“You have killed Gian’ Battista.”
The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.
“Where is the child?” he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness
of the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit
up half the night with the open Bible before him.
Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes.
“She is asleep,” she said. “We shall talk of her tomorrow.”
She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an
almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came
over him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her
the whole thing remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty--
“Give me the book.”
Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the
Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.
“The child had to be protected,” he said, in a strange, mournful voice.
Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying without noise. Suddenly
she started for the door. He heard her move.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the light,” she answered, turning round to look at him balefully.
“The light! Si--duty.”
Very upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic in his absorbed quietness,
he felt in the pocket of his red shirt for the spectacles given him by
Dona Emilia. He put them on. After a long period of immobility he opened
the book, and from on high looked through the glasses at the small print
in double columns. A rigid, stern expression settled upon his features
with a slight frown, as if in response to some gloomy thought or
unpleasant sensation. But he never detached his eyes from the book while
he swayed forward, gently, gradually, till his snow-white head
rested upon the open pages. A wooden clock ticked methodically on the
white-washed wall, and growing slowly cold the Garibaldino lay alone,
rugged, undecayed, like an old oak uprooted by a treacherous gust of
wind.
The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure
of the San Tome mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars
the lantern sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black
speck upon the shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery,
rested her head on the rail. The moon, drooping in the western board,
looked at her radiantly.
Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a
passing boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.
“Linda!” he shouted, throwing back his head. “Linda!”
Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.
“Is he dead?” she cried, bending over.
“Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,” the doctor answered from below.
“Pull to the beach,” he said to the rowers.
Linda’s black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern
with her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw
herself over.
“It is I who loved you,” she whispered, with a face as set and white
as marble in the moonlight. “I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed
miserably for her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand.
But I shall never forget thee. Never!”
She stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her
fidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.
“Never! Gian’ Battista!”
Dr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass
over his head. It was another of Nostromo’s triumphs, the greatest, the
most enviable, the most sinister of all. In that true cry of undying
passion that seemed to ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera and away to
the bright line of the horizon, overhung by a big white cloud shining
like a mass of solid silver, the genius of the magnificent Capataz de
Cargadores dominated the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure
and love.