Page 286 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

for the glow of a heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel
of the cooking-range, where water was boiling in an iron
pot with a loud bubbling sound. Between the two walls of a
narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the sick-room
above; and the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores stepping
noiselessly in soft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his
muscular neck and bronzed chest bare in the open check
shirt, resembled a Mediterranean sailor just come ashore
from some wine or fruit-laden felucca. At the top he paused,
broad shouldered, narrow hipped and supple, looking at
the large bed, like a white couch of state, with a profusion
of snowy linen, amongst which the Padrona sat unpropped
and bowed, her handsome, black-browed face bent over her
chest. A mass of raven hair with only a few white threads
in it covered her shoulders; one thick strand fallen forward
half veiled her cheek. Perfectly motionless in that pose, ex-
pressing physical anxiety and unrest, she turned her eyes
alone towards Nostromo.
The Capataz had a red sash wound many times round his
waist, and a heavy silver ring on the forefinger of the hand
he raised to give a twist to his moustache.
‘Their revolutions, their revolutions,’ gasped Senora Te-
resa. ‘Look, Gian’ Battista, it has killed me at last!’
Nostromo said nothing, and the sick woman with an up-
ward glance insisted. ‘Look, this one has killed me, while
you were away fighting for what did not concern you, fool-
ish man.’
‘Why talk like this?’ mumbled the Capataz between his
teeth. ‘Will you never believe in my good sense? It concerns