All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola,
even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. “If
I see smoke rising over there,” he thought to himself, “they are lost.”
Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian
workmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards
the town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of
making a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from
behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for
the rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on
his silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his
revolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an idea that old
Giorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.
His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: “Hola!
Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?”
“You see--” murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent
now. Outside Nostromo 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 something 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.”