomething to do with that treasure, too—whatdo I know? No! I have heard too many things.It seems to me that everything is permitted tothe rich."

"I understand, Capataz," the doctor began.

"What Capataz?" broke in Nostromo, in a forci-ble but even voice. "The Capataz is undone,destroyed. There is no Capataz. Oh, no! Youwill find the Capataz no more."

"Come, this is childish!" remonstrated the doc-tor; and the other calmed down suddenly.

"I have been indeed like a little child," he mut-tered.

And as his eyes met again the shape of themurdered man suspended in his awful immo-bility, which seemed the uncomplaining im-mobility of attention, he asked, wondering gen-tly—

"Why did Sotillo give the estrapade to this piti-ful wretch? Do you know? No torture couldhave been worse than his fear. Killing I canunderstand. His anguish was intolerable tobehold. But why should he torment him likethis? He could tell no more."

"No; he could tell nothing more. Any sane manwould have seen that. He had told him everyt-hing. But I tell you what it is, Capataz. Sotillo

would not believe what he was told. Not eve-rything."

"What is it he would not believe? I cannot un-derstand."

"I can, because I have seen the man. He refusesto believe that the treasure is lost."

"What?" the Capataz cried out in a discompo-sed tone.

"That startles you—eh?"

"Am I to understand, senor," Nostromo wenton in a deliberate and, as it were, watchful tone,"that Sotillo thinks the treasure has been savedby some means?"

"No! no! That would be impossible," said thedoctor, with conviction; and Nostromo emitteda grunt in the dark. "That would be impossible.He thinks that the silver was no longer in thelighter when she was sunk. He has convinced

himself that the whole show of getting it awayto sea is a mere sham got up to deceive Gama-cho and his Nationals, Pedrito Montero, SenorFuentes, our new Gefe Politico, and himself,too. Only, he says, he is no such fool."

"But he is devoid of sense. He is the greatestimbecile that ever called himself a colonel inthis country of evil," growled Nostromo.

"He is no more unreasonable than many sensi-ble men," said the doctor. "He has convincedhimself that the treasure can be found becausehe desires passionately to possess himself of it.And he is also afraid of his officers turningupon him and going over to Pedrito, whom hehas not the courage either to fight or trust. Doyou see that, Capataz? He need fear no deser-tion as long as some hope remains of thatenormous plunder turning up. I have made itmy business to keep this very hope up."

"You have?" the Capataz de Cargadores repea-ted cautiously. "Well, that is wonderful. Andhow long do you think you are going to keep itup?"

"As long as I can."

"What does that mean?"

"I can tell you exactly. As long as I live," thedoctor retorted in a stubborn voice. Then, in afew words, he described the story of his arrestand the circumstances of his release. "I wasgoing back to that silly scoundrel when wemet," he concluded.

Nostromo had listened with profound atten-tion. "You have made up your mind, then, to aspeedy death," he muttered through his clen-ched teeth.

"Perhaps, my illustrious Capataz," the doctorsaid, testily. "You are not the only one here whocan look an ugly death in the face."

"No doubt," mumbled Nostromo, loud enoughto be overheard. "There may be even more thantwo fools in this place. Who knows?"

"And that is my affair," said the doctor, curtly.

"As taking out the accursed silver to sea wasmy affair," retorted Nostromo. "I see. Bueno!Each of us has his reasons. But you were thelast man I conversed with before I started, andyou talked to me as if I were a fool."

Nostromo had a great distaste for the doctor'ssardonic treatment of his great reputation. De-coud's faintly ironic recognition used to makehim uneasy; but the familiarity of a man likeDon Martin was flattering, whereas the doctorwas a nobody. He could remember him a pen-niless outcast, slinking about the streets of Su-

laco, without a single friend or acquaintance,till Don Carlos Gould took him into the serviceof the mine.

"You may be very wise," he went on, thought-fully, staring into the obscurity of the room,pervaded by the gruesome enigma of the tortu-red and murdered Hirsch. "But I am not such afool as when I started. I have learned one thingsince, and that is that you are a dangerousman."

Dr. Monygham was too startled to do morethan exclaim—

"What is it you say?"

"If he could speak he would say the samething," pursued Nostromo, with a nod of hisshadowy head silhouetted against the starlitwindow.

"I do not understand you," said Dr. Monygham,faintly.

"No? Perhaps, if you had not confirmed Sotilloin his madness, he would have been in no hasteto give the estrapade to that miserable Hirsch."

The doctor started at the suggestion. But hisdevotion, absorbing all his sensibilities, had lefthis heart steeled against remorse and pity. Still,for complete relief, he felt the necessity of repe-lling it loudly and contemptuously.

"Bah! You dare to tell me that, with a man likeSotillo. I confess I did not give a thought toHirsch. If I had it would have been useless.Anybody can see that the luckless wretch wasdoomed from the moment he caught hold ofthe anchor. He was doomed, I tell you! Just as Imyself am doomed—most probably."

This is what Dr. Monygham said in answer toNostromo's remark, which was plausible

enough to prick his conscience. He was not acallous man. But the necessity, the magnitude,the importance of the task he had taken uponhimself dwarfed all merely humane considera-tions. He had undertaken it in a fanatical spirit.He did not like it. To lie, to deceive, to circum-vent even the basest of mankind was odious tohim. It was odious to him by training, instinct,and tradition. To do these things in the charac-ter of a traitor was abhorrent to his nature andterrible to his feelings. He had made that sacri-fice in a spirit of abasement. He had said tohimself bitterly, "I am the only one fit for thatdirty work." And he believed this. He was notsubtle. His simplicity was such that, though hehad no sort of heroic idea of seeking death, therisk, deadly enough, to which he exposed him-self, had a sustaining and comforting effect. Tothat spiritual state the fate of Hirsch presenteditself as part of the general atrocity of things.He considered that episode practically. Whatdid it mean? Was it a sign of some dangerous

change in Sotillo's delusion? That the manshould have been killed like this was what thedoctor could not understand.

"Yes. But why shot?" he murmured to himself.

Nostromo kept very still.

CHAPTER NINE

Distracted between doubts and hopes, disma-yed by the sound of bells pealing out the arrivalof Pedrito Montero, Sotillo had spent the mor-ning in battling with his thoughts; a contest towhich he was unequal, from the vacuity of hismind and the violence of his passions. Disap-pointment, greed, anger, and fear made a tu-mult, in the colonel's breast louder than the din

of bells in the town. Nothing he had plannedhad come to pass. Neither Sulaco nor the silverof the mine had fallen into his hands. He hadperformed no military exploit to secure his po-sition, and had obtained no enormous booty tomake off with. Pedrito Montero, either as friendor foe, filled him with dread. The sound of bellsmaddened him.

Imagining at first that he might be attacked atonce, he had made his battalion stand to armson the shore. He walked to and fro all thelength of the room, stopping sometimes tognaw the finger-tips of his right hand with alurid sideways glare fixed on the floor; then,with a sullen, repelling glance all round, hewould resume his tramping in savage aloof-ness. His hat, horsewhip, sword, and revolverwere lying on the table. His officers, crowdingthe window giving the view of the town gate,disputed amongst themselves the use of hisfield-glass bought last year on long credit from

Anzani. It passed from hand to hand, and thepossessor for the time being was besieged byanxious inquiries.

"There is nothing; there is nothing to see!" hewould repeat impatiently.

There was nothing. And when the picket in thebushes near the Casa Viola had been ordered tofall back upon the main body, no stir of lifeappeared on the stretch of dusty and arid landbetween the town and the waters of the port.But late in the afternoon a horseman issuingfrom the gate was made out riding up fearless-ly. It was an emissary from Senor Fuentes.Being all alone he was allowed to come on.Dismounting at the great door he greeted thesilent bystanders with cheery impudence, andbegged to be taken up at once to the "muy va-lliente" colonel.

Senor Fuentes, on entering upon his functionsof Gefe Politico, had turned his diplomatic abi-

lities to getting hold of the harbour as well as ofthe mine. The man he pitched upon to negotia-te with Sotillo was a Notary Public, whom therevolution had found languishing in the com-mon jail on a charge of forging documents. Li-berated by the mob along with the other "vic-tims of Blanco tyranny," he had hastened tooffer his services to the new Government.

He set out determined to display much zealand eloquence in trying to induce Sotillo tocome into town alone for a conference withPedrito Montero. Nothing was further from thecolonel's intentions. The mere fleeting idea oftrusting himself into the famous Pedrito'shands had made him feel unwell several times.It was out of the question—it was madness.And to put himself in open hostility was mad-ness, too. It would render impossible a syste-matic search for that treasure, for that wealth ofsilver which he seemed to feel somewhereabout, to scent somewhere near.

But where? Where? Heavens! Where? Oh! whyhad he allowed that doctor to go! Imbecile thathe was. But no! It was the only right course, hereflected distractedly, while the messenger wai-ted downstairs chatting agreeably to the offi-cers. It was in that scoundrelly doctor's trueinterest to return with positive information. Butwhat if anything stopped him? A generalprohibition to leave the town, for instance! The-re would be patrols!

The colonel, seizing his head in his hands, tur-ned in his tracks as if struck with vertigo. Aflash of craven inspiration suggested to him anexpedient not unknown to European statesmenwhen they wish to delay a difficult negotiation.Booted and spurred, he scrambled into thehammock with undignified haste. His handso-me face had turned yellow with the strain ofweighty cares. The ridge of his shapely nosehad grown sharp; the audacious nostrils appea-red mean and pinched. The velvety, caressing

glance of his fine eyes seemed dead, and evendecomposed; for these almond-shaped, lan-guishing orbs had become inappropriately blo-odshot with much sinister sleeplessness. Headdressed the surprised envoy of Senor Fuen-tes in a deadened, exhausted voice. It camepathetically feeble from under a pile of pon-chos, which buried his elegant person right upto the black moustaches, uncurled, pendant, insign of bodily prostration and mental incapaci-ty. Fever, fever—a heavy fever had overtakenthe "muy valliente" colonel. A wavering wild-ness of expression, caused by the passingspasms of a slight colic which had declareditself suddenly, and the rattling teeth of repres-sed panic, had a genuineness which impressedthe envoy. It was a cold fit. The colonel explai-ned that he was unable to think, to listen, tospeak. With an appearance of superhuman ef-fort the colonel gasped out that he was not in astate to return a suitable reply or to execute anyof his Excellency's orders. But to-morrow! To-

morrow! Ah! to-morrow! Let his ExcellencyDon Pedro be without uneasiness. The braveEsmeralda Regiment held the harbour, held—And closing his eyes, he rolled his aching headlike a half-delirious invalid under the inquisiti-ve stare of the envoy, who was obliged to benddown over the hammock in order to catch thepainful and broken accents. Meantime, ColonelSotillo trusted that his Excellency's humanitywould permit the doctor, the English doctor, tocome out of town with his case of foreign re-medies to attend upon him. He beggedanxiously his worship the caballero now pre-sent for the grace of looking in as he passed theCasa Gould, and informing the English doctor,who was probably there, that his services wereimmediately required by Colonel Sotillo, lyingill of fever in the Custom House. Immediately.Most urgently required. Awaited with extremeimpatience. A thousand thanks. He closed hiseyes wearily and would not open them again,lying perfectly still, deaf, dumb, insensible,

overcome, vanquished, crushed, annihilated bythe fell disease.

But as soon as the other had shut after him thedoor of the landing, the colonel leaped out witha fling of both feet in an avalanche of woollencoverings. His spurs having become entangledin a perfect welter of ponchos he nearly pitchedon his head, and did not recover his balance tillthe middle of the room. Concealed behind thehalf-closed jalousies he listened to what wenton below.

The envoy had already mounted, and turningto the morose officers occupying the great do-orway, took off his hat formally.

"Caballeros," he said, in a very loud tone,"allow me to recommend you to take great careof your colonel. It has done me much honourand gratification to have seen you all, a finebody of men exercising the soldierly virtue ofpatience in this exposed situation, where there

is much sun, and no water to speak of, while atown full of wine and feminine charms is readyto embrace you for the brave men you are. Ca-balleros, I have the honour to salute you. Therewill be much dancing to-night in Sulaco. Good-bye!"

But he reined in his horse and inclined his headsideways on seeing the old major step out, verytall and meagre, in a straight narrow coat co-ming down to his ankles as it were the casing ofthe regimental colours rolled round their staff.

The intelligent old warrior, after enunciating ina dogmatic tone the general proposition thatthe "world was full of traitors," went on pro-nouncing deliberately a panegyric upon Sotillo.He ascribed to him with leisurely emphasisevery virtue under heaven, summing it all upin an absurd colloquialism current amongst thelower class of Occidentals (especially aboutEsmeralda). "And," he concluded, with a sud-den rise in the voice, "a man of many teeth—

'hombre de muchos dientes.' Si, senor. As tous," he pursued, portentous and impressive,"your worship is beholding the finest body ofofficers in the Republic, men unequalled forvalour and sagacity, 'y hombres de muchosdientes.'"

"What? All of them?" inquired the disreputableenvoy of Senor Fuentes, with a faint, derisivesmile.

"Todos. Si, senor," the major affirmed, gravely,with conviction. "Men of many teeth."

The other wheeled his horse to face the portalresembling the high gate of a dismal barn. Heraised himself in his stirrups, extended onearm. He was a facetious scoundrel, entertainingfor these stupid Occidentals a feeling of greatscorn natural in a native from the central pro-vinces. The folly of Esmeraldians especiallyaroused his amused contempt. He began anoration upon Pedro Montero, keeping a solemn

countenance. He flourished his hand as if in-troducing him to their notice. And when hesaw every face set, all the eyes fixed upon hislips, he began to shout a sort of catalogue ofperfections: "Generous, valorous, affable, pro-found"—(he snatched off his hat enthusiastica-lly)—"a statesman, an invincible chief of parti-sans—" He dropped his voice startlingly to adeep, hollow note—"and a dentist."

He was off instantly at a smart walk; the rigidstraddle of his legs, the turned-out feet, the stiffback, the rakish slant of the sombrero above thesquare, motionless set of the shoulders expres-sing an infinite, awe-inspiring impudence.

Upstairs, behind the jalousies, Sotillo did notmove for a long time. The audacity of the fe-llow appalled him. What were his officers sa-ying below? They were saying nothing. Com-plete silence. He quaked. It was not thus that hehad imagined himself at that stage of the expe-dition. He had seen himself triumphant, un-

questioned, appeased, the idol of the soldiers,weighing in secret complacency the agreeablealternatives of power and wealth open to hischoice. Alas! How different! Distracted, res-tless, supine, burning with fury, or frozen withterror, he felt a dread as fathomless as the seacreep upon him from every side. That rogue ofa doctor had to come out with his information.That was clear. It would be of no use to him—alone. He could do nothing with it. Maledic-tion! The doctor would never come out. He wasprobably under arrest already, shut up togetherwith Don Carlos. He laughed aloud insanely.Ha! ha! ha! ha! It was Pedrito Montero whowould get the information. Ha! ha! ha! ha!—and the silver. Ha!

All at once, in the midst of the laugh, he beca-me motionless and silent as if turned into stone.He too, had a prisoner. A prisoner who must,must know the real truth. He would have to bemade to speak. And Sotillo, who all that time

had not quite forgotten Hirsch, felt an inexpli-cable reluctance at the notion of proceeding toextremities.

He felt a reluctance—part of that unfathomabledread that crept on all sides upon him. He re-membered reluctantly, too, the dilated eyes ofthe hide merchant, his contortions, his loudsobs and protestations. It was not compassionor even mere nervous sensibility. The fact wasthat though Sotillo did never for a moment be-lieve his story—he could not believe it; nobodycould believe such nonsense—yet those accentsof despairing truth impressed him disagreea-bly. They made him feel sick. And he suspectedalso that the man might have gone mad withfear. A lunatic is a hopeless subject. Bah! A pre-tence. Nothing but a pretence. He would knowhow to deal with that.

He was working himself up to the right pitch offerocity. His fine eyes squinted slightly; heclapped his hands; a bare-footed orderly ap-

peared noiselessly, a corporal, with his bayonethanging on his thigh and a stick in his hand.

The colonel gave his orders, and presently themiserable Hirsch, pushed in by several soldiers,found him frowning awfully in a broad arm-chair, hat on head, knees wide apart, armsakimbo, masterful, imposing, irresistible,haughty, sublime, terrible.

Hirsch, with his arms tied behind his back, hadbeen bundled violently into one of the smallerrooms. For many hours he remained apparen-tly forgotten, stretched lifelessly on the floor.From that solitude, full of despair and terror, hewas torn out brutally, with kicks and blows,passive, sunk in hebetude. He listened to thre-ats and admonitions, and afterwards made hisusual answers to questions, with his chin sunkon his breast, his hands tied behind his back,swaying a little in front of Sotillo, and neverlooking up. When he was forced to hold up hishead, by means of a bayonet-point prodding

him under the chin, his eyes had a vacant, tran-ce-like stare, and drops of perspiration as big aspeas were seen hailing down the dirt, bruises,and scratches of his white face. Then they stop-ped suddenly.

Sotillo looked at him in silence. "Will you de-part from your obstinacy, you rogue?" he as-ked. Already a rope, whose one end was faste-ned to Senor Hirsch's wrists, had been thrownover a beam, and three soldiers held the otherend, waiting. He made no answer. His heavylower lip hung stupidly. Sotillo made a sign.Hirsch was jerked up off his feet, and a yell ofdespair and agony burst out in the room, filledthe passage of the great buildings, rent the airoutside, caused every soldier of the camp alongthe shore to look up at the windows, startedsome of the officers in the hall babbling excited-ly, with shining eyes; others, setting their lips,looked gloomily at the floor.

Sotillo, followed by the soldiers, had left theroom. The sentry on the landing presentedarms. Hirsch went on screaming all alonebehind the half-closed jalousies while the suns-hine, reflected from the water of the harbour,made an ever-running ripple of light high upon the wall. He screamed with uplifted eye-brows and a wide-open mouth—incrediblywide, black, enormous, full of teeth—comical.

In the still burning air of the windless afternoonhe made the waves of his agony travel as far asthe O. S. N. Company's offices. Captain Mit-chell on the balcony, trying to make out whatwent on generally, had heard him faintly butdistinctly, and the feeble and appalling soundlingered in his ears after he had retreated indo-ors with blanched cheeks. He had been drivenoff the balcony several times during that after-noon.

Sotillo, irritable, moody, walked restlesslyabout, held consultations with his officers, gave

contradictory orders in this shrill clamour per-vading the whole empty edifice. Sometimesthere would be long and awful silences. Severaltimes he had entered the torture-chamber whe-re his sword, horsewhip, revolver, and field-glass were lying on the table, to ask with forcedcalmness, "Will you speak the truth now? No? Ican wait." But he could not afford to wait muchlonger. That was just it. Every time he went inand came out with a slam of the door, the sen-try on the landing presented arms, and got inreturn a black, venomous, unsteady glance,which, in reality, saw nothing at all, being me-rely the reflection of the soul within—a soul ofgloomy hatred, irresolution, avarice, and fury.

The sun had set when he went in once more. Asoldier carried in two lighted candles and slunkout, shutting the door without noise.

"Speak, thou Jewish child of the devil! The sil-ver! The silver, I say! Where is it? Where haveyou foreign rogues hidden it? Confess or—"

A slight quiver passed up the taut rope fromthe racked limbs, but the body of Senor Hirsch,enterprising business man from Esmeralda,hung under the heavy beam perpendicular andsilent, facing the colonel awfully. The inflow ofthe night air, cooled by the snows of the Sierra,spread gradually a delicious freshness throughthe close heat of the room.

"Speak—thief—scoundrel—picaro—or—"

Sotillo had seized the riding-whip, and stoodwith his arm lifted up. For a word, for one littleword, he felt he would have knelt, cringed,grovelled on the floor before the drowsy, cons-cious stare of those fixed eyeballs starting outof the grimy, dishevelled head that droopedvery still with its mouth closed askew. The co-lonel ground his teeth with rage and struck.The rope vibrated leisurely to the blow, like thelong string of a pendulum starting from a rest.But no swinging motion was imparted to thebody of Senor Hirsch, the well-known hide

merchant on the coast. With a convulsive effortof the twisted arms it leaped up a few inches,curling upon itself like a fish on the end of aline. Senor Hirsch's head was flung back on hisstraining throat; his chin trembled. For a mo-ment the rattle of his chattering teeth pervadedthe vast, shadowy room, where the candlesmade a patch of light round the two flamesburning side by side. And as Sotillo, staying hisraised hand, waited for him to speak, with thesudden flash of a grin and a straining forwardof the wrenched shoulders, he spat violentlyinto his face.

The uplifted whip fell, and the colonel sprangback with a low cry of dismay, as if aspersed bya jet of deadly venom. Quick as thought hesnatched up his revolver, and fired twice. Thereport and the concussion of the shots seemedto throw him at once from ungovernable rageinto idiotic stupor. He stood with drooping jawand stony eyes. What had he done, Sangre de

Dios! What had he done? He was basely appa-lled at his impulsive act, sealing for ever theselips from which so much was to be extorted.What could he say? How could he explain?Ideas of headlong flight somewhere, anywhere,passed through his mind; even the craven andabsurd notion of hiding under the table occu-rred to his cowardice. It was too late; his offi-cers had rushed in tumultuously, in a greatclatter of scabbards, clamouring, with asto-nishment and wonder. But since they did notimmediately proceed to plunge their swordsinto his breast, the brazen side of his characterasserted itself. Passing the sleeve of his uniformover his face he pulled himself together, Histruculent glance turned slowly here and there,checked the noise where it fell; and the stiffbody of the late Senor Hirsch, merchant, afterswaying imperceptibly, made a half turn, andcame to a rest in the midst of awed murmursand uneasy shuffling.

A voice remarked loudly, "Behold a man whowill never speak again." And another, from theback row of faces, timid and pressing, criedout—

"Why did you kill him, mi colonel?"

"Because he has confessed everything," answe-red Sotillo, with the hardihood of desperation.He felt himself cornered. He brazened it out onthe strength of his reputation with very fairsuccess. His hearers thought him very capableof such an act. They were disposed to believehis flattering tale. There is no credulity so eagerand blind as the credulity of covetousness,which, in its universal extent, measures themoral misery and the intellectual destitution ofmankind. Ah! he had confessed everything, thisfractious Jew, this bribon. Good! Then he wasno longer wanted. A sudden dense guffaw washeard from the senior captain—a big-headedman, with little round eyes and monstrously fatcheeks which never moved. The old major, tall

and fantastically ragged like a scarecrow, wal-ked round the body of the late Senor Hirsch,muttering to himself with ineffable complacen-cy that like this there was no need to guardagainst any future treacheries of that scoundrel.The others stared, shifting from foot to foot,and whispering short remarks to each other.

Sotillo buckled on his sword and gave curt,peremptory orders to hasten the retirementdecided upon in the afternoon. Sinister, im-pressive, his sombrero pulled right down uponhis eyebrows, he marched first through thedoor in such disorder of mind that he forgotutterly to provide for Dr. Monygham's possiblereturn. As the officers trooped out after him,one or two looked back hastily at the late SenorHirsch, merchant from Esmeralda, left swin-ging rigidly at rest, alone with the two burningcandles. In the emptiness of the room the burlyshadow of head and shoulders on the wall hadan air of life.

Below, the troops fell in silently and moved offby companies without drum or trumpet. Theold scarecrow major commanded the rear-guard; but the party he left behind with ordersto fire the Custom House (and "burn the carcassof the treacherous Jew where it hung") failedsomehow in their haste to set the staircase pro-perly alight. The body of the late Senor Hirschdwelt alone for a time in the dismal solitude ofthe unfinished building, resounding weirdlywith sudden slams and clicks of doors and lat-ches, with rustling scurries of torn papers, andthe tremulous sighs that at each gust of windpassed under the high roof. The light of the twocandles burning before the perpendicular andbreathless immobility of the late Senor Hirschthrew a gleam afar over land and water, like asignal in the night. He remained to startle Nos-tromo by his presence, and to puzzle Dr. Mo-nygham by the mystery of his atrocious end.

"But why shot?" the doctor again asked himself,audibly. This time he was answered by a drylaugh from Nostromo.

"You seem much concerned at a very naturalthing, senor doctor. I wonder why? It is verylikely that before long we shall all get shot oneafter another, if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito,or Fuentes, or Gamacho. And we may even getthe estrapade, too, or worse—quien sabe?—with your pretty tale of the silver you put intoSotillo's head."

"It was in his head already," the doctor protes-ted. "I only—"

"Yes. And you only nailed it there so that thedevil himself—"

"That is precisely what I meant to do," caughtup the doctor.

"That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as Isay. You are a dangerous man."

Their voices, which without rising had beengrowing quarrelsome, ceased suddenly. Thelate Senor Hirsch, erect and shadowy againstthe stars, seemed to be waiting attentive, inimpartial silence.

But Dr. Monygham had no mind to quarrelwith Nostromo. At this supremely critical pointof Sulaco's fortunes it was borne upon him atlast that this man was really indispensable, mo-re indispensable than ever the infatuation ofCaptain Mitchell, his proud discoverer, couldconceive; far beyond what Decoud's best dryraillery about "my illustrious friend, the uniqueCapataz de Cargadores," had ever intended.The fellow was unique. He was not "one in athousand." He was absolutely the only one. Thedoctor surrendered. There was something inthe genius of that Genoese seaman which do-minated the destinies of great enterprises and

of many people, the fortunes of Charles Gould,the fate of an admirable woman. At this lastthought the doctor had to clear his throat befo-re he could speak.

In a completely changed tone he pointed out tothe Capataz that, to begin with, he personallyran no great risk. As far as everybody knew hewas dead. It was an enormous advantage. Hehad only to keep out of sight in the Casa Viola,where the old Garibaldino was known to bealone—with his dead wife. The servants had allrun away. No one would think of searching forhim there, or anywhere else on earth, for thatmatter.

"That would be very true," Nostromo spoke up,bitterly, "if I had not met you."

For a time the doctor kept silent. "Do you meanto say that you think I may give you away?" heasked in an unsteady voice. "Why? Why shouldI do that?"

"What do I know? Why not? To gain a day per-haps. It would take Sotillo a day to give me theestrapade, and try some other things perhaps,before he puts a bullet through my heart—as hedid to that poor wretch here. Why not?"

The doctor swallowed with difficulty. His thro-at had gone dry in a moment. It was not fromindignation. The doctor, pathetically enough,believed that he had forfeited the right to beindignant with any one—for anything. It wassimple dread. Had the fellow heard his story bysome chance? If so, there was an end of his use-fulness in that direction. The indispensableman escaped his influence, because of that in-delible blot which made him fit for dirty work.A feeling as of sickness came upon the doctor.He would have given anything to know, but hedared not clear up the point. The fanaticism ofhis devotion, fed on the sense of his abasement,hardened his heart in sadness and scorn.

"Why not, indeed?" he reechoed, sardonically."Then the safe thing for you is to kill me on thespot. I would defend myself. But you may justas well know I am going about unarmed."

"Por Dios!" said the Capataz, passionately. "Youfine people are all alike. All dangerous. All be-trayers of the poor who are your dogs."

"You do not understand," began the doctor,slowly.

"I understand you all!" cried the other with aviolent movement, as shadowy to the doctor'seyes as the persistent immobility of the lateSenor Hirsch. "A poor man amongst you hasgot to look after himself. I say that you do notcare for those that serve you. Look at me! Afterall these years, suddenly, here I find myself likeone of these curs that bark outside the walls—without a kennel or a dry bone for my teeth.Caramba!" But he relented with a contemptuousfairness. "Of course," he went on, quietly, "I do

not suppose that you would hasten to give meup to Sotillo, for example. It is not that. It is thatI am nothing! Suddenly—" He swung his armdownwards. "Nothing to any one," he repeated.

The doctor breathed freely. "Listen, Capataz,"he said, stretching out his arm almost affectio-nately towards Nostromo's shoulder. "I amgoing to tell you a very simple thing. You aresafe because you are needed. I would not giveyou away for any conceivable reason, because Iwant you."

In the dark Nostromo bit his lip. He had heardenough of that. He knew what that meant. Nomore of that for him. But he had to look afterhimself now, he thought. And he thought, too,that it would not be prudent to part in angerfrom his companion. The doctor, admitted to bea great healer, had, amongst the populace ofSulaco, the reputation of being an evil sort ofman. It was based solidly on his personal ap-pearance, which was strange, and on his rough

ironic manner—proofs visible, sensible, andincontrovertible of the doctor's malevolent dis-position. And Nostromo was of the people. Sohe only grunted incredulously.

"You, to speak plainly, are the only man," thedoctor pursued. "It is in your power to save thistown and . . . everybody from the destructiverapacity of men who—"

"No, senor," said Nostromo, sullenly. "It is notin my power to get the treasure back for you togive up to Sotillo, or Pedrito, or Gamacho.What do I know?"

"Nobody expects the impossible," was the ans-wer.

"You have said it yourself—nobody," mutteredNostromo, in a gloomy, threatening tone.

But Dr. Monygham, full of hope, disregardedthe enigmatic words and the threatening tone.

To their eyes, accustomed to obscurity, the lateSenor Hirsch, growing more distinct, seemed tohave come nearer. And the doctor lowered hisvoice in exposing his scheme as though afraidof being overheard.

He was taking the indispensable man into hisfullest confidence. Its implied flattery and sug-gestion of great risks came with a familiarsound to the Capataz. His mind, floating inirresolution and discontent, recognized it withbitterness. He understood well that the doctorwas anxious to save the San Tome mine fromannihilation. He would be nothing without it. Itwas his interest. Just as it had been the interestof Senor Decoud, of the Blancos, and of the Eu-ropeans to get his Cargadores on their side. Histhought became arrested upon Decoud. Whatwould happen to him?

Nostromo's prolonged silence made the doctoruneasy. He pointed out, quite unnecessarily,that though for the present he was safe, he

could not live concealed for ever. The choicewas between accepting the mission to Barrios,with all its dangers and difficulties, and leavingSulaco by stealth, ingloriously, in poverty.

"None of your friends could reward you andprotect you just now, Capataz. Not even DonCarlos himself."

"I would have none of your protection and no-ne of your rewards. I only wish I could trustyour courage and your sense. When I return intriumph, as you say, with Barrios, I may findyou all destroyed. You have the knife at yourthroat now."

It was the doctor's turn to remain silent in thecontemplation of horrible contingencies.

"Well, we would trust your courage and yoursense. And you, too, have a knife at your thro-at."

"Ah! And whom am I to thank for that? Whatare your politics and your mines to me—yoursilver and your constitutions—your Don Carlosthis, and Don Jose that—"

"I don't know," burst out the exasperated doc-tor. "There are innocent people in danger who-se little finger is worth more than you or I andall the Ribierists together. I don't know. Youshould have asked yourself before you allowedDecoud to lead you into all this. It was yourplace to think like a man; but if you did notthink then, try to act like a man now. Did youimagine Decoud cared very much for whatwould happen to you?"

"No more than you care for what will happento me," muttered the other.

"No; I care for what will happen to you as littleas I care for what will happen to myself."

"And all this because you are such a devotedRibierist?" Nostromo said in an increduloustone.

"All this because I am such a devoted Ribierist,"repeated Dr. Monygham, grimly.

Again Nostromo, gazing abstractedly at thebody of the late Senor Hirsch, remained silent,thinking that the doctor was a dangerous per-son in more than one sense. It was impossibleto trust him.

"Do you speak in the name of Don Carlos?" heasked at last.

"Yes. I do," the doctor said, loudly, withouthesitation. "He must come forward now. Hemust," he added in a mutter, which Nostromodid not catch.

"What did you say, senor?"

The doctor started. "I say that you must be trueto yourself, Capataz. It would be worse thanfolly to fail now."

"True to myself," repeated Nostromo. "How doyou know that I would not be true to myself if Itold you to go to the devil with your proposi-tions?"

"I do not know. Maybe you would," the doctorsaid, with a roughness of tone intended to hidethe sinking of his heart and the faltering of hisvoice. "All I know is, that you had better getaway from here. Some of Sotillo's men mayturn up here looking for me."

He slipped off the table, listening intently. TheCapataz, too, stood up.

"Suppose I went to Cayta, what would you domeantime?" he asked.

"I would go to Sotillo directly you had left—inthe way I am thinking of."

"A very good way—if only that engineer-in-chief consents. Remind him, senor, that I loo-ked after the old rich Englishman who pays forthe railway, and that I saved the lives of someof his people that time when a gang of thievescame from the south to wreck one of his pay-trains. It was I who discovered it all at the riskof my life, by pretending to enter into theirplans. Just as you are doing with Sotillo."

"Yes. Yes, of course. But I can offer him betterarguments," the doctor said, hastily. "Leave it tome."

"Ah, yes! True. I am nothing."

"Not at all. You are everything."

They moved a few paces towards the door.Behind them the late Senor Hirsch preservedthe immobility of a disregarded man.

"That will be all right. I know what to say to theengineer," pursued the doctor, in a low tone."My difficulty will be with Sotillo."

And Dr. Monygham stopped short in the do-orway as if intimidated by the difficulty. Hehad made the sacrifice of his life. He consideredthis a fitting opportunity. But he did not wantto throw his life away too soon. In his quality ofbetrayer of Don Carlos' confidence, he wouldhave ultimately to indicate the hiding-place ofthe treasure. That would be the end of his de-ception, and the end of himself as well, at thehands of the infuriated colonel. He wanted todelay him to the very last moment; and he hadbeen racking his brains to invent some place ofconcealment at once plausible and difficult ofaccess.

He imparted his trouble to Nostromo, and con-cluded—

"Do you know what, Capataz? I think thatwhen the time comes and some informationmust be given, I shall indicate the Great Isabel.That is the best place I can think of. What is thematter?"

A low exclamation had escaped Nostromo. Thedoctor waited, surprised, and after a moment ofprofound silence, heard a thick voice stammerout, "Utter folly," and stop with a gasp.

"Why folly?"

"Ah! You do not see it," began Nostromo, scat-hingly, gathering scorn as he went on. "Threemen in half an hour would see that no groundhad been disturbed anywhere on that island.Do you think that such a treasure can be buriedwithout leaving traces of the work—eh! senordoctor? Why! you would not gain half a day

more before having your throat cut by Sotillo.The Isabel! What stupidity! What miserableinvention! Ah! you are all alike, you fine men ofintelligence. All you are fit for is to betray menof the people into undertaking deadly risks forobjects that you are not even sure about. If itcomes off you get the benefit. If not, then it do-es not matter. He is only a dog. Ah! Madre deDios, I would—" He shook his fists above hishead.

The doctor was overwhelmed at first by thisfierce, hissing vehemence.

"Well! It seems to me on your own showingthat the men of the people are no mean fools,too," he said, sullenly. "No, but come. You areso clever. Have you a better place?"

Nostromo had calmed down as quickly as hehad flared up.

"I am clever enough for that," he said, quietly,almost with indifference. "You want to tell himof a hiding-place big enough to take days inransacking—a place where a treasure of silveringots can be buried without leaving a sign onthe surface."

"And close at hand," the doctor put in.

"Just so, senor. Tell him it is sunk."

"This has the merit of being the truth," the doc-tor said, contemptuously. "He will not believeit."

"You tell him that it is sunk where he may hopeto lay his hands on it, and he will believe youquick enough. Tell him it has been sunk in theharbour in order to be recovered afterwards bydivers. Tell him you found out that I had ordersfrom Don Carlos Gould to lower the cases quie-tly overboard somewhere in a line between theend of the jetty and the entrance. The depth is

not too great there. He has no divers, but he hasa ship, boats, ropes, chains, sailors—of a sort.Let him fish for the silver. Let him set his foolsto drag backwards and forwards and cross-ways while he sits and watches till his eyesdrop out of his head."

"Really, this is an admirable idea," muttered thedoctor.

"Si. You tell him that, and see whether he willnot believe you! He will spend days in rage andtorment—and still he will believe. He will haveno thought for anything else. He will not giveup till he is driven off—why, he may even for-get to kill you. He will neither eat nor sleep.He—"

"The very thing! The very thing!" the doctorrepeated in an excited whisper. "Capataz, I be-gin to believe that you are a great genius inyour way."

Nostromo had paused; then began again in achanged tone, sombre, speaking to himself asthough he had forgotten the doctor's existence.

"There is something in a treasure that fastensupon a man's mind. He will pray and blasp-heme and still persevere, and will curse the dayhe ever heard of it, and will let his last hourcome upon him unawares, still believing thathe missed it only by a foot. He will see it everytime he closes his eyes. He will never forget ittill he is dead—and even then——Doctor, didyou ever hear of the miserable gringos onAzuera, that cannot die? Ha! ha! Sailors likemyself. There is no getting away from a treasu-re that once fastens upon your mind."

"You are a devil of a man, Capataz. It is themost plausible thing."

Nostromo pressed his arm.

"It will be worse for him than thirst at sea orhunger in a town full of people. Do you knowwhat that is? He shall suffer greater tormentsthan he inflicted upon that terrified wretch whohad no invention. None! none! Not like me. Icould have told Sotillo a deadly tale for verylittle pain."

He laughed wildly and turned in the doorwaytowards the body of the late Senor Hirsch, anopaque long blotch in the semi-transparentobscurity of the room between the two tall pa-rallelograms of the windows full of stars.

"You man of fear!" he cried. "You shall be aven-ged by me—Nostromo. Out of my way, doctor!Stand aside—or, by the suffering soul of a wo-man dead without confession, I will strangleyou with my two hands."

He bounded downwards into the black, smokyhall. With a grunt of astonishment, Dr. Monyg-ham threw himself recklessly into the pursuit.

At the bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall,pitching forward on his face with a force thatwould have stunned a spirit less intent upon atask of love and devotion. He was up in a mo-ment, jarred, shaken, with a queer impressionof the terrestrial globe having been flung at hishead in the dark. But it wanted more than thatto stop Dr. Monygham's body, possessed by theexaltation of self-sacrifice; a reasonable exalta-tion, determined not to lose whatever advanta-ge chance put into its way. He ran with head-long, tottering swiftness, his arms going like awindmill in his effort to keep his balance on hiscrippled feet. He lost his hat; the tails of hisopen gaberdine flew behind him. He had nomind to lose sight of the indispensable man.But it was a long time, and a long way from theCustom House, before he managed to seize hisarm from behind, roughly, out of breath.

"Stop! Are you mad?"

Already Nostromo was walking slowly, hishead dropping, as if checked in his pace by theweariness of irresolution.

"What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want mefor something. Always. Siempre Nostromo."

"What do you mean by talking of stranglingme?" panted the doctor.

"What do I mean? I mean that the king of thedevils himself has sent you out of this town ofcowards and talkers to meet me to-night of allthe nights of my life."

Under the starry sky the Albergo d'ltalia Unaemerged, black and low, breaking the dark le-vel of the plain. Nostromo stopped altogether.

"The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?"he added, through his clenched teeth.

"My good man, you drivel. The devil has not-hing to do with this. Neither has the town,

which you may call by what name you please.But Don Carlos Gould is neither a coward noran empty talker. You will admit that?" He wai-ted. "Well?"

"Could I see Don Carlos?"

"Great heavens! No! Why? What for?" exclai-med the doctor in agitation. "I tell you it ismadness. I will not let you go into the town foranything."

"I must."

"You must not!" hissed the doctor, fiercely, al-most beside himself with the fear of the mandoing away with his usefulness for an imbecilewhim of some sort. "I tell you you shall not. Iwould rather——"

He stopped at loss for words, feeling faggedout, powerless, holding on to Nostromo's slee-ve, absolutely for support after his run.

"I am betrayed!" muttered the Capataz to him-self; and the doctor, who overheard the lastword, made an effort to speak calmly.

"That is exactly what would happen to you.You would be betrayed."

He thought with a sickening dread that theman was so well known that he could not esca-pe recognition. The house of the Senor Admi-nistrador was beset by spies, no doubt. Andeven the very servants of the casa were not tobe trusted. "Reflect, Capataz," he said, impres-sively. . . . "What are you laughing at?"

"I am laughing to think that if somebody thatdid not approve of my presence in town, forinstance—you understand, senor doctor—ifsomebody were to give me up to Pedrito, itwould not be beyond my power to makefriends even with him. It is true. What do youthink of that?"

"You are a man of infinite resource, Capataz,"said Dr. Monygham, dismally. "I recognizethat. But the town is full of talk about you; andthose few Cargadores that are not in hidingwith the railway people have been shouting'Viva Montero' on the Plaza all day."

"My poor Cargadores!" muttered Nostromo."Betrayed! Betrayed!"

"I understand that on the wharf you were pret-ty free in laying about you with a stick amongstyour poor Cargadores," the doctor said in agrim tone, which showed that he was recove-ring from his exertions. "Make no mistake. Pe-drito is furious at Senor Ribiera's rescue, and athaving lost the pleasure of shooting Decoud.Already there are rumours in the town of thetreasure having been spirited away. To havemissed that does not please Pedrito either; butlet me tell you that if you had all that silver inyour hand for ransom it would not save you."

Turning swiftly, and catching the doctor by theshoulders, Nostromo thrust his face close to his.

"Maladetta! You follow me speaking of thetreasure. You have sworn my ruin. You werethe last man who looked upon me before I wentout with it. And Sidoni the engine-driver saysyou have an evil eye."

"He ought to know. I saved his broken leg forhim last year," the doctor said, stoically. He felton his shoulders the weight of these hands fa-med amongst the populace for snapping thickropes and bending horseshoes. "And to you Ioffer the best means of saving yourself—let mego—and of retrieving your great reputation.You boasted of making the Capataz de Carga-dores famous from one end of America to theother about this wretched silver. But I bringyou a better opportunity—let me go, hombre!"

Nostromo released him abruptly, and the doc-tor feared that the indispensable man would

run off again. But he did not. He walked onslowly. The doctor hobbled by his side till, wit-hin a stone's throw from the Casa Viola, Nos-tromo stopped again.

Silent in inhospitable darkness, the Casa Violaseemed to have changed its nature; his homeappeared to repel him with an air of hopelessand inimical mystery. The doctor said—

"You will be safe there. Go in, Capataz."

"How can I go in?" Nostromo seemed to askhimself in a low, inward tone. "She cannot un-say what she said, and I cannot undo what Ihave done."

"I tell you it is all right. Viola is all alone in the-re. I looked in as I came out of the town. Youwill be perfectly safe in that house till you leaveit to make your name famous on the Campo. Iam going now to arrange for your departure

with the engineer-in-chief, and I shall bring younews here long before daybreak."

Dr. Monygham, disregarding, or perhaps fea-ring to penetrate the meaning of Nostromo'ssilence, clapped him lightly on the shoulder,and starting off with his smart, lame walk, va-nished utterly at the third or fourth hop in thedirection of the railway track. Arrested betwe-en the two wooden posts for people to fastentheir horses to, Nostromo did not move, as ifhe, too, had been planted solidly in the ground.At the end of half an hour he lifted his head tothe deep baying of the dogs at the railwayyards, which had burst out suddenly, tumul-tuous and deadened as if coming from underthe plain. That lame doctor with the evil eyehad got there pretty fast.

Step by step Nostromo approached the Albergod'Italia Una, which he had never known solightless, so silent, before. The door, all black inthe pale wall, stood open as he had left it twen-

ty-four hours before, when he had nothing tohide from the world. He remained before it,irresolute, like a fugitive, like a man betrayed.Poverty, misery, starvation! Where had heheard these words? The anger of a dying wo-man had prophesied that fate for his folly. Itlooked as if it would come true very quickly.And the leperos would laugh—she had said.Yes, they would laugh if they knew that theCapataz de Cargadores was at the mercy of themad doctor whom they could remember, only afew years ago, buying cooked food from a stallon the Plaza for a copper coin—like one ofthemselves.

At that moment the notion of seeking CaptainMitchell passed through his mind. He glancedin the direction of the jetty and saw a small gle-am of light in the O.S.N. Company's building.The thought of lighted windows was not attrac-tive. Two lighted windows had decoyed himinto the empty Custom House, only to fall into

the clutches of that doctor. No! He would notgo near lighted windows again on that night.Captain Mitchell was there. And what could hebe told? That doctor would worm it all out ofhim as if he were a child.

On the threshold he called out "Giorgio!" in anundertone. Nobody answered. He stepped in."Ola! viejo! Are you there? . . ." In the impene-trable darkness his head swam with the illusionthat the obscurity of the kitchen was as vast asthe Placid Gulf, and that the floor dipped for-ward like a sinking lighter. "Ola! viejo!" he re-peated, falteringly, swaying where he stood.His hand, extended to steady himself, fell uponthe table. Moving a step forward, he shifted it,and felt a box of matches under his fingers. Hefancied he had heard a quiet sigh. He listenedfor a moment, holding his breath; then, withtrembling hands, tried to strike a light.

The tiny piece of wood flamed up quite blin-dingly at the end of his fingers, raised above his

blinking eyes. A concentrated glare fell uponthe leonine white head of old Giorgio againstthe black fire-place—showed him leaning for-ward in a chair in staring immobility, surroun-ded, overhung, by great masses of shadow, hislegs crossed, his cheek in his hand, an emptypipe in the corner of his mouth. It seemedhours before he attempted to turn his face; atthe very moment the match went out, and hedisappeared, overwhelmed by the shadows, asif the walls and roof of the desolate house hadcollapsed upon his white head in ghostly silen-ce.

Nostromo heard him stir and utter dispassiona-tely the words—

"It may have been a vision."

"No," he said, softly. "It is no vision, old man."

A strong chest voice asked in the dark—

"Is that you I hear, Giovann' Battista?"

"Si, viejo. Steady. Not so loud."

After his release by Sotillo, Giorgio Viola, at-tended to the very door by the good-naturedengineer-in-chief, had reentered his house,which he had been made to leave almost at thevery moment of his wife's death. All was still.The lamp above was burning. He nearly calledout to her by name; and the thought that no callfrom him would ever again evoke the answerof her voice, made him drop heavily into thechair with a loud groan, wrung out by the painas of a keen blade piercing his breast.

The rest of the night he made no sound. Thedarkness turned to grey, and on the colourless,clear, glassy dawn the jagged sierra stood outflat and opaque, as if cut out of paper.

The enthusiastic and severe soul of GiorgioViola, sailor, champion of oppressed humanity,

enemy of kings, and, by the grace of Mrs.Gould, hotel-keeper of the Sulaco harbour, haddescended into the open abyss of desolationamongst the shattered vestiges of his past. Heremembered his wooing between two cam-paigns, a single short week in the season ofgathering olives. Nothing approached the gra-ve passion of that time but the deep, passionatesense of his bereavement. He discovered all theextent of his dependence upon the silencedvoice of that woman. It was her voice that hemissed. Abstracted, busy, lost in inward con-templation, he seldom looked at his wife inthose later years. The thought of his girls was amatter of concern, not of consolation. It was hervoice that he would miss. And he rememberedthe other child—the little boy who died at sea.Ah! a man would have been something to leanupon. And, alas! even Gian' Battista—he ofwhom, and of Linda, his wife had spoken tohim so anxiously before she dropped off intoher last sleep on earth, he on whom she had

called aloud to save the children, just before shedied—even he was dead!

And the old man, bent forward, his head in hishand, sat through the day in immobility andsolitude. He never heard the brazen roar of thebells in town. When it ceased the earthenwarefilter in the corner of the kitchen kept on itsswift musical drip, drip into the great porousjar below.

Towards sunset he got up, and with slow mo-vements disappeared up the narrow staircase.His bulk filled it; and the rubbing of his shoul-ders made a small noise as of a mouse runningbehind the plaster of a wall. While he remainedup there the house was as dumb as a grave.Then, with the same faint rubbing noise, hedescended. He had to catch at the chairs andtables to regain his seat. He seized his pipe offthe high mantel of the fire-place—but made noattempt to reach the tobacco—thrust it emptyinto the corner of his mouth, and sat down

again in the same staring pose. The sun of Pe-drito's entry into Sulaco, the last sun of SenorHirsch's life, the first of Decoud's solitude onthe Great Isabel, passed over the Albergo d'lta-lia Una on its way to the west. The tinklingdrip, drip of the filter had ceased, the lamp ups-tairs had burnt itself out, and the night besetGiorgio Viola and his dead wife with its obscu-rity and silence that seemed invincible till theCapataz de Cargadores, returning from thedead, put them to flight with the splutter andflare of a match.

"Si, viejo. It is me. Wait."

Nostromo, after barricading the door and clo-sing the shutters carefully, groped upon a shelffor a candle, and lit it.

Old Viola had risen. He followed with his eyesin the dark the sounds made by Nostromo. Thelight disclosed him standing without support,as if the mere presence of that man who was

loyal, brave, incorruptible, who was all his sonwould have been, were enough for the supportof his decaying strength.

He extended his hand grasping the briar-woodpipe, whose bowl was charred on the edge, andknitted his bushy eyebrows heavily at the light.

"You have returned," he said, with shaky digni-ty. "Ah! Very well! I——"

He broke off. Nostromo, leaning back againstthe table, his arms folded on his breast, noddedat him slightly.

"You thought I was drowned! No! The best dogof the rich, of the aristocrats, of these fine menwho can only talk and betray the people, is notdead yet."

The Garibaldino, motionless, seemed to drinkin the sound of the well-known voice. His headmoved slightly once as if in sign of approval;

but Nostromo saw clearly that the old man un-derstood nothing of the words. There was noone to understand; no one he could take intothe confidence of Decoud's fate, of his own, intothe secret of the silver. That doctor was anenemy of the people—a tempter. . . .

Old Giorgio's heavy frame shook from head tofoot with the effort to overcome his emotion atthe sight of that man, who had shared the inti-macies of his domestic life as though he hadbeen a grown-up son.

"She believed you would return," he said, so-lemnly.

Nostromo raised his head.

"She was a wise woman. How could I fail tocome back——?"

He finished the thought mentally: "Since shehas prophesied for me an end of poverty, mise-

ry, and starvation." These words of Teresa'sanger, from the circumstances in which theyhad been uttered, like the cry of a soul preven-ted from making its peace with God, stirred theobscure superstition of personal fortune fromwhich even the greatest genius amongst men ofadventure and action is seldom free. They reig-ned over Nostromo's mind with the force of apotent malediction. And what a curse it wasthat which her words had laid upon him! Hehad been orphaned so young that he could re-member no other woman whom he called mot-her. Henceforth there would be no enterprise inwhich he would not fail. The spell was workingalready. Death itself would elude him now. . . .He said violently—

"Come, viejo! Get me something to eat. I amhungry! Sangre de Dios! The emptiness of mybelly makes me lightheaded."

With his chin dropped again upon his bare bre-ast above his folded arms, barefooted, watching

from under a gloomy brow the movements ofold Viola foraging amongst the cupboards, heseemed as if indeed fallen under a curse—aruined and sinister Capataz.

Old Viola walked out of a dark corner, and,without a word, emptied upon the table out ofhis hollowed palms a few dry crusts of breadand half a raw onion.

While the Capataz began to devour this beg-gar's fare, taking up with stony-eyed voracitypiece after piece lying by his side, the Garibal-dino went off, and squatting down in anothercorner filled an earthenware mug with red wi-ne out of a wicker-covered demijohn. With afamiliar gesture, as when serving customers inthe cafe, he had thrust his pipe between histeeth to have his hands free.

The Capataz drank greedily. A slight flushdeepened the bronze of his cheek. Before him,Viola, with a turn of his white and massive

head towards the staircase, took his empty pipeout of his mouth, and pronounced slowly—

"After the shot was fired down here, whichkilled her as surely as if the bullet had struckher oppressed heart, she called upon you tosave the children. Upon you, Gian' Battista."

The Capataz looked up.

"Did she do that, Padrone? To save the chil-dren! They are with the English senora, theirrich benefactress. Hey! old man of the people.Thy benefactress. . . ."

"I am old," muttered Giorgio Viola. "An En-glishwoman was allowed to give a bed to Gari-baldi lying wounded in prison. The greatestman that ever lived. A man of the people, too—a sailor. I may let another keep a roof over myhead. Si . . . I am old. I may let her. Life lasts toolong sometimes."

"And she herself may not have a roof over herhead before many days are out, unless I . . .What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over herhead? Am I to try—and save all the Blancostogether with her?"

"You shall do it," said old Viola in a strong voi-ce. "You shall do it as my son would have. . . ."

"Thy son, viejo! .. .. There never has been a manlike thy son. Ha, I must try. . . . But what if itwere only a part of the curse to lure me on? . . .And so she called upon me to save—andthen——?"

"She spoke no more." The heroic follower ofGaribaldi, at the thought of the eternal stillnessand silence fallen upon the shrouded formstretched out on the bed upstairs, averted hisface and raised his hand to his furrowed brow."She was dead before I could seize her hands,"he stammered out, pitifully.

Before the wide eyes of the Capataz, staring atthe doorway of the dark staircase, floated theshape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship indistress, freighted with enormous wealth andthe solitary life of a man. It was impossible forhim to do anything. He could only hold histongue, since there was no one to trust. Thetreasure would be lost, probably—unless De-coud. . . . And his thought came abruptly to anend. He perceived that he could not imagine inthe least what Decoud was likely to do.

Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionlessCapataz dropped his long, soft eyelashes,which gave to the upper part of his fierce,black-whiskered face a touch of feminine inge-nuousness. The silence had lasted for a longtime.

"God rest her soul!" he murmured, gloomily.

CHAPTER TEN

The next day was quiet in the morning, exceptfor the faint sound of firing to the northward,in the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchellhad listened to it from his balcony anxiously.The phrase, "In my delicate position as the onlyconsular agent then in the port, everything, sir,everything was a just cause for anxiety," had itsplace in the more or less stereotyped relation ofthe "historical events" which for the next fewyears was at the service of distinguished stran-gers visiting Sulaco. The mention of the dignityand neutrality of the flag, so difficult to preser-ve in his position, "right in the thick of theseevents between the lawlessness of that piraticalvillain Sotillo and the more regularly establis-

hed but scarcely less atrocious tyranny of hisExcellency Don Pedro Montero," came next inorder. Captain Mitchell was not the man toenlarge upon mere dangers much. But he insis-ted that it was a memorable day. On that day,towards dusk, he had seen "that poor fellow ofmine—Nostromo. The sailor whom I discove-red, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of thefamous ride to Cayta, sir. An historical event,sir!"

Regarded by the O. S. N. Company as an oldand faithful servant, Captain Mitchell wasallowed to attain the term of his usefulness inease and dignity at the head of the enormouslyextended service. The augmentation of the es-tablishment, with its crowds of clerks, an officein town, the old office in the harbour, the divi-sion into departments—passenger, cargo, ligh-terage, and so on—secured a greater leisure forhis last years in the regenerated Sulaco, thecapital of the Occidental Republic. Liked by the

natives for his good nature and the formality ofhis manner, self-important and simple, knownfor years as a "friend of our country," he felthimself a personality of mark in the town. Get-ting up early for a turn in the market-placewhile the gigantic shadow of Higuerota wasstill lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piledup with masses of gorgeous colouring, atten-ding easily to current affairs, welcomed in hou-ses, greeted by ladies on the Alameda, with hisentry into all the clubs and a footing in the CasaGould, he led his privileged old bachelor, man-about-town existence with great comfort andsolemnity. But on mail-boat days he was downat the Harbour Office at an early hour, with hisown gig, manned by a smart crew in white andblue, ready to dash off and board the ship di-rectly she showed her bows between the har-bour heads.

It would be into the Harbour Office that hewould lead some privileged passenger he had

brought off in his own boat, and invite him totake a seat for a moment while he signed a fewpapers. And Captain Mitchell, seating himselfat his desk, would keep on talking hospitably—

"There isn't much time if you are to see everyt-hing in a day. We shall be off in a moment.We'll have lunch at the Amarilla Club—thoughI belong also to the Anglo-American—miningengineers and business men, don't you know—and to the Mirliflores as well, a new club—English, French, Italians, all sorts—lively youngfellows mostly, who wanted to pay a compli-ment to an old resident, sir. But we'll lunch atthe Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing ofthe country. Men of the first families. The Pre-sident of the Occidental Republic himself be-longs to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a brokennose in the patio. Remarkable piece of statuary,I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti—you knowParrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor—wasworking here for two years—thought very

highly of our old bishop. . . . There! I am verymuch at your service now."

Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sen-se of historical importance of men, events, andbuildings, he talked pompously in jerky pe-riods, with slight sweeps of his short, thickarm, letting nothing "escape the attention" ofhis privileged captive.

"Lot of building going on, as you observe. Befo-re the Separation it was a plain of burnt grasssmothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-carttrack to our Jetty. Nothing more. This is theHarbour Gate. Picturesque, is it not? Formerlythe town stopped short there. We enter now theCalle de la Constitucion. Observe the old Spa-nish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I suppose it'sjust as it was in the time of the Viceroys, exceptfor the pavement. Wood blocks now. SulacoNational Bank there, with the sentry boxes eachside of the gate. Casa Avellanos this side, withall the ground-floor windows shuttered. A

wonderful woman lives there—Miss Avella-nos—the beautiful Antonia. A character, sir! Ahistorical woman! Opposite—Casa Gould. No-ble gateway. Yes, the Goulds of the originalGould Concession, that all the world knows ofnow. I hold seventeen of the thousand-dollarshares in the Consolidated San Tome mines. Allthe poor savings of my lifetime, sir, and it willbe enough to keep me in comfort to the end ofmy days at home when I retire. I got in on theground-floor, you see. Don Carlos, great friendof mine. Seventeen shares—quite a little fortu-ne to leave behind one, too. I have a niece—married a parson—most worthy man, incum-bent of a small parish in Sussex; no end of chil-dren. I was never married myself. A sailorshould exercise self-denial. Standing under thatvery gateway, sir, with some young engineer-fellows, ready to defend that house where wehad received so much kindness and hospitality,I saw the first and last charge of Pedrito's hor-semen upon Barrios's troops, who had just ta-

ken the Harbour Gate. They could not stand thenew rifles brought out by that poor Decoud. Itwas a murderous fire. In a moment the streetbecame blocked with a mass of dead men andhorses. They never came on again."

And all day Captain Mitchell would talk likethis to his more or less willing victim—

"The Plaza. I call it magnificent. Twice the areaof Trafalgar Square."

From the very centre, in the blazing sunshine,he pointed out the buildings—

"The Intendencia, now President's Palace—Cabildo, where the Lower Chamber of Parlia-ment sits. You notice the new houses on thatside of the Plaza? Compania Anzani, a greatgeneral store, like those cooperative things athome. Old Anzani was murdered by the Na-tional Guards in front of his safe. It was evenfor that specific crime that the deputy Gama-

cho, commanding the Nationals, a bloodthirstyand savage brute, was executed publicly bygarrotte upon the sentence of a court-martialordered by Barrios. Anzani's nephews conver-ted the business into a company. All that sideof the Plaza had been burnt; used to be colon-naded before. A terrible fire, by the light ofwhich I saw the last of the fighting, the llanerosflying, the Nationals throwing their armsdown, and the miners of San Tome, all Indiansfrom the Sierra, rolling by like a torrent to thesound of pipes and cymbals, green flags flying,a wild mass of men in white ponchos and greenhats, on foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such asight, sir, will never be seen again. The miners,sir, had marched upon the town, Don Pepeleading on his black horse, and their very wivesin the rear on burros, screaming encourage-ment, sir, and beating tambourines. I rememberone of these women had a green parrot seatedon her shoulder, as calm as a bird of stone.They had just saved their Senor Administrador;

for Barrios, though he ordered the assault atonce, at night, too, would have been too late.Pedrito Montero had Don Carlos led out to beshot—like his uncle many years ago—and then,as Barrios said afterwards, 'Sulaco would nothave been worth fighting for.' Sulaco withoutthe Concession was nothing; and there weretons and tons of dynamite distributed all overthe mountain with detonators arranged, and anold priest, Father Roman, standing by to an-nihilate the San Tome mine at the first news offailure. Don Carlos had made up his mind notto leave it behind, and he had the right men tosee to it, too."

Thus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middleof the Plaza, holding over his head a white um-brella with a green lining; but inside the cat-hedral, in the dim light, with a faint scent ofincense floating in the cool atmosphere, andhere and there a kneeling female figure, black

or all white, with a veiled head, his loweredvoice became solemn and impressive.

"Here," he would say, pointing to a niche in thewall of the dusky aisle, "you see the bust ofDon Jose Avellanos, 'Patriot and Statesman,' asthe inscription says, 'Minister to Courts of En-gland and Spain, etc., etc., died in the woods ofLos Hatos worn out with his lifelong strugglefor Right and Justice at the dawn of the NewEra.' A fair likeness. Parrochetti's work fromsome old photographs and a pencil sketch byMrs. Gould. I was well acquainted with thatdistinguished Spanish-American of the oldschool, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everybodywho knew him. The marble medallion in thewall, in the antique style, representing a veiledwoman seated with her hands clasped looselyover her knees, commemorates that unfortuna-te young gentleman who sailed out with Nos-tromo on that fatal night, sir. See, 'To the me-mory of Martin Decoud, his betrothed Antonia

Avellanos.' Frank, simple, noble. There youhave that lady, sir, as she is. An exceptionalwoman. Those who thought she would giveway to despair were mistaken, sir. She has beenblamed in many quarters for not having takenthe veil. It was expected of her. But Dona An-tonia is not the stuff they make nuns of. BishopCorbelan, her uncle, lives with her in the Cor-belan town house. He is a fierce sort of priest,everlastingly worrying the Government aboutthe old Church lands and convents. I believethey think a lot of him in Rome. Now let us goto the Amarilla Club, just across the Plaza, toget some lunch."

Directly outside the cathedral on the very topof the noble flight of steps, his voice rose pom-pously, his arm found again its sweeping ges-ture.

"Porvenir, over there on that first floor, abovethose French plate-glass shop-fronts; our big-gest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I should

say, Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentaryparty here of which the actual Chief of the Sta-te, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very saga-cious man, I think. A first-rate intellect, sir. TheDemocratic party in opposition rests mostly, Iam sorry to say, on these socialistic Italians, sir,with their secret societies, camorras, and such-like. There are lots of Italians settled here on therailway lands, dismissed navvies, mechanics,and so on, all along the trunk line. There arewhole villages of Italians on the Campo. Andthe natives, too, are being drawn into theseways . . . American bar? Yes. And over thereyou can see another. New Yorkers mostly fre-quent that one——Here we are at the Amarilla.Observe the bishop at the foot of the stairs tothe right as we go in."

And the lunch would begin and terminate itslavish and leisurely course at a little table in thegallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing,getting up to speak for a moment to different

officials in black clothes, merchants in jackets,officers in uniform, middle-aged caballerosfrom the Campo—sallow, little, nervous men,and fat, placid, swarthy men, and Europeans orNorth Americans of superior standing, whosefaces looked very white amongst the majorityof dark complexions and black, glistening eyes.

Captain Mitchell would lie back in the chair,casting around looks of satisfaction, and tenderover the table a case full of thick cigars.

"Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco.The black coffee you get at the Amarilla, sir,you don't meet anywhere in the world. We getthe bean from a famous cafeteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sends three sacks every yearas a present to his fellow members in remem-brance of the fight against Gamacho's Natio-nals, carried on from these very windows bythe caballeros. He was in town at the time, andtook part, sir, to the bitter end. It arrives onthree mules—not in the common way, by rail;

no fear!—right into the patio, escorted bymounted peons, in charge of the Mayoral of hisestate, who walks upstairs, booted and spurred,and delivers it to our committee formally withthe words, 'For the sake of those fallen on thethird of May.' We call it Tres de Mayo coffee.Taste it."

Captain Mitchell, with an expression as thoughmaking ready to hear a sermon in a church,would lift the tiny cup to his lips. And the nec-tar would be sipped to the bottom during arestful silence in a cloud of cigar smoke.

"Look at this man in black just going out," hewould begin, leaning forward hastily. "This isthe famous Hernandez, Minister of War. TheTimes' special correspondent, who wrote thatstriking series of letters calling the OccidentalRepublic the 'Treasure House of the World,'gave a whole article to him and the force he hasorganized—the renowned Carabineers of theCampo."

Captain Mitchell's guest, staring curiously,would see a figure in a long-tailed black coatwalking gravely, with downcast eyelids in along, composed face, a brow furrowed horizon-tally, a pointed head, whose grey hair, thin atthe top, combed down carefully on all sidesand rolled at the ends, fell low on the neck andshoulders. This, then, was the famous bandit ofwhom Europe had heard with interest. He puton a high-crowned sombrero with a wide flatbrim; a rosary of wooden beads was twistedabout his right wrist. And Captain Mitchellwould proceed—

"The protector of the Sulaco refugees from therage of Pedrito. As general of cavalry with Ba-rrios he distinguished himself at the stormingof Tonoro, where Senor Fuentes was killed withthe last remnant of the Monterists. He is thefriend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelan.Hears three Masses every day. I bet you he will

step into the cathedral to say a prayer or two onhis way home to his siesta."

He took several puffs at his cigar in silence;then, in his most important manner, pronoun-ced:

"The Spanish race, sir, is prolific of remarkablecharacters in every rank of life. . . . I propose wego now into the billiard-room, which is cool, fora quiet chat. There's never anybody there tillafter five. I could tell you episodes of the Sepa-rationist revolution that would astonish you.When the great heat's over, we'll take a turn onthe Alameda."

The programme went on relentless, like a lawof Nature. The turn on the Alameda was takenwith slow steps and stately remarks.

"All the great world of Sulaco here, sir." Cap-tain Mitchell bowed right and left with no endof formality; then with animation, "Dona Emi-

lia, Mrs. Gould's carriage. Look. Always whitemules. The kindest, most gracious woman thesun ever shone upon. A great position, sir. Agreat position. First lady in Sulaco—far beforethe President's wife. And worthy of it." He tookoff his hat; then, with a studied change of tone,added, negligently, that the man in black by herside, with a high white collar and a scarred,snarly face, was Dr. Monygham, Inspector ofState Hospitals, chief medical officer of theConsolidated San Tome mines. "A familiar ofthe house. Everlastingly there. No wonder. TheGoulds made him. Very clever man and allthat, but I never liked him. Nobody does. I canrecollect him limping about the streets in acheck shirt and native sandals with a waterme-lon under his arm—all he would get to eat forthe day. A big-wig now, sir, and as nasty asever. However . . . There's no doubt he playedhis part fairly well at the time. He saved us allfrom the deadly incubus of Sotillo, where amore particular man might have failed——"

His arm went up.

"The equestrian statue that used to stand on thepedestal over there has been removed. It wasan anachronism," Captain Mitchell commented,obscurely. "There is some talk of replacing it bya marble shaft commemorative of Separation,with angels of peace at the four corners, andbronze Justice holding an even balance, all gilt,on the top. Cavaliere Parrochetti was asked tomake a design, which you can see framed un-der glass in the Municipal Sala. Names are tobe engraved all round the base. Well! Theycould do no better than begin with the name ofNostromo. He has done for Separation as muchas anybody else, and," added Captain Mitchell,"has got less than many others by it—when itcomes to that." He dropped on to a stone seatunder a tree, and tapped invitingly at the placeby his side. "He carried to Barrios the lettersfrom Sulaco which decided the General toabandon Cayta for a time, and come back to

our help here by sea. The transports were stillin harbour fortunately. Sir, I did not even knowthat my Capataz de Cargadores was alive. I hadno idea. It was Dr. Monygham who came uponhim, by chance, in the Custom House, evacua-ted an hour or two before by the wretched Soti-llo. I was never told; never given a hint, not-hing—as if I were unworthy of confidence.Monygham arranged it all. He went to therailway yards, and got admission to the engi-neer-in-chief, who, for the sake of the Goulds asmuch as for anything else, consented to let anengine make a dash down the line, one hun-dred and eighty miles, with Nostromo aboard.It was the only way to get him off. In the Cons-truction Camp at the railhead, he obtained ahorse, arms, some clothing, and started aloneon that marvellous ride—four hundred miles insix days, through a disturbed country, endingby the feat of passing through the Monteristlines outside Cayta. The history of that ride, sir,would make a most exciting book. He carried

all our lives in his pocket. Devotion, courage,fidelity, intelligence were not enough. Of cour-se, he was perfectly fearless and incorruptible.But a man was wanted that would know howto succeed. He was that man, sir. On the fifth ofMay, being practically a prisoner in the Har-bour Office of my Company, I suddenly heardthe whistle of an engine in the railway yards, aquarter of a mile away. I could not believe myears. I made one jump on to the balcony, andbeheld a locomotive under a great head of ste-am run out of the yard gates, screeching likemad, enveloped in a white cloud, and then, justabreast of old Viola's inn, check almost to astandstill. I made out, sir, a man—I couldn't tellwho—dash out of the Albergo d'ltalia Una,climb into the cab, and then, sir, that engineseemed positively to leap clear of the house,and was gone in the twinkling of an eye. Asyou blow a candle out, sir! There was a first-rate driver on the foot-plate, sir, I can tell you.They were fired heavily upon by the National

Guards in Rincon and one other place. Fortuna-tely the line had not been torn up. In four hoursthey reached the Construction Camp. Nostro-mo had his start. . . . The rest you know. You'vegot only to look round you. There are peopleon this Alameda that ride in their carriages, oreven are alive at all to-day, because years ago Iengaged a runaway Italian sailor for a foremanof our wharf simply on the strength of his lo-oks. And that's a fact. You can't get over it, sir.On the seventeenth of May, just twelve daysafter I saw the man from the Casa Viola get onthe engine, and wondered what it meant, Ba-rrios's transports were entering this harbour,and the 'Treasure House of the World,' as TheTimes man calls Sulaco in his book, was savedintact for civilization—for a great future, sir.Pedrito, with Hernandez on the west, and theSan Tome miners pressing on the land gate,was not able to oppose the landing. He hadbeen sending messages to Sotillo for a week tojoin him. Had Sotillo done so there would have

been massacres and proscription that wouldhave left no man or woman of position alive.But that's where Dr. Monygham comes in. Soti-llo, blind and deaf to everything, stuck on bo-ard his steamer watching the dragging for sil-ver, which he believed to be sunk at the bottomof the harbour. They say that for the last threedays he was out of his mind raving and foa-ming with disappointment at getting nothing,flying about the deck, and yelling curses at theboats with the drags, ordering them in, andthen suddenly stamping his foot and cryingout, 'And yet it is there! I see it! I feel it!'

"He was preparing to hang Dr. Monygham(whom he had on board) at the end of the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios's transports,one of our own ships at that, steamed right in,and ranging close alongside opened a small-arm fire without as much preliminaries as ahail. It was the completest surprise in theworld, sir. They were too astounded at first to

bolt below. Men were falling right and left likeninepins. It's a miracle that Monygham, stan-ding on the after-hatch with the rope alreadyround his neck, escaped being riddled throughand through like a sieve. He told me since thathe had given himself up for lost, and kept onyelling with all the strength of his lungs: 'Hoista white flag! Hoist a white flag!' Suddenly anold major of the Esmeralda regiment, standingby, unsheathed his sword with a shriek: 'Die,perjured traitor!' and ran Sotillo clean throughthe body, just before he fell himself shotthrough the head."

Captain Mitchell stopped for a while.

"Begad, sir! I could spin you a yarn for hours.But it's time we started off to Rincon. It wouldnot do for you to pass through Sulaco and notsee the lights of the San Tome mine, a wholemountain ablaze like a lighted palace above thedark Campo. It's a fashionable drive. . . . But letme tell you one little anecdote, sir; just to show

you. A fortnight or more later, when Barrios,declared Generalissimo, was gone in pursuit ofPedrito away south, when the Provisional Jun-ta, with Don Juste Lopez at its head, had pro-mulgated the new Constitution, and our DonCarlos Gould was packing up his trunks boundon a mission to San Francisco and Washington(the United States, sir, were the first great po-wer to recognize the Occidental Republic)—afortnight later, I say, when we were beginningto feel that our heads were safe on our shoul-ders, if I may express myself so, a prominentman, a large shipper by our line, came to seeme on business, and, says he, the first thing: 'Isay, Captain Mitchell, is that fellow' (meaningNostromo) 'still the Capataz of your Cargado-res or not?' 'What's the matter?' says I. 'Because,if he is, then I don't mind; I send and receive agood lot of cargo by your ships; but I have ob-served him several days loafing about thewharf, and just now he stopped me as cool asyou please, with a request for a cigar. Now, you

know, my cigars are rather special, and I can'tget them so easily as all that.' 'I hope you stret-ched a point,' I said, very gently. 'Why, yes. Butit's a confounded nuisance. The fellow's ever-lastingly cadging for smokes.' Sir, I turned myeyes away, and then asked, 'Weren't you one ofthe prisoners in the Cabildo?' 'You know verywell I was, and in chains, too,' says he. 'Andunder a fine of fifteen thousand dollars?' Hecoloured, sir, because it got about that he fain-ted from fright when they came to arrest him,and then behaved before Fuentes in a mannerto make the very policianos, who had draggedhim there by the hair of his head, smile at hiscringing. 'Yes,' he says, in a sort of shy way.'Why?' 'Oh, nothing. You stood to lose a tidybit,' says I, 'even if you saved your life. . . . Butwhat can I do for you?' He never even saw thepoint. Not he. And that's how the world wags,sir."

He rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rinconwould be taken with only one philosophicalremark, uttered by the merciless cicerone, withhis eyes fixed upon the lights of San Tome, thatseemed suspended in the dark night betweenearth and heaven.

"A great power, this, for good and evil, sir. Agreat power."

And the dinner of the Mirliflores would be ea-ten, excellent as to cooking, and leaving uponthe traveller's mind an impression that therewere in Sulaco many pleasant, able young menwith salaries apparently too large for their dis-cretion, and amongst them a few, mostly An-glo-Saxon, skilled in the art of, as the saying is,"taking a rise" out of his kind host.

With a rapid, jingling drive to the harbour in atwo-wheeled machine (which Captain Mitchellcalled a curricle) behind a fleet and scraggymule beaten all the time by an obviously Nea-

politan driver, the cycle would be nearly closedbefore the lighted-up offices of the O. S. N.Company, remaining open so late because ofthe steamer. Nearly—but not quite.

"Ten o'clock. Your ship won't be ready to leavetill half-past twelve, if by then. Come in for abrandy-and-soda and one more cigar."

And in the superintendent's private room theprivileged passenger by the Ceres, or Juno, orPallas, stunned and as it were annihilated men-tally by a sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, na-mes, facts, and complicated information imper-fectly apprehended, would listen like a tiredchild to a fairy tale; would hear a voice, familiarand surprising in its pompousness, tell him, asif from another world, how there was "in thisvery harbour" an international naval demons-tration, which put an end to the Costaguana-Sulaco War. How the United States cruiser,Powhattan, was the first to salute the Occiden-tal flag—white, with a wreath of green laurel in

the middle encircling a yellow amarilla flower.Would hear how General Montero, in less thana month after proclaiming himself Emperor ofCostaguana, was shot dead (during a solemnand public distribution of orders and crosses)by a young artillery officer, the brother of histhen mistress.

"The abominable Pedrito, sir, fled the country,"the voice would say. And it would continue: "Acaptain of one of our ships told me lately thathe recognized Pedrito the Guerrillero, arrayedin purple slippers and a velvet smoking-capwith a gold tassel, keeping a disorderly housein one of the southern ports."

"Abominable Pedrito! Who the devil was he?"would wonder the distinguished bird of passa-ge hovering on the confines of waking and sle-ep with resolutely open eyes and a faint butamiable curl upon his lips, from between whichstuck out the eighteenth or twentieth cigar ofthat memorable day.

"He appeared to me in this very room like ahaunting ghost, sir"—Captain Mitchell wastalking of his Nostromo with true warmth offeeling and a touch of wistful pride. "You mayimagine, sir, what an effect it produced on me.He had come round by sea with Barrios, ofcourse. And the first thing he told me after Ibecame fit to hear him was that he had pickedup the lighter's boat floating in the gulf! Heseemed quite overcome by the circumstance.And a remarkable enough circumstance it was,when you remember that it was then sixteendays since the sinking of the silver. At once Icould see he was another man. He stared at thewall, sir, as if there had been a spider or somet-hing running about there. The loss of the silverpreyed on his mind. The first thing he asked meabout was whether Dona Antonia had heardyet of Decoud's death. His voice trembled. Ihad to tell him that Dona Antonia, as a matterof fact, was not back in town yet. Poor girl! Andjust as I was making ready to ask him a thou-

sand questions, with a sudden, 'Pardon me,senor,' he cleared out of the office altogether. Idid not see him again for three days. I was te-rribly busy, you know. It seems that he wande-red about in and out of the town, and on twonights turned up to sleep in the baracoons ofthe railway people. He seemed absolutely indif-ferent to what went on. I asked him on thewharf, 'When are you going to take hold again,Nostromo? There will be plenty of work for theCargadores presently.'

"'Senor,' says he, looking at me in a slow, inqui-sitive manner, 'would it surprise you to hearthat I am too tired to work just yet? And whatwork could I do now? How can I look my Car-gadores in the face after losing a lighter?'

"I begged him not to think any more about thesilver, and he smiled. A smile that went to myheart, sir. 'It was no mistake,' I told him. 'It wasa fatality. A thing that could not be helped.' 'Si,si!" he said, and turned away. I thought it best

to leave him alone for a bit to get over it. Sir, ittook him years really, to get over it. I was pre-sent at his interview with Don Carlos. I mustsay that Gould is rather a cold man. He had tokeep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing withthieves and rascals, in constant danger of ruinfor himself and wife for so many years, that ithad become a second nature. They looked ateach other for a long time. Don Carlos askedwhat he could do for him, in his quiet, reservedway.

"'My name is known from one end of Sulaco tothe other,' he said, as quiet as the other. 'Whatmore can you do for me?' That was all that pas-sed on that occasion. Later, however, there wasa very fine coasting schooner for sale, and Mrs.Gould and I put our heads together to get herbought and presented to him. It was done, buthe paid all the price back within the next threeyears. Business was booming all along this sea-board, sir. Moreover, that man always succee-

ded in everything except in saving the silver.Poor Dona Antonia, fresh from her terrible ex-periences in the woods of Los Hatos, had aninterview with him, too. Wanted to hear aboutDecoud: what they said, what they did, whatthey thought up to the last on that fatal night.Mrs. Gould told me his manner was perfect forquietness and sympathy. Miss Avellanos burstinto tears only when he told her how Decoudhad happened to say that his plan would be aglorious success. . . . And there's no doubt, sir,that it is. It is a success."

The cycle was about to close at last. And whilethe privileged passenger, shivering with thepleasant anticipations of his berth, forgot to askhimself, "What on earth Decoud's plan couldbe?" Captain Mitchell was saying, "Sorry wemust part so soon. Your intelligent interest ma-de this a pleasant day to me. I shall see younow on board. You had a glimpse of the 'Trea-sure House of the World.' A very good name

that." And the coxswain's voice at the door,announcing that the gig was ready, closed thecycle.

Nostromo had, indeed, found the lighter's boat,which he had left on the Great Isabel with De-coud, floating empty far out in the gulf. He wasthen on the bridge of the first of Barrios's trans-ports, and within an hour's steaming from Su-laco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat ofdaring and a good judge of courage, had takena great liking to the Capataz. During the passa-ge round the coast the General kept Nostromonear his person, addressing him frequently inthat abrupt and boisterous manner which wasthe sign of his high favour.

Nostromo's eyes were the first to catch, broadon the bow, the tiny, elusive dark speck, which,alone with the forms of the Three Isabels rightahead, appeared on the flat, shimmering emp-tiness of the gulf. There are times when no factshould be neglected as insignificant; a small

boat so far from the land might have had somemeaning worth finding out. At a nod of consentfrom Barrios the transport swept out of hercourse, passing near enough to ascertain thatno one manned the little cockle-shell. It wasmerely a common small boat gone adrift withher oars in her. But Nostromo, to whose mindDecoud had been insistently present for days,had long before recognized with excitement thedinghy of the lighter.

There could be no question of stopping to pickup that thing. Every minute of time was mo-mentous with the lives and futures of a wholetown. The head of the leading ship, with theGeneral on board, fell off to her course. Behindher, the fleet of transports, scattered haphazardover a mile or so in the offing, like the finish ofan ocean race, pressed on, all black and smo-king on the western sky.

"Mi General," Nostromo's voice rang out loud,but quiet, from behind a group of officers, "I

should like to save that little boat. Por Dios, Iknow her. She belongs to my Company."

"And, por Dios," guffawed Barrios, in a noisy,good-humoured voice, "you belong to me. I amgoing to make you a captain of cavalry directlywe get within sight of a horse again."

"I can swim far better than I can ride, mi Gene-ral," cried Nostromo, pushing through to therail with a set stare in his eyes. "Let me——"

"Let you? What a conceited fellow that is," ban-tered the General, jovially, without even loo-king at him. "Let him go! Ha! ha! ha! He wantsme to admit that we cannot take Sulaco withouthim! Ha! ha! ha! Would you like to swim off toher, my son?"

A tremendous shout from one end of the shipto the other stopped his guffaw. Nostromo hadleaped overboard; and his black head bobbedup far away already from the ship. The General

muttered an appalled "Cielo! Sinner that I am!"in a thunderstruck tone. One anxious glancewas enough to show him that Nostromo wasswimming with perfect ease; and then he thun-dered terribly, "No! no! We shall not stop topick up this impertinent fellow. Let himdrown—that mad Capataz."

Nothing short of main force would have keptNostromo from leaping overboard. That emptyboat, coming out to meet him mysteriously, asif rowed by an invisible spectre, exercised thefascination of some sign, of some warning,seemed to answer in a startling and enigmaticway the persistent thought of a treasure and ofa man's fate. He would have leaped if there hadbeen death in that half-mile of water. It was assmooth as a pond, and for some reason sharksare unknown in the Placid Gulf, though on theother side of the Punta Mala the coastlineswarms with them.

The Capataz seized hold of the stern and blewwith force. A queer, faint feeling had come overhim while he swam. He had got rid of his bootsand coat in the water. He hung on for a time,regaining his breath. In the distance the trans-ports, more in a bunch now, held on straightfor Sulaco, with their air of friendly contest, ofnautical sport, of a regatta; and the united smo-ke of their funnels drove like a thin, sulphurousfogbank right over his head. It was his daring,his courage, his act that had set these ships inmotion upon the sea, hurrying on to save thelives and fortunes of the Blancos, the taskmas-ters of the people; to save the San Tome mine;to save the children.

With a vigorous and skilful effort he clamberedover the stern. The very boat! No doubt of it; nodoubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the ligh-ter No. 3—the dinghy left with Martin Decoudon the Great Isabel so that he should have somemeans to help himself if nothing could be done

for him from the shore. And here she had comeout to meet him empty and inexplicable. Whathad become of Decoud? The Capataz made aminute examination. He looked for somescratch, for some mark, for some sign. All hediscovered was a brown stain on the gunwaleabreast of the thwart. He bent his face over itand rubbed hard with his finger. Then he satdown in the stern sheets, passive, with his kne-es close together and legs aslant.

Streaming from head to foot, with his hair andwhiskers hanging lank and dripping and a lus-treless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, theCapataz of the Sulaco Cargadores resembled adrowned corpse come up from the bottom toidle away the sunset hour in a small boat. Theexcitement of his adventurous ride, the excite-ment of the return in time, of achievement, ofsuccess, all this excitement centred round theassociated ideas of the great treasure and of theonly other man who knew of its existence, had

departed from him. To the very last moment hehad been cudgelling his brains as to how hecould manage to visit the Great Isabel withoutloss of time and undetected. For the idea ofsecrecy had come to be connected with thetreasure so closely that even to Barrios himselfhe had refrained from mentioning the existenceof Decoud and of the silver on the island. Theletters he carried to the General, however, ma-de brief mention of the loss of the lighter, ashaving its bearing upon the situation in Sulaco.In the circumstances, the one-eyed tiger-slayer,scenting battle from afar, had not wasted histime in making inquiries from the messenger.In fact, Barrios, talking with Nostromo, assu-med that both Don Martin Decoud and the in-gots of San Tome were lost together, and Nos-tromo, not questioned directly, had kept silent,under the influence of some indefinable form ofresentment and distrust. Let Don Martin speakof everything with his own lips—was what hetold himself mentally.

And now, with the means of gaining the GreatIsabel thrown thus in his way at the earliestpossible moment, his excitement had departed,as when the soul takes flight leaving the bodyinert upon an earth it knows no more. Nostro-mo did not seem to know the gulf. For a longtime even his eyelids did not flutter once uponthe glazed emptiness of his stare. Then slowly,without a limb having stirred, without a twitchof muscle or quiver of an eyelash, an expres-sion, a living expression came upon the stillfeatures, deep thought crept into the emptystare—as if an outcast soul, a quiet, broodingsoul, finding that untenanted body in its way,had come in stealthily to take possession.

The Capataz frowned: and in the immensestillness of sea, islands, and coast, of cloudforms on the sky and trails of light upon thewater, the knitting of that brow had the emp-hasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing else bud-ged for a long time; then the Capataz shook his

head and again surrendered himself to the uni-versal repose of all visible things. Suddenly heseized the oars, and with one movement madethe dinghy spin round, head-on to the GreatIsabel. But before he began to pull he bent oncemore over the brown stain on the gunwale.

"I know that thing," he muttered to himself,with a sagacious jerk of the head. "That's blo-od."

His stroke was long, vigorous, and steady.Now and then he looked over his shoulder atthe Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to hisanxious gaze like an impenetrable face. At lastthe stem touched the strand. He flung ratherthan dragged the boat up the little beach. Atonce, turning his back upon the sunset, heplunged with long strides into the ravine, ma-king the water of the stream spurt and fly up-wards at every step, as if spurning its shallow,clear, murmuring spirit with his feet. He wan-ted to save every moment of daylight.

A mass of earth, grass, and smashed busheshad fallen down very naturally from aboveupon the cavity under the leaning tree. Decoudhad attended to the concealment of the silver asinstructed, using the spade with some intelli-gence. But Nostromo's half-smile of approvalchanged into a scornful curl of the lip by thesight of the spade itself flung there in full view,as if in utter carelessness or sudden panic, gi-ving away the whole thing. Ah! They were allalike in their folly, these hombres finos thatinvented laws and governments and barrentasks for the people.

The Capataz picked up the spade, and with thefeel of the handle in his palm the desire ofhaving a look at the horse-hide boxes of treasu-re came upon him suddenly. In a very fewstrokes he uncovered the edges and corners ofseveral; then, clearing away more earth, beca-me aware that one of them had been slashedwith a knife.

He exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voi-ce, and dropped on his knees with a look ofirrational apprehension over one shoulder, thenover the other. The stiff hide had closed, and hehesitated before he pushed his hand throughthe long slit and felt the ingots inside. Therethey were. One, two, three. Yes, four gone. Ta-ken away. Four ingots. But who? Decoud? No-body else. And why? For what purpose? Forwhat cursed fancy? Let him explain. Four in-gots carried off in a boat, and—blood!

In the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, un-clouded, unaltered, plunged into the waters ina grave and untroubled mystery of self-immolation consummated far from all mortaleyes, with an infinite majesty of silence andpeace. Four ingots short!—and blood!

The Capataz got up slowly.

"He might simply have cut his hand," he mutte-red. "But, then——"

He sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as ifhe had been chained to the treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air ofhopeless submission, like a slave set on guard.Once only he lifted his head smartly: the rattleof hot musketry fire had reached his ears, likepouring from on high a stream of dry peasupon a drum. After listening for a while, hesaid, half aloud—

"He will never come back to explain."

And he lowered his head again.

"Impossible!" he muttered, gloomily.

The sounds of firing died out. The loom of agreat conflagration in Sulaco flashed up redabove the coast, played on the clouds at thehead of the gulf, seemed to touch with a ruddyand sinister reflection the forms of the ThreeIsabels. He never saw it, though he raised hishead.

"But, then, I cannot know," he pronounced,distinctly, and remained silent and staring forhours.

He could not know. Nobody was to know. Asmight have been supposed, the end of DonMartin Decoud never became a subject of spe-culation for any one except Nostromo. Had thetruth of the facts been known, there would al-ways have remained the question. Why? Whe-reas the version of his death at the sinking ofthe lighter had no uncertainty of motive. Theyoung apostle of Separation had died strivingfor his idea by an ever-lamented accident. Butthe truth was that he died from solitude, theenemy known but to few on this earth, andwhom only the simplest of us are fit to withs-tand. The brilliant Costaguanero of the boule-vards had died from solitude and want of faithin himself and others.

For some good and valid reasons beyond merehuman comprehension, the sea-birds of the gulf

shun the Isabels. The rocky head of Azuera istheir haunt, whose stony levels and chasmsresound with their wild and tumultuous cla-mour as if they were for ever quarrelling overthe legendary treasure.

At the end of his first day on the Great Isabel,Decoud, turning in his lair of coarse grass, un-der the shade of a tree, said to himself—

"I have not seen as much as one single bird allday."

And he had not heard a sound, either, all daybut that one now of his own muttering voice. Ithad been a day of absolute silence—the first hehad known in his life. And he had not slept awink. Not for all these wakeful nights and thedays of fighting, planning, talking; not for allthat last night of danger and hard physical toilupon the gulf, had he been able to close hiseyes for a moment. And yet from sunrise to

sunset he had been lying prone on the ground,either on his back or on his face.

He stretched himself, and with slow steps des-cended into the gully to spend the night by theside of the silver. If Nostromo returned—as hemight have done at any moment—it was therethat he would look first; and night would, ofcourse, be the proper time for an attempt tocommunicate. He remembered with profoundindifference that he had not eaten anything yetsince he had been left alone on the island.

He spent the night open-eyed, and when theday broke he ate something with the same in-difference. The brilliant "Son Decoud," the spoi-led darling of the family, the lover of Antoniaand journalist of Sulaco, was not fit to grapplewith himself single-handed. Solitude from me-re outward condition of existence becomes veryswiftly a state of soul in which the affectationsof irony and scepticism have no place. It takespossession of the mind, and drives forth the

thought into the exile of utter unbelief. Afterthree days of waiting for the sight of somehuman face, Decoud caught himself entertai-ning a doubt of his own individuality. It hadmerged into the world of cloud and water, ofnatural forces and forms of nature. In our acti-vity alone do we find the sustaining illusion ofan independent existence as against the wholescheme of things of which we form a helplesspart. Decoud lost all belief in the reality of hisaction past and to come. On the fifth day animmense melancholy descended upon himpalpably. He resolved not to give himself up tothese people in Sulaco, who had beset him, un-real and terrible, like jibbering and obscenespectres. He saw himself struggling feebly intheir midst, and Antonia, gigantic and lovelylike an allegorical statue, looking on withscornful eyes at his weakness.

Not a living being, not a speck of distant sail,appeared within the range of his vision; and, as

if to escape from this solitude, he absorbedhimself in his melancholy. The vague cons-ciousness of a misdirected life given up to im-pulses whose memory left a bitter taste in hismouth was the first moral sentiment of hismanhood. But at the same time he felt no re-morse. What should he regret? He had recogni-zed no other virtue than intelligence, and haderected passions into duties. Both his intelli-gence and his passion were swallowed up easi-ly in this great unbroken solitude of waitingwithout faith. Sleeplessness had robbed his willof all energy, for he had not slept seven hoursin the seven days. His sadness was the sadnessof a sceptical mind. He beheld the universe as asuccession of incomprehensible images. Nos-tromo was dead. Everything had failed igno-miniously. He no longer dared to think of An-tonia. She had not survived. But if she survivedhe could not face her. And all exertion seemedsenseless.

On the tenth day, after a night spent withouteven dozing off once (it had occurred to himthat Antonia could not possibly have ever lo-ved a being so impalpable as himself), the soli-tude appeared like a great void, and the silenceof the gulf like a tense, thin cord to which hehung suspended by both hands, without fear,without surprise, without any sort of emotionwhatever. Only towards the evening, in thecomparative relief of coolness, he began to wishthat this cord would snap. He imagined itsnapping with a report as of a pistol—a sharp,full crack. And that would be the end of him.He contemplated that eventuality with pleasu-re, because he dreaded the sleepless nights inwhich the silence, remaining unbroken in theshape of a cord to which he hung with bothhands, vibrated with senseless phrases, alwaysthe same but utterly incomprehensible, aboutNostromo, Antonia, Barrios, and proclamationsmingled into an ironical and senseless buzzing.In the daytime he could look at the silence like

a still cord stretched to breaking-point, with hislife, his vain life, suspended to it like a weight.

"I wonder whether I would hear it snap before Ifell," he asked himself.

The sun was two hours above the horizonwhen he got up, gaunt, dirty, white-faced, andlooked at it with his red-rimmed eyes. Hislimbs obeyed him slowly, as if full of lead, yetwithout tremor; and the effect of that physicalcondition gave to his movements an unhesita-ting, deliberate dignity. He acted as if accom-plishing some sort of rite. He descended intothe gully; for the fascination of all that silver,with its potential power, survived alone outsi-de of himself. He picked up the belt with therevolver, that was lying there, and buckled itround his waist. The cord of silence could ne-ver snap on the island. It must let him fall andsink into the sea, he thought. And sink! He waslooking at the loose earth covering the treasure.In the sea! His aspect was that of a somnambu-

list. He lowered himself down on his kneesslowly and went on grubbing with his fingerswith industrious patience till he uncovered oneof the boxes. Without a pause, as if doing somework done many times before, he slit it openand took four ingots, which he put in his poc-kets. He covered up the exposed box again andstep by step came out of the gully. The bushesclosed after him with a swish.

It was on the third day of his solitude that hehad dragged the dinghy near the water with anidea of rowing away somewhere, but had de-sisted partly at the whisper of lingering hopethat Nostromo would return, partly from con-viction of utter uselessness of all effort. Nowshe wanted only a slight shove to be set afloat.He had eaten a little every day after the first,and had some muscular strength left yet. Ta-king up the oars slowly, he pulled away fromthe cliff of the Great Isabel, that stood behindhim warm with sunshine, as if with the heat of

life, bathed in a rich light from head to foot as ifin a radiance of hope and joy. He pulledstraight towards the setting sun. When the gulfhad grown dark, he ceased rowing and flungthe sculls in. The hollow clatter they made infalling was the loudest noise he had ever heardin his life. It was a revelation. It seemed to re-call him from far away, Actually the thought,"Perhaps I may sleep to-night," passed throughhis mind. But he did not believe it. He believedin nothing; and he remained sitting on thethwart.

The dawn from behind the mountains put agleam into his unwinking eyes. After a cleardaybreak the sun appeared splendidly abovethe peaks of the range. The great gulf burst intoa glitter all around the boat; and in this glory ofmerciless solitude the silence appeared againbefore him, stretched taut like a dark, thinstring.

His eyes looked at it while, without haste, heshifted his seat from the thwart to the gunwale.They looked at it fixedly, while his hand, fee-ling about his waist, unbuttoned the flap of theleather case, drew the revolver, cocked it,brought it forward pointing at his breast, pu-lled the trigger, and, with convulsive force, sentthe still-smoking weapon hurtling through theair. His eyes looked at it while he fell forwardand hung with his breast on the gunwale andthe fingers of his right hand hooked under thethwart. They looked——

"It is done," he stammered out, in a suddenflow of blood. His last thought was: "I wonderhow that Capataz died." The stiffness of thefingers relaxed, and the lover of Antonia Ave-llanos rolled overboard without having heardthe cord of silence snap in the solitude of thePlacid Gulf, whose glittering surface remaineduntroubled by the fall of his body.

A victim of the disillusioned weariness which isthe retribution meted out to intellectual audaci-ty, the brilliant Don Martin Decoud, weightedby the bars of San Tome silver, disappearedwithout a trace, swallowed up in the immenseindifference of things. His sleepless, crouchingfigure was gone from the side of the San Tomesilver; and for a time the spirits of good andevil that hover near every concealed treasure ofthe earth might have thought that this one hadbeen forgotten by all mankind. Then, after afew days, another form appeared striding awayfrom the setting sun to sit motionless and awa-ke in the narrow black gully all through thenight, in nearly the same pose, in the same pla-ce in which had sat that other sleepless manwho had gone away for ever so quietly in asmall boat, about the time of sunset. And thespirits of good and evil that hover about a for-bidden treasure understood well that the silverof San Tome was provided now with a faithfuland lifelong slave.

The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, victimof the disenchanted vanity which is the rewardof audacious action, sat in the weary pose of ahunted outcast through a night of sleeplessnessas tormenting as any known to Decoud, hiscompanion in the most desperate affair of hislife. And he wondered how Decoud had died.But he knew the part he had played himself.First a woman, then a man, abandoned both intheir last extremity, for the sake of this accursedtreasure. It was paid for by a soul lost and by avanished life. The blank stillness of awe wassucceeded by a gust of immense pride. Therewas no one in the world but Gian' Battista Fi-danza, Capataz de Cargadores, the incorrupti-ble and faithful Nostromo, to pay such a price.

He had made up his mind that nothing shouldbe allowed now to rob him of his bargain. Not-hing. Decoud had died. But how? That he wasdead he had not a shadow of a doubt. But four

ingots? . . . What for? Did he mean to come formore—some other time?

The treasure was putting forth its latent power.It troubled the clear mind of the man who hadpaid the price. He was sure that Decoud wasdead. The island seemed full of that whisper.Dead! Gone! And he caught himself listeningfor the swish of bushes and the splash of thefootfalls in the bed of the brook. Dead! The tal-ker, the novio of Dona Antonia!

"Ha!" he murmured, with his head on his kne-es, under the livid clouded dawn breaking overthe liberated Sulaco and upon the gulf as grayas ashes. "It is to her that he will fly. To her thathe will fly!"

And four ingots! Did he take them in revenge,to cast a spell, like the angry woman who hadprophesied remorse and failure, and yet hadlaid upon him the task of saving the children?Well, he had saved the children. He had defea-

ted the spell of poverty and starvation. He haddone it all alone—or perhaps helped by thedevil. Who cared? He had done it, betrayed ashe was, and saving by the same stroke the SanTome mine, which appeared to him hateful andimmense, lording it by its vast wealth over thevalour, the toil, the fidelity of the poor, overwar and peace, over the labours of the town,the sea, and the Campo.

The sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of theCordillera. The Capataz looked down for a timeupon the fall of loose earth, stones, and smas-hed bushes, concealing the hiding-place of thesilver.

"I must grow rich very slowly," he meditated,aloud.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sulaco outstripped Nostromo's prudence, gro-wing rich swiftly on the hidden treasures of theearth, hovered over by the anxious spirits ofgood and evil, torn out by the labouring handsof the people. It was like a second youth, like anew life, full of promise, of unrest, of toil, scat-tering lavishly its wealth to the four corners ofan excited world. Material changes swept alongin the train of material interests. And otherchanges more subtle, outwardly unmarked,affected the minds and hearts of the workers.Captain Mitchell had gone home to live on hissavings invested in the San Tome mine; and Dr.Monygham had grown older, with his headsteel-grey and the unchanged expression of hisface, living on the inexhaustible treasure of hisdevotion drawn upon in the secret of his heartlike a store of unlawful wealth.

The Inspector-General of State Hospitals (who-se maintenance is a charge upon the GouldConcession), Official Adviser on Sanitation tothe Municipality, Chief Medical Officer of theSan Tome Consolidated Mines (whose territory,containing gold, silver, copper, lead, cobalt,extends for miles along the foot-hills of theCordillera), had felt poverty-stricken, misera-ble, and starved during the prolonged, secondvisit the Goulds paid to Europe and the UnitedStates of America. Intimate of the casa, provedfriend, a bachelor without ties and without es-tablishment (except of the professional sort), hehad been asked to take up his quarters in theGould house. In the eleven months of their ab-sence the familiar rooms, recalling at everyglance the woman to whom he had given all hisloyalty, had grown intolerable. As the day ap-proached for the arrival of the mail boat Her-mes (the latest addition to the O. S. N. Co.'ssplendid fleet), the doctor hobbled about more

vivaciously, snapped more sardonically at sim-ple and gentle out of sheer nervousness.

He packed up his modest trunk with speed,with fury, with enthusiasm, and saw it carriedout past the old porter at the gate of the CasaGould with delight, with intoxication; then, asthe hour approached, sitting alone in the greatlandau behind the white mules, a little side-ways, his drawn-in face positively venomouswith the effort of self-control, and holding apair of new gloves in his left hand, he drove tothe harbour.

His heart dilated within him so, when he sawthe Goulds on the deck of the Hermes, that hisgreetings were reduced to a casual mutter. Dri-ving back to town, all three were silent. And inthe patio the doctor, in a more natural manner,said—

"I'll leave you now to yourselves. I'll call to-morrow if I may?"

"Come to lunch, dear Dr. Monygham, and co-me early," said Mrs. Gould, in her travellingdress and her veil down, turning to look at himat the foot of the stairs; while at the top of theflight the Madonna, in blue robes and the Childon her arm, seemed to welcome her with anaspect of pitying tenderness.

"Don't expect to find me at home," CharlesGould warned him. "I'll be off early to the mi-ne."

After lunch, Dona Emilia and the senor doctorcame slowly through the inner gateway of thepatio. The large gardens of the Casa Gould,surrounded by high walls, and the red-tile slo-pes of neighbouring roofs, lay open beforethem, with masses of shade under the trees andlevel surfaces of sunlight upon the lawns. Atriple row of old orange trees surrounded thewhole. Barefooted, brown gardeners, in snowywhite shirts and wide calzoneras, dotted thegrounds, squatting over flowerbeds, passing

between the trees, dragging slender India-rubber tubes across the gravel of the paths; andthe fine jets of water crossed each other in gra-ceful curves, sparkling in the sunshine with aslight pattering noise upon the bushes, and aneffect of showered diamonds upon the grass.

Dona Emilia, holding up the train of a cleardress, walked by the side of Dr. Monygham, ina longish black coat and severe black bow on animmaculate shirtfront. Under a shady clump oftrees, where stood scattered little tables andwicker easy-chairs, Mrs. Gould sat down in alow and ample seat.

"Don't go yet," she said to Dr. Monygham, whowas unable to tear himself away from the spot.His chin nestling within the points of his collar,he devoured her stealthily with his eyes, which,luckily, were round and hard like cloudedmarbles, and incapable of disclosing his senti-ments. His pitying emotion at the marks of timeupon the face of that woman, the air of frailty

and weary fatigue that had settled upon theeyes and temples of the "Never-tired Senora"(as Don Pepe years ago used to call her withadmiration), touched him almost to tears."Don't go yet. To-day is all my own," Mrs.Gould urged, gently. "We are not back yet offi-cially. No one will come. It's only to-morrowthat the windows of the Casa Gould are to be litup for a reception."

The doctor dropped into a chair.

"Giving a tertulia?" he said, with a detached air.

"A simple greeting for all the kind friends whocare to come."

"And only to-morrow?"

"Yes. Charles would be tired out after a day atthe mine, and so I——It would be good to havehim to myself for one evening on our return tothis house I love. It has seen all my life."

"Ah, yes!" snarled the doctor, suddenly. "Wo-men count time from the marriage feast. Didn'tyou live a little before?"

"Yes; but what is there to remember? Therewere no cares."

Mrs. Gould sighed. And as two friends, after along separation, will revert to the most agitatedperiod of their lives, they began to talk of theSulaco Revolution. It seemed strange to Mrs.Gould that people who had taken part in itseemed to forget its memory and its lesson.

"And yet," struck in the doctor, "we who playedour part in it had our reward. Don Pepe,though superannuated, still can sit a horse. Ba-rrios is drinking himself to death in jovial com-pany away somewhere on his fundacion be-yond the Bolson de Tonoro. And the heroicFather Roman—I imagine the old padre blo-wing up systematically the San Tome mine,uttering a pious exclamation at every bang, and

taking handfuls of snuff between the explo-sions—the heroic Padre Roman says that he isnot afraid of the harm Holroyd's missionariescan do to his flock, as long as he is alive."

Mrs. Gould shuddered a little at the allusion tothe destruction that had come so near to theSan Tome mine.

"Ah, but you, dear friend?"

"I did the work I was fit for."

"You faced the most cruel dangers of all. So-mething more than death."

"No, Mrs. Gould! Only death—by hanging.And I am rewarded beyond my deserts."

Noticing Mrs. Gould's gaze fixed upon him, hedropped his eyes.

"I've made my career—as you see," said theInspector-General of State Hospitals, taking up

lightly the lapels of his superfine black coat.The doctor's self-respect marked inwardly bythe almost complete disappearance from hisdreams of Father Beron appeared visibly inwhat, by contrast with former carelessness,seemed an immoderate cult of personal appea-rance. Carried out within severe limits of formand colour, and in perpetual freshness, thischange of apparel gave to Dr. Monygham anair at the same time professional and festive;while his gait and the unchanged crabbed cha-racter of his face acquired from it a startlingforce of incongruity.

"Yes," he went on. "We all had our rewards—the engineer-in-chief, Captain Mitchell——"

"We saw him," interrupted Mrs. Gould, in hercharming voice. "The poor dear man came upfrom the country on purpose to call on us inour hotel in London. He comported himselfwith great dignity, but I fancy he regrets Sula-

co. He rambled feebly about 'historical events'till I felt I could have a cry."

"H'm," grunted the doctor; "getting old, I sup-pose. Even Nostromo is getting older—thoughhe is not changed. And, speaking of that fellow,I wanted to tell you something——"

For some time the house had been full of mur-murs, of agitation. Suddenly the two gardeners,busy with rose trees at the side of the gardenarch, fell upon their knees with bowed headson the passage of Antonia Avellanos, who ap-peared walking beside her uncle.

Invested with the red hat after a short visit toRome, where he had been invited by the Pro-paganda, Father Corbelan, missionary to thewild Indians, conspirator, friend and patron ofHernandez the robber, advanced with big, slowstrides, gaunt and leaning forward, with hispowerful hands clasped behind his back. Thefirst Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco had pre-

served his fanatical and morose air; the aspectof a chaplain of bandits. It was believed that hisunexpected elevation to the purple was a coun-ter-move to the Protestant invasion of Sulacoorganized by the Holroyd Missionary Fund.Antonia, the beauty of her face as if a little blu-rred, her figure slightly fuller, advanced withher light walk and her high serenity, smilingfrom a distance at Mrs. Gould. She had broughther uncle over to see dear Emilia, without ce-remony, just for a moment before the siesta.

When all were seated again, Dr. Monygham,who had come to dislike heartily everybodywho approached Mrs. Gould with any intima-cy, kept aside, pretending to be lost in pro-found meditation. A louder phrase of Antoniamade him lift his head.

"How can we abandon, groaning under op-pression, those who have been our countrymenonly a few years ago, who are our countrymennow?" Miss Avellanos was saying. "How can

we remain blind, and deaf without pity to thecruel wrongs suffered by our brothers? There isa remedy."

"Annex the rest of Costaguana to the order andprosperity of Sulaco," snapped the doctor."There is no other remedy."

"I am convinced, senor doctor," Antonia said,with the earnest calm of invincible resolution,"that this was from the first poor Martin's inten-tion."

"Yes, but the material interests will not let youjeopardize their development for a mere idea ofpity and justice," the doctor muttered grumpily."And it is just as well perhaps."

The Cardinal-Archbishop straightened up hisgaunt, bony frame.

"We have worked for them; we have madethem, these material interests of the foreigners,"

the last of the Corbelans uttered in a deep, de-nunciatory tone.

"And without them you are nothing," cried thedoctor from the distance. "They will not letyou."

"Let them beware, then, lest the people, preven-ted from their aspirations, should rise andclaim their share of the wealth and their shareof the power," the popular Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco declared, significantly,menacingly.

A silence ensued, during which his Eminencestared, frowning at the ground, and Antonia,graceful and rigid in her chair, breathed calmlyin the strength of her convictions. Then theconversation took a social turn, touching on thevisit of the Goulds to Europe. The Cardinal-Archbishop, when in Rome, had suffered fromneuralgia in the head all the time. It was theclimate—the bad air.

When uncle and niece had gone away, with theservants again falling on their knees, and theold porter, who had known Henry Gould, al-most totally blind and impotent now, creepingup to kiss his Eminence's extended hand, Dr.Monygham, looking after them, pronouncedthe one word—

"Incorrigible!"

Mrs. Gould, with a look upwards, droppedwearily on her lap her white hands flashingwith the gold and stones of many rings.

"Conspiring. Yes!" said the doctor. "The last ofthe Avellanos and the last of the Corbelans areconspiring with the refugees from Sta. Martathat flock here after every revolution. The CafeLambroso at the corner of the Plaza is full ofthem; you can hear their chatter across the stre-et like the noise of a parrot-house. They areconspiring for the invasion of Costaguana. Anddo you know where they go for strength, for

the necessary force? To the secret societiesamongst immigrants and natives, where Nos-tromo—I should say Captain Fidanza—is thegreat man. What gives him that position? Whocan say? Genius? He has genius. He is greaterwith the populace than ever he was before. It isas if he had some secret power; some myste-rious means to keep up his influence. He holdsconferences with the Archbishop, as in thoseold days which you and I remember. Barrios isuseless. But for a military head they have thepious Hernandez. And they may raise thecountry with the new cry of the wealth for thepeople."

"Will there be never any peace? Will there be norest?" Mrs. Gould whispered. "I thought thatwe——"

"No!" interrupted the doctor. "There is no peaceand no rest in the development of material inte-rests. They have their law, and their justice. Butit is founded on expediency, and is inhuman; it

is without rectitude, without the continuity andthe force that can be found only in a moralprinciple. Mrs. Gould, the time approacheswhen all that the Gould Concession stands forshall weigh as heavily upon the people as thebarbarism, cruelty, and misrule of a few yearsback."

"How can you say that, Dr. Monygham?" shecried out, as if hurt in the most sensitive placeof her soul.

"I can say what is true," the doctor insisted,obstinately. "It'll weigh as heavily, and provokeresentment, bloodshed, and vengeance, becau-se the men have grown different. Do you thinkthat now the mine would march upon the townto save their Senor Administrador? Do youthink that?"

She pressed the backs of her entwined handson her eyes and murmured hopelessly—

"Is it this we have worked for, then?"

The doctor lowered his head. He could followher silent thought. Was it for this that her lifehad been robbed of all the intimate felicities ofdaily affection which her tenderness needed asthe human body needs air to breathe? And thedoctor, indignant with Charles Gould's blind-ness, hastened to change the conversation.

"It is about Nostromo that I wanted to talk toyou. Ah! that fellow has some continuity andforce. Nothing will put an end to him. But ne-ver mind that. There's something inexplicablegoing on—or perhaps only too easy to explain.You know, Linda is practically the lighthousekeeper of the Great Isabel light. The Garibaldi-no is too old now. His part is to clean the lampsand to cook in the house; but he can't get up thestairs any longer. The black-eyed Linda sleepsall day and watches the light all night. Not allday, though. She is up towards five in the af-ternoon, when our Nostromo, whenever he is

in harbour with his schooner, comes out on hiscourting visit, pulling in a small boat."

"Aren't they married yet?" Mrs. Gould asked."The mother wished it, as far as I can unders-tand, while Linda was yet quite a child. When Ihad the girls with me for a year or so duringthe War of Separation, that extraordinary Lindaused to declare quite simply that she was goingto be Gian' Battista's wife."

"They are not married yet," said the doctor,curtly. "I have looked after them a little."

"Thank you, dear Dr. Monygham," said Mrs.Gould; and under the shade of the big trees herlittle, even teeth gleamed in a youthful smile ofgentle malice. "People don't know how reallygood you are. You will not let them know, as ifon purpose to annoy me, who have put myfaith in your good heart long ago."

The doctor, with a lifting up of his upper lip, asthough he were longing to bite, bowed stiffly inhis chair. With the utter absorption of a man towhom love comes late, not as the most splendidof illusions, but like an enlightening and price-less misfortune, the sight of that woman (ofwhom he had been deprived for nearly a year)suggested ideas of adoration, of kissing thehem of her robe. And this excess of feelingtranslated itself naturally into an augmentedgrimness of speech.

"I am afraid of being overwhelmed by toomuch gratitude. However, these people interestme. I went out several times to the Great Isabellight to look after old Giorgio."

He did not tell Mrs. Gould that it was becausehe found there, in her absence, the relief of anatmosphere of congenial sentiment in old Gior-gio's austere admiration for the "English signo-ra—the benefactress"; in black-eyed Linda'svoluble, torrential, passionate affection for "our

Dona Emilia—that angel"; in the white-throated, fair Giselle's adoring upward turn ofthe eyes, which then glided towards him with asidelong, half-arch, half-candid glance, whichmade the doctor exclaim to himself mentally,"If I weren't what I am, old and ugly, I wouldthink the minx is making eyes at me. And per-haps she is. I dare say she would make eyes atanybody." Dr. Monygham said nothing of thisto Mrs. Gould, the providence of the Viola fa-mily, but reverted to what he called "our greatNostromo."

"What I wanted to tell you is this: Our greatNostromo did not take much notice of the oldman and the children for some years. It's true,too, that he was away on his coasting voyagescertainly ten months out of the twelve. He wasmaking his fortune, as he told Captain Mitchellonce. He seems to have done uncommonlywell. It was only to be expected. He is a manfull of resource, full of confidence in himself,

ready to take chances and risks of every sort. Iremember being in Mitchell's office one day,when he came in with that calm, grave air healways carries everywhere. He had been awaytrading in the Gulf of California, he said, loo-king straight past us at the wall, as his manneris, and was glad to see on his return that alighthouse was being built on the cliff of theGreat Isabel. Very glad, he repeated. Mitchellexplained that it was the O. S. N. Co. who wasbuilding it, for the convenience of the mail ser-vice, on his own advice. Captain Fidanza wasgood enough to say that it was excellent advice.I remember him twisting up his moustachesand looking all round the cornice of the roombefore he proposed that old Giorgio should bemade the keeper of that light."

"I heard of this. I was consulted at the time,"Mrs. Gould said. "I doubted whether it wouldbe good for these girls to be shut up on thatisland as if in a prison."

"The proposal fell in with the old Garibaldino'shumour. As to Linda, any place was lovely anddelightful enough for her as long as it was Nos-tromo's suggestion. She could wait for herGian' Battista's good pleasure there as well asanywhere else. My opinion is that she was al-ways in love with that incorruptible Capataz.Moreover, both father and sister were anxiousto get Giselle away from the attentions of a cer-tain Ramirez."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Gould, interested. "Ramirez?What sort of man is that?"

"Just a mozo of the town. His father was a Car-gador. As a lanky boy he ran about the wharf inrags, till Nostromo took him up and made aman of him. When he got a little older, he puthim into a lighter and very soon gave himcharge of the No. 3 boat—the boat which tookthe silver away, Mrs. Gould. Nostromo selectedthat lighter for the work because she was thebest sailing and the strongest boat of all the

Company's fleet. Young Ramirez was one ofthe five Cargadores entrusted with the removalof the treasure from the Custom House on thatfamous night. As the boat he had charge of wassunk, Nostromo, on leaving the Company'sservice, recommended him to Captain Mitchellfor his successor. He had trained him in theroutine of work perfectly, and thus Mr. Rami-rez, from a starving waif, becomes a man andthe Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores."

"Thanks to Nostromo," said Mrs. Gould, withwarm approval.

"Thanks to Nostromo," repeated Dr. Monyg-ham. "Upon my word, the fellow's power frigh-tens me when I think of it. That our poor oldMitchell was only too glad to appoint somebo-dy trained to the work, who saved him trouble,is not surprising. What is wonderful is the factthat the Sulaco Cargadores accepted Ramirezfor their chief, simply because such was Nos-tromo's good pleasure. Of course, he is not a

second Nostromo, as he fondly imagined hewould be; but still, the position was brilliantenough. It emboldened him to make up to Gi-selle Viola, who, you know, is the recognizedbeauty of the town. The old Garibaldino,however, took a violent dislike to him. I don'tknow why. Perhaps because he was not a mo-del of perfection like his Gian' Battista, the in-carnation of the courage, the fidelity, thehonour of 'the people.' Signor Viola does notthink much of Sulaco natives. Both of them, theold Spartan and that white-faced Linda, withher red mouth and coal-black eyes, were loo-king rather fiercely after the fair one. Ramirezwas warned off. Father Viola, I am told, threa-tened him with his gun once."

"But what of Giselle herself?" asked Mrs.Gould.

"She's a bit of a flirt, I believe," said the doctor."I don't think she cared much one way or anot-her. Of course she likes men's attentions. Rami-

rez was not the only one, let me tell you, Mrs.Gould. There was one engineer, at least, on therailway staff who got warned off with a gun,too. Old Viola does not allow any trifling withhis honour. He has grown uneasy and suspi-cious since his wife died. He was very pleasedto remove his youngest girl away from thetown. But look what happens, Mrs. Gould. Ra-mirez, the honest, lovelorn swain, is forbiddenthe island. Very well. He respects the prohibi-tion, but naturally turns his eyes frequentlytowards the Great Isabel. It seems as though hehad been in the habit of gazing late at nightupon the light. And during these sentimentalvigils he discovers that Nostromo, Captain Fi-danza that is, returns very late from his visits tothe Violas. As late as midnight at times."

The doctor paused and stared meaningly atMrs. Gould.

"Yes. But I don't understand," she began, loo-king puzzled.

"Now comes the strange part," went on Dr.Monygham. "Viola, who is king on his island,will allow no visitor on it after dark. Even Cap-tain Fidanza has got to leave after sunset, whenLinda has gone up to tend the light. And Nos-tromo goes away obediently. But what happensafterwards? What does he do in the gulf betwe-en half-past six and midnight? He has beenseen more than once at that late hour pullingquietly into the harbour. Ramirez is devouredby jealousy. He dared not approach old Viola;but he plucked up courage to rail at Lindaabout it on Sunday morning as she came on themainland to hear mass and visit her mother'sgrave. There was a scene on the wharf, which,as a matter of fact, I witnessed. It was earlymorning. He must have been waiting for her onpurpose. I was there by the merest chance,having been called to an urgent consultation bythe doctor of the German gunboat in the har-bour. She poured wrath, scorn, and flame uponRamirez, who seemed out of his mind. It was a

strange sight, Mrs. Gould: the long jetty, withthis raving Cargador in his crimson sash andthe girl all in black, at the end; the early Sundaymorning quiet of the harbour in the shade ofthe mountains; nothing but a canoe or two mo-ving between the ships at anchor, and the Ger-man gunboat's gig coming to take me off. Lindapassed me within a foot. I noticed her wildeyes. I called out to her. She never heard me.She never saw me. But I looked at her face. Itwas awful in its anger and wretchedness."

Mrs. Gould sat up, opening her eyes very wide.

"What do you mean, Dr. Monygham? Do youmean to say that you suspect the younger sis-ter?"

"Quien sabe! Who can tell?" said the doctor,shrugging his shoulders like a born Costagua-nero. "Ramirez came up to me on the wharf. Hereeled—he looked insane. He took his head intohis hands. He had to talk to someone—simply

had to. Of course for all his mad state he recog-nized me. People know me well here. I havelived too long amongst them to be anythingelse but the evil-eyed doctor, who can cure allthe ills of the flesh, and bring bad luck by aglance. He came up to me. He tried to be calm.He tried to make it out that he wanted merelyto warn me against Nostromo. It seems thatCaptain Fidanza at some secret meeting or ot-her had mentioned me as the worst despiser ofall the poor—of the people. It's very possible.He honours me with his undying dislike. And aword from the great Fidanza may be quiteenough to send some fool's knife into my back.The Sanitary Commission I preside over is notin favour with the populace. 'Beware of him,senor doctor. Destroy him, senor doctor,' Rami-rez hissed right into my face. And then he bro-ke out. 'That man,' he spluttered, 'has cast aspell upon both these girls.' As to himself, hehad said too much. He must run away now—run away and hide somewhere. He moaned

tenderly about Giselle, and then called her na-mes that cannot be repeated. If he thought shecould be made to love him by any means, hewould carry her off from the island. Off into thewoods. But it was no good. . . . He strode away,flourishing his arms above his head. Then Inoticed an old negro, who had been sittingbehind a pile of cases, fishing from the wharf.He wound up his lines and slunk away at once.But he must have heard something, and musthave talked, too, because some of the old Gari-baldino's railway friends, I suppose, warnedhim against Ramirez. At any rate, the father hasbeen warned. But Ramirez has disappearedfrom the town."

"I feel I have a duty towards these girls," saidMrs. Gould, uneasily. "Is Nostromo in Sulaconow?"

"He is, since last Sunday."

"He ought to be spoken to—at once."

"Who will dare speak to him? Even the love-mad Ramirez runs away from the mere shadowof Captain Fidanza."

"I can. I will," Mrs. Gould declared. "A wordwill be enough for a man like Nostromo."

The doctor smiled sourly.

"He must end this situation which lends itselfto——I can't believe it of that child," pursuedMrs. Gould.

"He's very attractive," muttered the doctor,gloomily.

"He'll see it, I am sure. He must put an end toall this by marrying Linda at once," pronoun-ced the first lady of Sulaco with immense deci-sion.

Through the garden gate emerged Basilio,grown fat and sleek, with an elderly hairlessface, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his

jet-black, coarse hair plastered down smoothly.Stooping carefully behind an ornamentalclump of bushes, he put down with precautiona small child he had been carrying on hisshoulder—his own and Leonarda's last born.The pouting, spoiled Camerista and the headmozo of the Casa Gould had been married forsome years now.

He remained squatting on his heels for a time,gazing fondly at his offspring, which returnedhis stare with imperturbable gravity; then, so-lemn and respectable, walked down the path.

"What is it, Basilio?" asked Mrs. Gould.

"A telephone came through from the office ofthe mine. The master remains to sleep at themountain to-night."

Dr. Monygham had got up and stood lookingaway. A profound silence reigned for a time

under the shade of the biggest trees in the love-ly gardens of the Casa Gould.

"Very well, Basilio," said Mrs. Gould. She wat-ched him walk away along the path, step asidebehind the flowering bush, and reappear withthe child seated on his shoulder. He passedthrough the gateway between the garden andthe patio with measured steps, careful of hislight burden.

The doctor, with his back to Mrs. Gould, con-templated a flower-bed away in the sunshine.People believed him scornful and soured. Thetruth of his nature consisted in his capacity forpassion and in the sensitiveness of his tempe-rament. What he lacked was the polished ca-llousness of men of the world, the callousnessfrom which springs an easy tolerance for one-self and others; the tolerance wide as polesasunder from true sympathy and human com-passion. This want of callousness accounted for

his sardonic turn of mind and his biting spee-ches.

In profound silence, and glaring viciously atthe brilliant flower-bed, Dr. Monygham pouredmental imprecations on Charles Gould's head.Behind him the immobility of Mrs. Gould ad-ded to the grace of her seated figure the charmof art, of an attitude caught and interpreted forever. Turning abruptly, the doctor took his lea-ve.

Mrs. Gould leaned back in the shade of the bigtrees planted in a circle. She leaned back withher eyes closed and her white hands lying idleon the arms of her seat. The half-light under thethick mass of leaves brought out the youthfulprettiness of her face; made the clear, light fa-brics and white lace of her dress appear lumi-nous. Small and dainty, as if radiating a light ofher own in the deep shade of the interlacedboughs, she resembled a good fairy, wearywith a long career of well-doing, touched by

the withering suspicion of the uselessness ofher labours, the powerlessness of her magic.

Had anybody asked her of what she was thin-king, alone in the garden of the Casa, with herhusband at the mine and the house closed tothe street like an empty dwelling, her franknesswould have had to evade the question. It hadcome into her mind that for life to be large andfull, it must contain the care of the past and ofthe future in every passing moment of the pre-sent. Our daily work must be done to the gloryof the dead, and for the good of those who co-me after. She thought that, and sighed withoutopening her eyes—without moving at all. Mrs.Gould's face became set and rigid for a second,as if to receive, without flinching, a great waveof loneliness that swept over her head. And itcame into her mind, too, that no one wouldever ask her with solicitude what she was thin-king of. No one. No one, but perhaps the manwho had just gone away. No; no one who could

be answered with careless sincerity in the idealperfection of confidence.

The word "incorrigible"—a word lately pro-nounced by Dr. Monygham—floated into herstill and sad immobility. Incorrigible in his de-votion to the great silver mine was the SenorAdministrador! Incorrigible in his hard, deter-mined service of the material interests to whichhe had pinned his faith in the triumph of orderand justice. Poor boy! She had a clear vision ofthe grey hairs on his temples. He was perfect—perfect. What more could she have expected? Itwas a colossal and lasting success; and lovewas only a short moment of forgetfulness, ashort intoxication, whose delight one remembe-red with a sense of sadness, as if it had been adeep grief lived through. There was somethinginherent in the necessities of successful actionwhich carried with it the moral degradation ofthe idea. She saw the San Tome mountain han-ging over the Campo, over the whole land, fea-

red, hated, wealthy; more soulless than anytyrant, more pitiless and autocratic than theworst Government; ready to crush innumerablelives in the expansion of its greatness. He didnot see it. He could not see it. It was not hisfault. He was perfect, perfect; but she wouldnever have him to herself. Never; not for oneshort hour altogether to herself in this old Spa-nish house she loved so well! Incorrigible, thelast of the Corbelans, the last of the Avellanos,the doctor had said; but she saw clearly the SanTome mine possessing, consuming, burning upthe life of the last of the Costaguana Goulds;mastering the energetic spirit of the son as ithad mastered the lamentable weakness of thefather. A terrible success for the last of theGoulds. The last! She had hoped for a long,long time, that perhaps——But no! There wereto be no more. An immense desolation, the dre-ad of her own continued life, descended uponthe first lady of Sulaco. With a prophetic visionshe saw herself surviving alone the degradation

of her young ideal of life, of love, of work—allalone in the Treasure House of the World. Theprofound, blind, suffering expression of a pain-ful dream settled on her face with its closedeyes. In the indistinct voice of an unlucky slee-per lying passive in the grip of a mercilessnightmare, she stammered out aimlessly thewords—

"Material interest."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nostromo had been growing rich very slowly.It was an effect of his prudence. He couldcommand himself even when thrown off hisbalance. And to become the slave of a treasurewith full self-knowledge is an occurrence rare

and mentally disturbing. But it was also in agreat part because of the difficulty of conver-ting it into a form in which it could becomeavailable. The mere act of getting it away fromthe island piecemeal, little by little, was su-rrounded by difficulties, by the dangers of im-minent detection. He had to visit the Great Isa-bel in secret, between his voyages along thecoast, which were the ostensible source of hisfortune. The crew of his own schooner were tobe feared as if they had been spies upon theirdreaded captain. He did not dare stay too longin port. When his coaster was unloaded, hehurried away on another trip, for he fearedarousing suspicion even by a day's delay. So-metimes during a week's stay, or more, hecould only manage one visit to the treasure.And that was all. A couple of ingots. He suffe-red through his fears as much as through hisprudence. To do things by stealth humiliatedhim. And he suffered most from the concentra-tion of his thought upon the treasure.

A transgression, a crime, entering a man's exis-tence, eats it up like a malignant growth, con-sumes it like a fever. Nostromo had lost hispeace; the genuineness of all his qualities wasdestroyed. He felt it himself, and often cursedthe silver of San Tome. His courage, his magni-ficence, his leisure, his work, everything was asbefore, only everything was a sham. But thetreasure was real. He clung to it with a moretenacious, mental grip. But he hated the feel ofthe ingots. Sometimes, after putting away acouple of them in his cabin—the fruit of a secretnight expedition to the Great Isabel—he wouldlook fixedly at his fingers, as if surprised theyhad left no stain on his skin.

He had found means of disposing of the silverbars in distant ports. The necessity to go farafield made his coasting voyages long, andcaused his visits to the Viola household to berare and far between. He was fated to have hiswife from there. He had said so once to Giorgio

himself. But the Garibaldino had put the sub-ject aside with a majestic wave of his hand,clutching a smouldering black briar-root pipe.There was plenty of time; he was not the manto force his girls upon anybody.

As time went on, Nostromo discovered his pre-ference for the younger of the two. They hadsome profound similarities of nature, whichmust exist for complete confidence and unders-tanding, no matter what outward differences oftemperament there may be to exercise theirown fascination of contrast. His wife wouldhave to know his secret or else life would beimpossible. He was attracted by Giselle, withher candid gaze and white throat, pliable, si-lent, fond of excitement under her quiet indo-lence; whereas Linda, with her intense, passio-nately pale face, energetic, all fire and words,touched with gloom and scorn, a chip of the oldblock, true daughter of the austere republican,but with Teresa's voice, inspired him with a

deep-seated mistrust. Moreover, the poor girlcould not conceal her love for Gian' Battista. Hecould see it would be violent, exacting, suspi-cious, uncompromising—like her soul. Giselle,by her fair but warm beauty, by the surfaceplacidity of her nature holding a promise ofsubmissiveness, by the charm of her girlishmysteriousness, excited his passion and allayedhis fears as to the future.

His absences from Sulaco were long. On retur-ning from the longest of them, he made outlighters loaded with blocks of stone lying underthe cliff of the Great Isabel; cranes and scaffol-ding above; workmen's figures moving about,and a small lighthouse already rising from itsfoundations on the edge of the cliff.

At this unexpected, undreamt-of, startlingsight, he thought himself lost irretrievably.What could save him from detection now?Nothing! He was struck with amazed dread atthis turn of chance, that would kindle a far-

reaching light upon the only secret spot of hislife; that life whose very essence, value, reality,consisted in its reflection from the admiringeyes of men. All of it but that thing which wasbeyond common comprehension; which stoodbetween him and the power that hears and gi-ves effect to the evil intention of curses. It wasdark. Not every man had such a darkness. Andthey were going to put a light there. A light! Hesaw it shining upon disgrace, poverty, con-tempt. Somebody was sure to. . . . Perhaps so-mebody had already. . . .

The incomparable Nostromo, the Capataz, therespected and feared Captain Fidanza, the un-questioned patron of secret societies, a republi-can like old Giorgio, and a revolutionist atheart (but in another manner), was on the pointof jumping overboard from the deck of his ownschooner. That man, subjective almost to insa-nity, looked suicide deliberately in the face. Buthe never lost his head. He was checked by the

thought that this was no escape. He imaginedhimself dead, and the disgrace, the shamegoing on. Or, rather, properly speaking, hecould not imagine himself dead. He was pos-sessed too strongly by the sense of his ownexistence, a thing of infinite duration in itschanges, to grasp the notion of finality. Theearth goes on for ever.

And he was courageous. It was a corrupt cou-rage, but it was as good for his purposes as theother kind. He sailed close to the cliff of theGreat Isabel, throwing a penetrating glancefrom the deck at the mouth of the ravine, tan-gled in an undisturbed growth of bushes. Hesailed close enough to exchange hails with theworkmen, shading their eyes on the edge of thesheer drop of the cliff overhung by the jib-headof a powerful crane. He perceived that none ofthem had any occasion even to approach theravine where the silver lay hidden; let alone toenter it. In the harbour he learned that no one

slept on the island. The labouring gangs retur-ned to port every evening, singing chorussongs in the empty lighters towed by a harbourtug. For the moment he had nothing to fear.

But afterwards? he asked himself. Later, whena keeper came to live in the cottage that wasbeing built some hundred and fifty yards backfrom the low lighttower, and four hundred orso from the dark, shaded, jungly ravine, con-taining the secret of his safety, of his influence,of his magnificence, of his power over the futu-re, of his defiance of ill-luck, of every possiblebetrayal from rich and poor alike—what then?He could never shake off the treasure. His au-dacity, greater than that of other men, had wel-ded that vein of silver into his life. And the fee-ling of fearful and ardent subjection, the feelingof his slavery—so irremediable and profoundthat often, in his thoughts, he compared himselfto the legendary Gringos, neither dead nor ali-ve, bound down to their conquest of unlawful

wealth on Azuera—weighed heavily on theindependent Captain Fidanza, owner and mas-ter of a coasting schooner, whose smart appea-rance (and fabulous good-luck in trading) wereso well known along the western seaboard of avast continent.

Fiercely whiskered and grave, a shade lesssupple in his walk, the vigour and symmetry ofhis powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of abrown tweed suit, made by Jews in the slumsof London, and sold by the clothing depart-ment of the Compania Anzani, Captain Fidanzawas seen in the streets of Sulaco attending tohis business, as usual, that trip. And, as usual,he allowed it to get about that he had made agreat profit on his cargo. It was a cargo of saltfish, and Lent was approaching. He was seen intramcars going to and fro between the townand the harbour; he talked with people in a cafeor two in his measured, steady voice. CaptainFidanza was seen. The generation that would

know nothing of the famous ride to Cayta wasnot born yet.

Nostromo, the miscalled Capataz de Cargado-res, had made for himself, under his rightfulname, another public existence, but modifiedby the new conditions, less picturesque, moredifficult to keep up in the increased size andvaried population of Sulaco, the progressivecapital of the Occidental Republic.

Captain Fidanza, unpicturesque, but always alittle mysterious, was recognized quite suffi-ciently under the lofty glass and iron roof of theSulaco railway station. He took a local train,and got out in Rincon, where he visited thewidow of the Cargador who had died of hiswounds (at the dawn of the New Era, like DonJose Avellanos) in the patio of the Casa Gould.He consented to sit down and drink a glass ofcool lemonade in the hut, while the woman,standing up, poured a perfect torrent of wordsto which he did not listen. He left some money

with her, as usual. The orphaned children,growing up and well schooled, calling him un-cle, clamoured for his blessing. He gave that,too; and in the doorway paused for a momentto look at the flat face of the San Tome moun-tain with a faint frown. This slight contractionof his bronzed brow casting a marked tinge ofseverity upon his usual unbending expression,was observed at the Lodge which he atten-ded—but went away before the banquet. Hewore it at the meeting of some good comrades,Italians and Occidentals, assembled in hishonour under the presidency of an indigent,sickly, somewhat hunchbacked little photo-grapher, with a white face and a magnanimoussoul dyed crimson by a bloodthirsty hate of allcapitalists, oppressors of the two hemispheres.The heroic Giorgio Viola, old revolutionist,would have understood nothing of his openingspeech; and Captain Fidanza, lavishly generousas usual to some poor comrades, made no spe-ech at all. He had listened, frowning, with his

mind far away, and walked off unapproacha-ble, silent, like a man full of cares.

His frown deepened as, in the early morning,he watched the stone-masons go off to the Gre-at Isabel, in lighters loaded with squared blocksof stone, enough to add another course to thesquat light-tower. That was the rate of thework. One course per day.

And Captain Fidanza meditated. The presenceof strangers on the island would cut him com-pletely off the treasure. It had been difficult anddangerous enough before. He was afraid, andhe was angry. He thought with the resolutionof a master and the cunning of a cowed slave.Then he went ashore.

He was a man of resource and ingenuity; and,as usual, the expedient he found at a criticalmoment was effective enough to alter the situa-tion radically. He had the gift of evolving safetyout of the very danger, this incomparable Nos-

tromo, this "fellow in a thousand." With Gior-gio established on the Great Isabel, there wouldbe no need for concealment. He would be ableto go openly, in daylight, to see his daughters—one of his daughters—and stay late talking tothe old Garibaldino. Then in the dark . . . Nightafter night . . . He would dare to grow richquicker now. He yearned to clasp, embrace,absorb, subjugate in unquestioned possessionthis treasure, whose tyranny had weighedupon his mind, his actions, his very sleep.

He went to see his friend Captain Mitchell—and the thing was done as Dr. Monygham hadrelated to Mrs. Gould. When the project wasmooted to the Garibaldino, something like thefaint reflection, the dim ghost of a very ancientsmile, stole under the white and enormousmoustaches of the old hater of kings and minis-ters. His daughters were the object of hisanxious care. The younger, especially. Linda,with her mother's voice, had taken more her

mother's place. Her deep, vibrating "Eh, Pa-dre?" seemed, but for the change of the word,the very echo of the impassioned, remonstra-ting "Eh, Giorgio?" of poor Signora Teresa. Itwas his fixed opinion that the town was noproper place for his girls. The infatuated butguileless Ramirez was the object of his pro-found aversion, as resuming the sins of thecountry whose people were blind, vile esclavos.

On his return from his next voyage, CaptainFidanza found the Violas settled in the light-keeper's cottage. His knowledge of Giorgio'sidiosyncrasies had not played him false. TheGaribaldino had refused to entertain the idea ofany companion whatever, except his girls. AndCaptain Mitchell, anxious to please his poorNostromo, with that felicity of inspirationwhich only true affection can give, had forma-lly appointed Linda Viola as under-keeper ofthe Isabel's Light.

"The light is private property," he used to ex-plain. "It belongs to my Company. I've the po-wer to nominate whom I like, and Viola it shallbe. It's about the only thing Nostromo—a manworth his weight in gold, mind you—has everasked me to do for him."

Directly his schooner was anchored oppositethe New Custom House, with its sham air of aGreek temple, flatroofed, with a colonnade,Captain Fidanza went pulling his small boatout of the harbour, bound for the Great Isabel,openly in the light of a declining day, before allmen's eyes, with a sense of having mastered thefates. He must establish a regular position. Hewould ask him for his daughter now. Hethought of Giselle as he pulled. Linda lovedhim, perhaps, but the old man would be glad tokeep the elder, who had his wife's voice.

He did not pull for the narrow strand where hehad landed with Decoud, and afterwards aloneon his first visit to the treasure. He made for the

beach at the other end, and walked up the re-gular and gentle slope of the wedge-shapedisland. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar,sitting on a bench under the front wall of thecottage, lifted his arm slightly to his loud hail.He walked up. Neither of the girls appeared.

"It is good here," said the old man, in his auste-re, far-away manner.

Nostromo nodded; then, after a short silence—

"You saw my schooner pass in not two hoursago? Do you know why I am here before, so tospeak, my anchor has fairly bitten into theground of this port of Sulaco?"

"You are welcome like a son," the old man de-clared, quietly, staring away upon the sea.

"Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son wouldhave been. It is well, viejo. It is a very good

welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you for——"

A sudden dread came upon the fearless andincorruptible Nostromo. He dared not utter thename in his mind. The slight pause only impar-ted a marked weight and solemnity to thechanged end of the phrase.

"For my wife!" . . . His heart was beating fast. "Itis time you——"

The Garibaldino arrested him with an extendedarm. "That was left for you to judge."

He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped sinceTeresa's death, thick, snow-white, covered hispowerful chest. He turned his head to the door,and called out in his strong voice—

"Linda."

Her answer came sharp and faint from within;and the appalled Nostromo stood up, too, but

remained mute, gazing at the door. He wasafraid. He was not afraid of being refused thegirl he loved—no mere refusal could standbetween him and a woman he desired—but theshining spectre of the treasure rose before him,claiming his allegiance in a silence that couldnot be gainsaid. He was afraid, because, neitherdead nor alive, like the Gringos on Azuera, hebelonged body and soul to the unlawfulness ofhis audacity. He was afraid of being forbiddenthe island. He was afraid, and said nothing.

Seeing the two men standing up side by side toawait her, Linda stopped in the doorway. Not-hing could alter the passionate dead whitenessof her face; but her black eyes seemed to catchand concentrate all the light of the low sun in aflaming spark within the black depths, coveredat once by the slow descent of heavy eyelids.

"Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor."Old Viola's voice resounded with a force thatseemed to fill the whole gulf.

She stepped forward with her eyes nearly clo-sed, like a sleep-walker in a beatific dream.

Nostromo made a superhuman effort. "It istime, Linda, we two were betrothed," he said,steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.

She put her hand into his offered palm, lowe-ring her head, dark with bronze glints, uponwhich her father's hand rested for a moment.

"And so the soul of the dead is satisfied."

This came from Giorgio Viola, who went ontalking for a while of his dead wife; while thetwo, sitting side by side, never looked at eachother. Then the old man ceased; and Linda,motionless, began to speak.

"Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I havelived for you alone, Gian' Battista. And that youknew! You knew it . . . Battistino."

She pronounced the name exactly with hermother's intonation. A gloom as of the gravecovered Nostromo's heart.

"Yes. I knew," he said.

The heroic Garibaldino sat on the same benchbowing his hoary head, his old soul dwellingalone with its memories, tender and violent,terrible and dreary—solitary on the earth full ofmen.

And Linda, his best-loved daughter, was sa-ying, "I was yours ever since I can remember. Ihad only to think of you for the earth to becomeempty to my eyes. When you were there, Icould see no one else. I was yours. Nothing ischanged. The world belongs to you, and you letme live in it." . . . She dropped her low, vibra-ting voice to a still lower note, and found otherthings to say—torturing for the man at her side.Her murmur ran on ardent and voluble. Shedid not seem to see her sister, who came out

with an altar-cloth she was embroidering in herhands, and passed in front of them, silent,fresh, fair, with a quick glance and a faint smile,to sit a little away on the other side of Nostro-mo.

The evening was still. The sun sank almost tothe edge of a purple ocean; and the white light-house, livid against the background of cloudsfilling the head of the gulf, bore the lantern redand glowing, like a live ember kindled by thefire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure,raised the altar-cloth from time to time to hidenervous yawns, as of a young panther.

Suddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and sei-zing her head, covered her face with kisses.Nostromo's brain reeled. When she left her, asif stunned by the violent caresses, with herhands lying in her lap, the slave of the treasurefelt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Gior-gio lifted his leonine head.

"Where are you going, Linda?"

"To the light, padre mio."

"Si, si—to your duty."

He got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter;then, in a tone whose festive note seemed theecho of a mood lost in the night of ages—

"I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son!The old man knows where to find a bottle ofwine, too."

He turned to Giselle, with a change to austeretenderness.

"And you, little one, pray not to the God ofpriests and slaves, but to the God of orphans, ofthe oppressed, of the poor, of little children, togive thee a man like this one for a husband."

His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nos-tromo's shoulder; then he went in. The hopeless

slave of the San Tome silver felt at these wordsthe venomous fangs of jealousy biting deep intohis heart. He was appalled by the novelty of theexperience, by its force, by its physical intima-cy. A husband! A husband for her! And yet itwas natural that Giselle should have a husbandat some time or other. He had never realizedthat before. In discovering that her beautycould belong to another he felt as though hecould kill this one of old Giorgio's daughtersalso. He muttered moodily—

"They say you love Ramirez."

She shook her head without looking at him.Coppery glints rippled to and fro on the wealthof her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had thesoft, pure sheen of a priceless pearl in thesplendour of the sunset, mingling the gloom ofstarry spaces, the purple of the sea, and thecrimson of the sky in a magnificent stillness.

"No," she said, slowly. "I never loved him. Ithink I never . . . He loves me—perhaps."

The seduction of her slow voice died out of theair, and her raised eyes remained fixed on not-hing, as if indifferent and without thought.

"Ramirez told you he loved you?" asked Nos-tromo, restraining himself.

"Ah! once—one evening . . ."

"The miserable . . . Ha!"

He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, andstood before her mute with anger.

"Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian' Battista!Poor wretch that I am!" she lamented in inge-nuous tones. "I told Linda, and she scolded—she scolded. Am I to live blind, dumb, and deafin this world? And she told father, who tookdown his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez!Then you came, and she told you."

He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon thehollow of her white throat, which had the in-vincible charm of things young, palpitating,delicate, and alive. Was this the child he hadknown? Was it possible? It dawned upon himthat in these last years he had really seen verylittle—nothing—of her. Nothing. She had comeinto the world like a thing unknown. She hadcome upon him unawares. She was a danger. Afrightful danger. The instinctive mood of fiercedetermination that had never failed him beforethe perils of this life added its steady force tothe violence of his passion. She, in a voice thatrecalled to him the song of running water, thetinkling of a silver bell, continued—

"And between you three you have brought mehere into this captivity to the sky and water.Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, SanctissimaMadre. My hair shall turn grey on this tediousisland. I could hate you, Gian' Battista!"

He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped himlike a caress. She bemoaned her fate, spreadingunconsciously, like a flower its perfume in thecoolness of the evening, the indefinable seduc-tion of her person. Was it her fault that nobodyever had admired Linda? Even when they werelittle, going out with their mother to Mass, sheremembered that people took no notice of Lin-da, who was fearless, and chose instead tofrighten her, who was timid, with their atten-tion. It was her hair like gold, she supposed.

He broke out—

"Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets,and your lips like the rose; your round arms,your white throat." . . .

Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, sheblushed deeply all over to the roots of her hair.She was not conceited. She was no more self-conscious than a flower. But she was pleased.And perhaps even a flower loves to hear itself

praised. He glanced down, and added, impe-tuously—

"Your little feet!"

Leaning back against the rough stone wall ofthe cottage, she seemed to bask languidly in thewarmth of the rosy flush. Only her loweredeyes glanced at her little feet.

"And so you are going at last to marry our Lin-da. She is terrible. Ah! now she will understandbetter since you have told her you love her. Shewill not be so fierce."

"Chica!" said Nostromo, "I have not told heranything."

"Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come andtell her, so that I may have some peace from herscolding and—perhaps—who knows . . ."

"Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Isthat it? You . . ."

"Mercy of God! How violent you are, Giovan-ni," she said, unmoved. "Who is Ramirez . . .Ramirez . . . Who is he?" she repeated, dreami-ly, in the dusk and gloom of the clouded gulf,with a low red streak in the west like a hot barof glowing iron laid across the entrance of aworld sombre as a cavern, where the magnifi-cent Capataz de Cargadores had hidden hisconquests of love and wealth.

"Listen, Giselle," he said, in measured tones; "Iwill tell no word of love to your sister. Do youwant to know why?"

"Alas! I could not understand perhaps, Gio-vanni. Father says you are not like other men;that no one had ever understood you properly;that the rich will be surprised yet. . . . Oh! saintsin heaven! I am weary."

She raised her embroidery to conceal the lowerpart of her face, then let it fall on her lap. Thelantern was shaded on the land side, but slan-

ting away from the dark column of the light-house they could see the long shaft of light,kindled by Linda, go out to strike the expiringglow in a horizon of purple and red.

Giselle Viola, with her head resting against thewall of the house, her eyes half closed, and herlittle feet, in white stockings and black slippers,crossed over each other, seemed to surrenderherself, tranquil and fatal, to the gatheringdusk. The charm of her body, the promisingmysteriousness of her indolence, went out intothe night of the Placid Gulf like a fresh and in-toxicating fragrance spreading out in the sha-dows, impregnating the air. The incorruptibleNostromo breathed her ambient seduction inthe tumultuous heaving of his breast. Beforeleaving the harbour he had thrown off the storeclothing of Captain Fidanza, for greater ease inthe long pull out to the islands. He stood beforeher in the red sash and check shirt as he used toappear on the Company's wharf—a Mediterra-

nean sailor come ashore to try his luck in Cos-taguana. The dusk of purple and red envelopedhim, too—close, soft, profound, as no morethan fifty yards from that spot it had gatheredevening after evening about the self-destructivepassion of Don Martin Decoud's utter scepti-cism, flaming up to death in solitude.

"You have got to hear," he began at last, withperfect self-control. "I shall say no word of loveto your sister, to whom I am betrothed fromthis evening, because it is you that I love. It isyou!" . . .

The dusk let him see yet the tender and volup-tuous smile that came instinctively upon herlips shaped for love and kisses, freeze hard inthe drawn, haggard lines of terror. He couldnot restrain himself any longer. While sheshrank from his approach, her arms went out tohim, abandoned and regal in the dignity of herlanguid surrender. He held her head in his twohands, and showered rapid kisses upon the

upturned face that gleamed in the purple dusk.Masterful and tender, he was entering slowlyupon the fulness of his possession. And he per-ceived that she was crying. Then the incompa-rable Capataz, the man of careless loves, beca-me gentle and caressing, like a woman to thegrief of a child. He murmured to her fondly. Hesat down by her and nursed her fair head onhis breast. He called her his star and his littleflower.

It had grown dark. From the living-room of thelight-keeper's cottage, where Giorgio, one ofthe Immortal Thousand, was bending his leo-nine and heroic head over a charcoal fire, therecame the sound of sizzling and the aroma of anartistic frittura.

In the obscure disarray of that thing, happeninglike a cataclysm, it was in her feminine headthat some gleam of reason survived. He waslost to the world in their embraced stillness. Butshe said, whispering into his ear—

"God of mercy! What will become of me—here—now—between this sky and this water Ihate? Linda, Linda—I see her!" . . . She tried toget out of his arms, suddenly relaxed at thesound of that name. But there was no one ap-proaching their black shapes, enlaced andstruggling on the white background of the wall."Linda! Poor Linda! I tremble! I shall die of fearbefore my poor sister Linda, betrothed to-dayto Giovanni—my lover! Giovanni, you musthave been mad! I cannot understand you! Youare not like other men! I will not give you up—never—only to God himself! But why have youdone this blind, mad, cruel, frightful thing?"

Released, she hung her head, let fall her hands.The altar-cloth, as if tossed by a great wind, layfar away from them, gleaming white on theblack ground.

"From fear of losing my hope of you," said Nos-tromo.

"You knew that you had my soul! You knoweverything! It was made for you! But whatcould stand between you and me? What? Tellme!" she repeated, without impatience, in su-perb assurance.

"Your dead mother," he said, very low.

"Ah! . . . Poor mother! She has always . . . She isa saint in heaven now, and I cannot give youup to her. No, Giovanni. Only to God alone.You were mad—but it is done. Oh! what haveyou done? Giovanni, my beloved, my life, mymaster, do not leave me here in this grave ofclouds. You cannot leave me now. You musttake me away—at once—this instant—in thelittle boat. Giovanni, carry me off to-night, frommy fear of Linda's eyes, before I have to look ather again."

She nestled close to him. The slave of the SanTome silver felt the weight as of chains upon

his limbs, a pressure as of a cold hand upon hislips. He struggled against the spell.

"I cannot," he said. "Not yet. There is somethingthat stands between us two and the freedom ofthe world."

She pressed her form closer to his side with asubtle and naive instinct of seduction.

"You rave, Giovanni—my lover!" she whispe-red, engagingly. "What can there be? Carry meoff—in thy very hands—to Dona Emilia—awayfrom here. I am not very heavy."

It seemed as though she expected him to lift herup at once in his two palms. She had lost thenotion of all impossibility. Anything couldhappen on this night of wonder. As he made nomovement, she almost cried aloud—

"I tell you I am afraid of Linda!" And still hedid not move. She became quiet and wily."What can there be?" she asked, coaxingly.

He felt her warm, breathing, alive, quivering inthe hollow of his arm. In the exulting cons-ciousness of his strength, and the triumphantexcitement of his mind, he struck out for hisfreedom.

"A treasure," he said. All was still. She did notunderstand. "A treasure. A treasure of silver tobuy a gold crown for thy brow."

"A treasure?" she repeated in a faint voice, as iffrom the depths of a dream. "What is it yousay?"

She disengaged herself gently. He got up andlooked down at her, aware of her face, of herhair, her lips, the dimples on her cheeks—seeing the fascination of her person in the nightof the gulf as if in the blaze of noonday. Her

nonchalant and seductive voice trembled withthe excitement of admiring awe and ungover-nable curiosity.

"A treasure of silver!" she stammered out. Thenpressed on faster: "What? Where? How did youget it, Giovanni?"

He wrestled with the spell of captivity. It wasas if striking a heroic blow that he burst out—

"Like a thief!"

The densest blackness of the Placid Gulf see-med to fall upon his head. He could not see hernow. She had vanished into a long, obscureabysmal silence, whence her voice came back tohim after a time with a faint glimmer, whichwas her face.

"I love you! I love you!"

These words gave him an unwonted sense offreedom; they cast a spell stronger than the

accursed spell of the treasure; they changed hisweary subjection to that dead thing into anexulting conviction of his power. He wouldcherish her, he said, in a splendour as great asDona Emilia's. The rich lived on wealth stolenfrom the people, but he had taken from the richnothing—nothing that was not lost to themalready by their folly and their betrayal. For hehad been betrayed—he said—deceived, temp-ted. She believed him. . . . He had kept the trea-sure for purposes of revenge; but now he carednothing for it. He cared only for her. He wouldput her beauty in a palace on a hill crownedwith olive trees—a white palace above a bluesea. He would keep her there like a jewel in acasket. He would get land for her—her ownland fertile with vines and corn—to set her littlefeet upon. He kissed them. . . . He had alreadypaid for it all with the soul of a woman and thelife of a man. . . . The Capataz de Cargadorestasted the supreme intoxication of his generosi-ty. He flung the mastered treasure superbly at

her feet in the impenetrable darkness of thegulf, in the darkness defying—as men said—the knowledge of God and the wit of the devil.But she must let him grow rich first—he war-ned her.

She listened as if in a trance. Her fingers stirredin his hair. He got up from his knees reeling,weak, empty, as though he had flung his soulaway.

"Make haste, then," she said. "Make haste, Gio-vanni, my lover, my master, for I will give theeup to no one but God. And I am afraid of Lin-da."

He guessed at her shudder, and swore to do hisbest. He trusted the courage of her love. Shepromised to be brave in order to be loved al-ways—far away in a white palace upon a hillabove a blue sea. Then with a timid, tentativeeagerness she murmured—

"Where is it? Where? Tell me that, Giovanni."

He opened his mouth and remained silent—thunderstruck.

"Not that! Not that!" he gasped out, appalled atthe spell of secrecy that had kept him dumbbefore so many people falling upon his lipsagain with unimpaired force. Not even to her.Not even to her. It was too dangerous. "I forbidthee to ask," he cried at her, deadening cau-tiously the anger of his voice.

He had not regained his freedom. The spectreof the unlawful treasure arose, standing by herside like a figure of silver, pitiless and secret,with a finger on its pale lips. His soul died wit-hin him at the vision of himself creeping in pre-sently along the ravine, with the smell of earth,of damp foliage in his nostrils—creeping in,determined in a purpose that numbed his bre-ast, and creeping out again loaded with silver,with his ears alert to every sound. It must be

done on this very night—that work of a cravenslave!

He stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt tohis lips, with a muttered command—

"Tell him I would not stay," and was gone sud-denly from her, silent, without as much as afootfall in the dark night.

She sat still, her head resting indolently againstthe wall, and her little feet in white stockingsand black slippers crossed over each other. OldGiorgio, coming out, did not seem to be surpri-sed at the intelligence as much as she had va-guely feared. For she was full of inexplicablefear now—fear of everything and everybodyexcept of her Giovanni and his treasure. Butthat was incredible.

The heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo'sabrupt departure with a sagacious indulgence.He remembered his own feelings, and exhibi-

ted a masculine penetration of the true state ofthe case.

"Va bene. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter howfair the woman, it galls a little. Liberty, liberty.There's more than one kind! He has said thegreat word, and son Gian' Battista is not tame."He seemed to be instructing the motionless andscared Giselle. . . . "A man should not be tame,"he added, dogmatically out of the doorway.Her stillness and silence seemed to displeasehim. "Do not give way to the enviousness ofyour sister's lot," he admonished her, very gra-ve, in his deep voice.

Presently he had to come to the door again tocall in his younger daughter. It was late. Heshouted her name three times before she evenmoved her head. Left alone, she had becomethe helpless prey of astonishment. She walkedinto the bedroom she shared with Linda like aperson profoundly asleep. That aspect was somarked that even old Giorgio, spectacled, rai-

sing his eyes from the Bible, shook his head asshe shut the door behind her.

She walked right across the room without loo-king at anything, and sat down at once by theopen window. Linda, stealing down from thetower in the exuberance of her happiness,found her with a lighted candle at her back,facing the black night full of sighing gusts ofwind and the sound of distant showers—a truenight of the gulf, too dense for the eye of Godand the wiles of the devil. She did not turn herhead at the opening of the door.

There was something in that immobility whichreached Linda in the depths of her paradise.The elder sister guessed angrily: the child isthinking of that wretched Ramirez. Linda lon-ged to talk. She said in her arbitrary voice, "Gi-selle!" and was not answered by the slightestmovement.

The girl that was going to live in a palace andwalk on ground of her own was ready to diewith terror. Not for anything in the worldwould she have turned her head to face hersister. Her heart was beating madly. She saidwith subdued haste—

"Do not speak to me. I am praying."

Linda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Gi-selle sat on unbelieving, lost, dazed, patient, asif waiting for the confirmation of the incredible.The hopeless blackness of the clouds seemedpart of a dream, too. She waited.

She did not wait in vain. The man whose soulwas dead within him, creeping out of the ravi-ne, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam ofthe lighted window, and could not help retra-cing his steps from the beach.

On that impenetrable background, obliteratingthe lofty mountains by the seaboard, she saw

the slave of the San Tome silver, as if by an ex-traordinary power of a miracle. She acceptedhis return as if henceforth the world could holdno surprise for all eternity.

She rose, compelled and rigid, and began tospeak long before the light from within fellupon the face of the approaching man.

"You have come back to carry me off. It is well!Open thy arms, Giovanni, my lover. I am co-ming."

His prudent footsteps stopped, and with hiseyes glistening wildly, he spoke in a harsh voi-ce:

"Not yet. I must grow rich slowly." . . . A threa-tening note came into his tone. "Do not forgetthat you have a thief for your lover."

"Yes! Yes!" she whispered, hastily. "Come nea-rer! Listen! Do not give me up, Giovanni! Ne-ver, never! . . . I will be patient! . . ."

Her form drooped consolingly over the lowcasement towards the slave of the unlawfultreasure. The light in the room went out, andweighted with silver, the magnificent Capatazclasped her round her white neck in the dark-ness of the gulf as a drowning man clutches at astraw.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the day Mrs. Gould was going, in Dr. Mo-nygham's words, to "give a tertulia," CaptainFidanza went down the side of his schoonerlying in Sulaco harbour, calm, unbending, deli-

berate in the way he sat down in his dinghyand took up his sculls. He was later than usual.The afternoon was well advanced before helanded on the beach of the Great Isabel, andwith a steady pace climbed the slope of the is-land.

From a distance he made out Giselle sitting in achair tilted back against the end of the house,under the window of the girl's room. She hadher embroidery in her hands, and held it wellup to her eyes. The tranquillity of that girlishfigure exasperated the feeling of perpetualstruggle and strife he carried in his breast. Hebecame angry. It seemed to him that she oughtto hear the clanking of his fetters—his silverfetters, from afar. And while ashore that day,he had met the doctor with the evil eye, whohad looked at him very hard.

The raising of her eyes mollified him. They smi-led in their flower-like freshness straight uponhis heart. Then she frowned. It was a warning

to be cautious. He stopped some distance away,and in a loud, indifferent tone, said—

"Good day, Giselle. Is Linda up yet?"

"Yes. She is in the big room with father."

He approached then, and, looking through thewindow into the bedroom for fear of being de-tected by Linda returning there for some rea-son, he said, moving only his lips—

"You love me?"

"More than my life." She went on with her em-broidery under his contemplating gaze andcontinued to speak, looking at her work, "Or Icould not live. I could not, Giovanni. For thislife is like death. Oh, Giovanni, I shall perish ifyou do not take me away."

He smiled carelessly. "I will come to the win-dow when it's dark," he said.

"No, don't, Giovanni. Not-to-night. Linda andfather have been talking together for a longtime today."

"What about?"

"Ramirez, I fancy I heard. I do not know. I amafraid. I am always afraid. It is like dying athousand times a day. Your love is to me likeyour treasure to you. It is there, but I can neverget enough of it."

He looked at her very still. She was beautiful.His desire had grown within him. He had twomasters now. But she was incapable of sustai-ned emotion. She was sincere in what she said,but she slept placidly at night. When she sawhim she flamed up always. Then only an in-creased taciturnity marked the change in her.She was afraid of betraying herself. She wasafraid of pain, of bodily harm, of sharp words,of facing anger, and witnessing violence. For

her soul was light and tender with a pagan sin-cerity in its impulses. She murmured—

"Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vine-yard on the hills, for which we are starving ourlove."

She ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at thecorner of the house.

Nostromo turned to his affianced wife with agreeting, and was amazed at her sunken eyes,at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness andanguish in her face.

"Have you been ill?" he asked, trying to putsome concern into this question.

Her black eyes blazed at him. "Am I thinner?"she asked.

"Yes—perhaps—a little."

"And older?"

"Every day counts—for all of us."

"I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on myfinger," she said, slowly, keeping her gaze fas-tened upon him.

She waited for what he would say, rollingdown her turned-up sleeves.

"No fear of that," he said, absently.

She turned away as if it had been somethingfinal, and busied herself with household careswhile Nostromo talked with her father. Con-versation with the old Garibaldino was noteasy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired,only they seemed to have withdrawn somew-here deep within him. His answers were slowin coming, with an effect of august gravity. Butthat day he was more animated, quicker; thereseemed to be more life in the old lion. He wasuneasy for the integrity of his honour. He be-lieved Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs

upon his younger daughter. And he did nottrust her. She was flighty. He said nothing ofhis cares to "Son Gian' Battista." It was a touchof senile vanity. He wanted to show that hewas equal yet to the task of guarding alone thehonour of his house.

Nostromo went away early. As soon as he haddisappeared, walking towards the beach, Lindastepped over the threshold and, with a haggardsmile, sat down by the side of her father.

Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuatedand desperate Ramirez had waited for her onthe wharf, she had no doubts whatever. Thejealous ravings of that man were no revelation.They had only fixed with precision, as with anail driven into her heart, that sense of unreali-ty and deception which, instead of bliss andsecurity, she had found in her intercourse withher promised husband. She had passed on,pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez;but, that Sunday, she nearly died of wretched-

ness and shame, lying on the carved and lette-red stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for bythe engine-drivers and the fitters of the railwayworkshops, in sign of their respect for the heroof Italian Unity. Old Viola had not been able tocarry out his desire of burying his wife in thesea; and Linda wept upon the stone.

The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wis-hed to break her heart—well and good. Everyt-hing was permitted to Gian' Battista. But whytrample upon the pieces; why seek to humiliateher spirit? Aha! He could not break that. Shedried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The littleone that, ever since she could toddle, had al-ways clung to her skirt for protection. Whatduplicity! But she could not help it probably.When there was a man in the case the poor fe-atherheaded wretch could not help herself.

Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism.She resolved to say nothing. But woman-likeshe put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short

answers, prompted by fearful caution, droveher beside herself by their curtness that resem-bled disdain. One day she flung herself uponthe chair in which her indolent sister was lyingand impressed the mark of her teeth at the baseof the whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out.But she had her share of the Viola heroism.Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in alazy voice, "Madre de Dios! Are you going toeat me alive, Linda?" And this outburst passedoff leaving no trace upon the situation. "Sheknows nothing. She cannot know any thing,"reflected Giselle. "Perhaps it is not true. It can-not be true," Linda tried to persuade herself.

But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the firsttime after her meeting with the distracted Ra-mirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned.She watched him from the doorway go away tohis boat, asking herself stoically, "Will they me-et to-night?" She made up her mind not to leave

the tower for a second. When he had disappea-red she came out and sat down by her father.

The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his ownwords, "a young man yet." In one way or anot-her a good deal of talk about Ramirez had rea-ched him of late; and his contempt and dislikeof that man who obviously was not what hisson would have been, had made him restless.He slept very little now; but for several nightspast instead of reading—or only sitting, withMrs. Gould's silver spectacles on his nose, befo-re the open Bible, he had been prowling active-ly all about the island with his old gun, onwatch over his honour.

Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee,tried to soothe his excitement. Ramirez was notin Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He wasgone. His talk of what he would do meant not-hing.

"No," the old man interrupted. "But son Gian'Battista told me—quite of himself—that thecowardly esclavo was drinking and gamblingwith the rascals of Zapiga, over there on thenorth side of the gulf. He may get some of theworst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town ofnegroes to help him in his attempt upon thelittle one. . . . But I am not so old. No!"

She argued earnestly against the probability ofany attempt being made; and at last the oldman fell silent, chewing his white moustache.Women had their obstinate notions which mustbe humoured—his poor wife was like that, andLinda resembled her mother. It was not seemlyfor a man to argue. "May be. May be," hemumbled.

She was by no means easy in her mind. Sheloved Nostromo. She turned her eyes uponGiselle, sitting at a distance, with something ofmaternal tenderness, and the jealous anguish of

a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she roseand walked over to her.

"Listen—you," she said, roughly.

The invincible candour of the gaze, raised upall violet and dew, excited her rage and admira-tion. She had beautiful eyes—the Chica—thisvile thing of white flesh and black deception.She did not know whether she wanted to tearthem out with shouts of vengeance or cover uptheir mysterious and shameless innocence withkisses of pity and love. And suddenly they be-came empty, gazing blankly at her, except for alittle fear not quite buried deep enough with allthe other emotions in Giselle's heart.

Linda said, "Ramirez is boasting in town thathe will carry you off from the island."

"What folly!" answered the other, and in a per-versity born of long restraint, she added: "He is

not the man," in a jesting tone with a tremblingaudacity.

"No?" said Linda, through her clenched teeth."Is he not? Well, then, look to it; because fatherhas been walking about with a loaded gun atnight."

"It is not good for him. You must tell him notto, Linda. He will not listen to me."

"I shall say nothing—never any more—to any-body," cried Linda, passionately.

This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovannimust take her away soon—the very next timehe came. She would not suffer these terrors forever so much silver. To speak with her sistermade her ill. But she was not uneasy at her fat-her's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromonot to come to the window that night. He hadpromised to keep away for this once. And she

did not know, could not guess or imagine, thathe had another reason for coming on the island.

Linda had gone straight to the tower. It wastime to light up. She unlocked the little door,and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carr-ying her love for the magnificent Capataz deCargadores like an ever-increasing load ofshameful fetters. No; she could not throw it off.No; let Heaven dispose of these two. And mo-ving about the lantern, filled with twilight andthe sheen of the moon, with careful movementsshe lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell alongher body.

"And with our mother looking on," she mur-mured. "My own sister—the Chica!"

The whole refracting apparatus, with its brassfittings and rings of prisms, glittered and spar-kled like a domeshaped shrine of diamonds,containing not a lamp, but some sacred flame,dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in

black, with a pale face, drooped low in a woo-den chair, alone with her jealousy, far above theshames and passions of the earth. A strange,dragging pain as if somebody were pulling herabout brutally by her dark hair with bronzeglints, made her put her hands up to her tem-ples. They would meet. They would meet. Andshe knew where, too. At the window. The swe-at of torture fell in drops on her cheeks, whilethe moonlight in the offing closed as if with acolossal bar of silver the entrance of the PlacidGulf—the sombre cavern of clouds and stillnessin the surf-fretted seaboard.

Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger onher lip. He loved neither her nor her sister. Thewhole thing seemed so objectless as to frightenher, and also give her some hope. Why did henot carry her off? What prevented him? He wasincomprehensible. What were they waiting for?For what end were these two lying and decei-ving? Not for the ends of their love. There was

no such thing. The hope of regaining him forherself made her break her vow of not leavingthe tower that night. She must talk at once toher father, who was wise, and would unders-tand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At themoment of opening the door at the bottom sheheard the sound of the first shot ever fired onthe Great Isabel.

She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struckher breast. She ran on without pausing. Thecottage was dark. She cried at the door, "Gise-lle! Giselle!" then dashed round the corner andscreamed her sister's name at the open win-dow, without getting an answer; but as she wasrushing, distracted, round the house, Gisellecame out of the door, and darted past her, run-ning silently, her hair loose, and her eyes sta-ring straight ahead. She seemed to skim alongthe grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished.

Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stret-ched out before her. All was still on the island;

she did not know where she was going. Thetree under which Martin Decoud spent his lastdays, beholding life like a succession of sense-less images, threw a large blotch of black shadeupon the grass. Suddenly she saw her father,standing quietly all alone in the moonlight.

The Garibaldino—big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard—had a monumental re-pose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. Sheput her hand upon his arm lightly. He neverstirred.

"What have you done?" she asked, in her ordi-nary voice.

"I have shot Ramirez—infame!" he answered,with his eyes directed to where the shade wasblackest. "Like a thief he came, and like a thiefhe fell. The child had to be protected."

He did not offer to move an inch, to advance asingle step. He stood there, rugged and unsti-

rring, like a statue of an old man guarding thehonour of his house. Linda removed her trem-bling hand from his arm, firm and steady likean arm of stone, and, without a word, enteredthe blackness of the shade. She saw a stir offormless shapes on the ground, and stoppedshort. A murmur of despair and tears grewlouder to her strained hearing.

"I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, myGiovanni! And you promised. Oh! Why—whydid you come, Giovanni?"

It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartren-ding sob. And the voice of the resourceful Ca-pataz de Cargadores, master and slave of theSan Tome treasure, who had been caught una-wares by old Giorgio while stealing across theopen towards the ravine to get some more sil-ver, answered careless and cool, but soundingstartlingly weak from the ground.

"It seemed as though I could not live throughthe night without seeing thee once more—mystar, my little flower."

The brilliant tertulia was just over, the lastguests had departed, and the Senor Adminis-trador had gone to his room already, when Dr.Monygham, who had been expected in theevening but had not turned up, arrived drivingalong the wood-block pavement under the elec-tric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la Constitu-cion, and found the great gateway of the Casastill open.

He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and foundthe fat and sleek Basilio on the point of turningoff the lights in the sala. The prosperous major-domo remained open-mouthed at this late in-vasion.

"Don't put out the lights," commanded the doc-tor. "I want to see the senora."

"The senora is in the Senor Adminstrador's can-cillaria," said Basilio, in an unctuous voice. "TheSenor Administrador starts for the mountain inan hour. There is some trouble with the work-men to be feared, it appears. A shameless peo-ple without reason and decency. And idle, se-nor. Idle."

"You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile your-self," said the doctor, with that faculty for exas-peration which made him so generally beloved."Don't put the lights out."

Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham,waiting in the brilliantly lighted sala, heardpresently a door close at the further end of thehouse. A jingle of spurs died out. The SenorAdministrador was off to the mountain.

With a measured swish of her long train, flas-hing with jewels and the shimmer of silk, herdelicate head bowed as if under the weight of amass of fair hair, in which the silver threads

were lost, the "first lady of Sulaco," as CaptainMitchell used to describe her, moved along thelighted corredor, wealthy beyond great dreamsof wealth, considered, loved, respected, honou-red, and as solitary as any human being hadever been, perhaps, on this earth.

The doctor's "Mrs. Gould! One minute!" stop-ped her with a start at the door of the lightedand empty sala. From the similarity of moodand circumstance, the sight of the doctor, stan-ding there all alone amongst the groups of fur-niture, recalled to her emotional memory herunexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; sheseemed to hear in the silence the voice of thatman, dead miserably so many years ago, pro-nounce the words, "Antonia left her fan here."But it was the doctor's voice that spoke, a littlealtered by his excitement. She remarked hisshining eyes.

"Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you knowwhat has happened? You remember what I told

you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seemsthat a lancha, a decked boat, coming from Za-piga, with four negroes in her, passing close tothe Great Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by awoman's voice—Linda's, as a matter of fact—commanding them (it's a moonlight night) togo round to the beach and take up a woundedman to the town. The patron (from whom I'veheard all this), of course, did so at once. He toldme that when they got round to the low side ofthe Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola wai-ting for them. They followed her: she led themunder a tree not far from the cottage. Therethey found Nostromo lying on the ground withhis head in the younger girl's lap, and fatherViola standing some distance off leaning on hisgun. Under Linda's direction they got a tableout of the cottage for a stretcher, after breakingoff the legs. They are here, Mrs. Gould. I meanNostromo and—and Giselle. The negroesbrought him in to the first-aid hospital near theharbour. He made the attendant send for me.

But it was not me he wanted to see—it wasyou, Mrs. Gould! It was you."

"Me?" whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little.

"Yes, you!" the doctor burst out. "He beggedme—his enemy, as he thinks—to bring you tohim at once. It seems he has something to sayto you alone."

"Impossible!" murmured Mrs. Gould.

"He said to me, 'Remind her that I have donesomething to keep a roof over her head.' . . .Mrs. Gould," the doctor pursued, in the greatestexcitement. "Do you remember the silver? Thesilver in the lighter—that was lost?"

Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not sayshe hated the mere mention of that silver.Frankness personified, she remembered withan exaggerated horror that for the first and lasttime of her life she had concealed the truth

from her husband about that very silver. Shehad been corrupted by her fears at that time,and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover,that silver, which would never have comedown if her husband had been made acquain-ted with the news brought by Decoud, had be-en in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr.Monygham's death. And these things appearedto her very dreadful.

"Was it lost, though?" the doctor exclaimed."I've always felt that there was a mystery aboutour Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wantsnow, at the point of death——"

"The point of death?" repeated Mrs. Gould.

"Yes. Yes. . . . He wants perhaps to tell you so-mething concerning that silver which——"

"Oh, no! No!" exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a lowvoice. "Isn't it lost and done with? Isn't there

enough treasure without it to make everybodyin the world miserable?"

The doctor remained still, in a submissive, di-sappointed silence. At last he ventured, verylow—

"And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What arewe to do? It looks as though father and sisterhad——"

Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in dutybound to do her best for these girls.

"I have a volante here," the doctor said. "If youdon't mind getting into that——"

He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reap-peared, having thrown over her dress a greycloak with a deep hood.

It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hoo-ded over her evening costume, this woman, fullof endurance and compassion, stood by the

side of the bed on which the splendid Capatazde Cargadores lay stretched out motionless onhis back. The whiteness of sheets and pillowsgave a sombre and energetic relief to his bron-zed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so goodon a tiller, upon a bridle and on a trigger, lyingopen and idle upon a white coverlet.

"She is innocent," the Capataz was saying in adeep and level voice, as though afraid that alouder word would break the slender hold hisspirit still kept upon his body. "She is innocent.It is I alone. But no matter. For these things Iwould answer to no man or woman alive."

He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white wit-hin the shadow of the hood, bent over him withan invincible and dreary sadness. And the lowsobs of Giselle Viola, kneeling at the end of thebed, her gold hair with coppery gleams looseand scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardlytroubled the silence of the room.

"Ha! Old Giorgio—the guardian of thinehonour! Fancy the Vecchio coming upon me solight of foot, so steady of aim. I myself couldhave done no better. But the price of a charge ofpowder might have been saved. The honourwas safe. . . . Senora, she would have followedto the end of the world Nostromo the thief. . . . Ihave said the word. The spell is broken!"

A low moan from the girl made him cast hiseyes down.

"I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on,with the shadow of the old magnificent care-lessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, ifthere is no time for more. An airy soul, senora!Bright and warm, like sunshine—soon clouded,and soon serene. They would crush it therebetween them. Senora, cast on her the eye ofyour compassion, as famed from one end of theland to the other as the courage and daring ofthe man who speaks to you. She will consoleherself in time. And even Ramirez is not a bad

fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirezwho overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Car-gadores." He paused, made an effort, and inlouder voice, a little wildly, declared—

"I die betrayed—betrayed by——"

But he did not say by whom or by what he wasdying betrayed.

"She would not have betrayed me," he beganagain, opening his eyes very wide. "She wasfaithful. We were going very far—very soon. Icould have torn myself away from that accur-sed treasure for her. For that child I would haveleft boxes and boxes of it—full. And Decoudtook four. Four ingots. Why? Picardia! To be-tray me? How could I give back the treasurewith four ingots missing? They would havesaid I had purloined them. The doctor wouldhave said that. Alas! it holds me yet!"

Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated—cold withapprehension.

"What became of Don Martin on that night,Nostromo?"

"Who knows? I wondered what would becomeof me. Now I know. Death was to come uponme unawares. He went away! He betrayed me.And you think I have killed him! You are allalike, you fine people. The silver has killed me.It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knowswhere it is. But you are the wife of Don Carlos,who put it into my hands and said, 'Save it onyour life.' And when I returned, and you allthought it was lost, what do I hear? 'It was not-hing of importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo,the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dearlife!'"

"Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bendingvery low. "I, too, have hated the idea of thatsilver from the bottom of my heart."

"Marvellous!—that one of you should hate thewealth that you know so well how to take fromthe hands of the poor. The world rests upon thepoor, as old Giorgio says. You have been al-ways good to the poor. But there is somethingaccursed in wealth. Senora, shall I tell you whe-re the treasure is? To you alone. . . . Shining!Incorruptible!"

A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered inhis tone, in his eyes, plain to the woman withthe genius of sympathetic intuition. She avertedher glance from the miserable subjection of thedying man, appalled, wishing to hear no moreof the silver.

"No, Capataz," she said. "No one misses it now.Let it be lost for ever."

After hearing these words, Nostromo closed hiseyes, uttered no word, made no movement.Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monyg-ham, excited to the highest pitch, his eyes shi-

ning with eagerness, came up to the two wo-men.

"Now, Mrs. Gould," he said, almost brutally inhis impatience, "tell me, was I right? There is amystery. You have got the word of it, have younot? He told you——"

"He told me nothing," said Mrs. Gould, steadi-ly.

The light of his temperamental enmity to Nos-tromo went out of Dr. Monygham's eyes. Hestepped back submissively. He did not believeMrs. Gould. But her word was law. He accep-ted her denial like an inexplicable fatality af-firming the victory of Nostromo's genius overhis own. Even before that woman, whom heloved with secret devotion, he had been defea-ted by the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores,the man who had lived his own life on the as-sumption of unbroken fidelity, rectitude, andcourage!

"Pray send at once somebody for my carriage,"spoke Mrs. Gould from within her hood. Then,turning to Giselle Viola, "Come nearer me,child; come closer. We will wait here."

Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, herface veiled in her falling hair, crept up to herside. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through thearm of the unworthy daughter of old Viola, theimmaculate republican, the hero without astain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flowerdroops, the head of the girl, who would havefollowed a thief to the end of the world, restedon the shoulder of Dona Emilia, the first lady ofSulaco, the wife of the Senor Administrador ofthe San Tome mine. And Mrs. Gould, feelingher suppressed sobbing, nervous and excited,had the first and only moment of bitterness inher life. It was worthy of Dr. Monygham him-self.

"Console yourself, child. Very soon he wouldhave forgotten you for his treasure."

"Senora, he loved me. He loved me," Gisellewhispered, despairingly. "He loved me as noone had ever been loved before."

"I have been loved, too," Mrs. Gould said in asevere tone.

Giselle clung to her convulsively. "Oh, senora,but you shall live adored to the end of yourlife," she sobbed out.

Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till thecarriage arrived. She helped in the half-faintinggirl. After the doctor had shut the door of thelandau, she leaned over to him.

"You can do nothing?" she whispered.

"No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let ustouch him. It does not matter. I just had onelook. . . . Useless."

But he promised to see old Viola and the othergirl that very night. He could get the police-

boat to take him off to the island. He remainedin the street, looking after the landau rollingaway slowly behind the white mules.

The rumour of some accident—an accident toCaptain Fidanza—had been spreading alongthe new quays with their rows of lamps and thedark shapes of towering cranes. A knot of nightprowlers—the poorest of the poor—hung aboutthe door of the first-aid hospital, whispering inthe moonlight of the empty street.

There was no one with the wounded man butthe pale photographer, small, frail, bloodthirs-ty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a highstool near the head of the bed with his knees upand his chin in his hands. He had been fetchedby a comrade who, working late on the wharf,had heard from a negro belonging to a lancha,that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashoremortally wounded.

"Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?"he asked, anxiously. "Do not forget that wewant money for our work. The rich must befought with their own weapons."

Nostromo made no answer. The other did notinsist, remaining huddled up on the stool,shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbackedmonkey. Then, after a long silence—

"Comrade Fidanza," he began, solemnly, "youhave refused all aid from that doctor. Is he rea-lly a dangerous enemy of the people?"

In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his headslowly on the pillow and opened his eyes, di-recting at the weird figure perched by his bed-side a glance of enigmatic and profound inqui-ry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell,and the Capataz de Cargadores died without aword or moan after an hour of immobility, bro-ken by short shudders testifying to the mostatrocious sufferings.

Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galleyto the islands, beheld the glitter of the moonupon the gulf and the high black shape of theGreat Isabel sending a shaft of light afar, fromunder the canopy of clouds.

"Pull easy," he said, wondering what he wouldfind there. He tried to imagine Linda and herfather, and discovered a strange reluctancewithin himself. "Pull easy," he repeated.

* * * * * *

From the moment he fired at the thief of hishonour, Giorgio Viola had not stirred from thespot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his handgrasping the barrel near the muzzle. After thelancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from herhad left the shore, Linda, coming up, stoppedbefore him. He did not seem to be aware of herpresence, but when, losing her forced calmness,she cried out—

"Do you know whom you have killed?" heanswered—

"Ramirez the vagabond."

White, and staring insanely at her father, Lindalaughed in his face. After a time he joined herfaintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of herpeals. Then she stopped, and the old man spo-ke as if startled—

"He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice."

The gun fell from his opened hand, but the armremained extended for a moment as if still sup-ported. Linda seized it roughly.

"You are too old to understand. Come into thehouse."

He let her lead him. On the threshold he stum-bled heavily, nearly coming to the ground to-gether with his daughter. His excitement, hisactivity of the last few days, had been like the

flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back ofhis chair.

"In son Gian' Battista's voice," he repeated in asevere tone. "I heard him—Ramirez—the mis-erable——"

Linda helped him into the chair, and, bendinglow, hissed into his ear—

"You have killed Gian' Battista."

The old man smiled under his thick moustache.Women had strange fancies.

"Where is the child?" he asked, surprised at thepenetrating chilliness of the air and the un-wonted dimness of the lamp by which he usedto sit up half the night with the open Bible be-fore him.

Linda hesitated a moment, then averted hereyes.

"She is asleep," she said. "We shall talk of hertomorrow."

She could not bear to look at him. He filled herwith terror and with an almost unbearable feel-ing of pity. She had observed the change thatcame over him. He would never understandwhat he had done; and even to her the wholething remained incomprehensible. He said withdifficulty—

"Give me the book."

Linda laid on the table the closed volume in itsworn leather cover, the Bible given him agesago by an Englishman in Palermo.

"The child had to be protected," he said, in astrange, mournful voice.

Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, cry-ing without noise. Suddenly she started for thedoor. He heard her move.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the light," she answered, turning round tolook at him balefully.

"The light! Si—duty."

Very upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic inhis absorbed quietness, he felt in the pocket ofhis red shirt for the spectacles given him byDona Emilia. He put them on. After a long pe-riod of immobility he opened the book, andfrom on high looked through the glasses at thesmall print in double columns. A rigid, sternexpression settled upon his features with aslight frown, as if in response to some gloomythought or unpleasant sensation. But he neverdetached his eyes from the book while heswayed forward, gently, gradually, till hissnow-white head rested upon the open pages.A wooden clock ticked methodically on thewhite-washed wall, and growing slowly coldthe Garibaldino lay alone, rugged, undecayed,

like an old oak uprooted by a treacherous gustof wind.

The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailingabove the lost treasure of the San Tome mine.Into the bluish sheen of a night without starsthe lantern sent out a yellow beam towards thefar horizon. Like a black speck upon the shin-ing panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gal-lery, rested her head on the rail. The moon,drooping in the western board, looked at herradiantly.

Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splashof oars from a passing boat ceased, and Dr.Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.

"Linda!" he shouted, throwing back his head."Linda!"

Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.

"Is he dead?" she cried, bending over.

"Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round," thedoctor answered from below. "Pull to thebeach," he said to the rowers.

Linda's black figure detached itself upright onthe light of the lantern with her arms raisedabove her head as though she were going tothrow herself over.

"It is I who loved you," she whispered, with aface as set and white as marble in themoonlight. "I! Only I! She will forget thee,killed miserably for her pretty face. I cannotunderstand. I cannot understand. But I shallnever forget thee. Never!"

She stood silent and still, collecting her strengthto throw all her fidelity, her pain, bewilder-ment, and despair into one great cry.

"Never! Gian' Battista!"

Dr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass over his head. Itwas another of Nostromo's triumphs, the great-est, the most enviable, the most sinister of all.In that true cry of undying passion that seemedto ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera andaway to the bright line of the horizon, over-hung by a big white cloud shining like a massof solid silver, the genius of the magnificentCapataz de Cargadores dominated the darkgulf containing his conquests of treasure andlove.