Page 463 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

droop of beak and claws.
Long after he had vanished, Nostromo, lifting his eyes
up to the sky, muttered, ‘I am not dead yet.’
The Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores had lived in splen-
dour and publicity up to the very moment, as it were, when
he took charge of the lighter containing the treasure of sil-
ver ingots.
The last act he had performed in Sulaco was in complete
harmony with his vanity, and as such perfectly genuine. He
had given his last dollar to an old woman moaning with the
grief and fatigue of a dismal search under the arch of the an-
cient gate. Performed in obscurity and without witnesses, it
had still the characteristics of splendour and publicity, and
was in strict keeping with his reputation. But this awaken-
ing in solitude, except for the watchful vulture, amongst the
ruins of the fort, had no such characteristics. His first con-
fused feeling was exactly this—that it was not in keeping.
It was more like the end of things. The necessity of living
concealed somehow, for God knows how long, which as-
sailed him on his return to consciousness, made everything
that had gone before for years appear vain and foolish, like
a flattering dream come suddenly to an end.
He climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart, and,
putting aside the bushes, looked upon the harbour. He saw
a couple of ships at anchor upon the sheet of water reflect-
ing the last gleams of light, and Sotillo’s steamer moored
to the jetty. And behind the pale long front of the Custom
House, there appeared the extent of the town like a grove
of thick timber on the plain with a gateway in front, and

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard