Page 523 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

swift musical drip, drip into the great porous jar below.
Towards sunset he got up, and with slow movements dis-
appeared up the narrow staircase. His bulk filled it; and the
rubbing of his shoulders made a small noise as of a mouse
running behind the plaster of a wall. While he remained
up there the house was as dumb as a grave. Then, with the
same faint rubbing noise, he descended. He had to catch at
the chairs and tables to regain his seat. He seized his pipe
off the high mantel of the fire-place—but made no attempt
to reach the tobacco—thrust it empty into the corner of
his mouth, and sat down again in the same staring pose.
The sun of Pedrito’s entry into Sulaco, the last sun of Se-
nor Hirsch’s life, the first of Decoud’s solitude on the Great
Isabel, passed over the Albergo d’ltalia Una on its way to
the west. The tinkling drip, drip of the filter had ceased, the
lamp upstairs had burnt itself out, and the night beset Gior-
gio Viola and his dead wife with its obscurity and silence
that seemed invincible till the Capataz de Cargadores, re-
turning from the dead, put them to flight with the splutter
and flare of a match.
‘Si, viejo. It is me. Wait.’
Nostromo, after barricading the door and closing the
shutters carefully, groped upon a shelf for a candle, and lit
it.
Old Viola had risen. He followed with his eyes in the
dark the sounds made by Nostromo. The light disclosed
him standing without support, as if the mere presence of
that man who was loyal, brave, incorruptible, who was all
his son would have been, were enough for the support of his

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard