Page 445 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

robe, stood by, wearing a rough beaver hat at the back of his
head, and grasping a tall staff with a silver knob in his hand.
These insignia of his dignity had been conferred upon him
by the Administration of the mine, the fountain of honour,
of prosperity, and peace. He had been one of the first im-
migrants into this valley; his sons and sons-in-law worked
within the mountain which seemed with its treasures to
pour down the thundering ore shoots of the upper mesa,
the gifts of well-being, security, and justice upon the toil-
ers. He listened to the news from the town with curiosity
and indifference, as if concerning another world than his
own. And it was true that they appeared to him so. In a
very few years the sense of belonging to a powerful orga-
nization had been developed in these harassed, half-wild
Indians. They were proud of, and attached to, the mine. It
had secured their confidence and belief. They invested it
with a protecting and invincible virtue as though it were a
fetish made by their own hands, for they were ignorant, and
in other respects did not differ appreciably from the rest of
mankind which puts infinite trust in its own creations. It
never entered the alcalde’s head that the mine could fail in
its protection and force. Politics were good enough for the
people of the town and the Campo. His yellow, round face,
with wide nostrils, and motionless in expression, resembled
a fierce full moon. He listened to the excited vapourings of
the mozo without misgivings, without surprise, without
any active sentiment whatever.
Padre Roman sat dejectedly balancing himself, his feet
just touching the ground, his hands gripping the edge of

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard