Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
drink Your reading of my character does honor to your perspicacity. But why call me a heathen?"
"True," retorted the priest. "You are ten times worse. A miracle could not convert you."
"I certainly do not believe in miracles," said Decoud, quietly. Father Corbelàn shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully.
"A sort of Frenchman—godless—a materialist," he pronounced slowly, as if weighing the terms of a careful analysis. "Neither the son of his own country nor of any other," he continued, thoughtfully.
"Scarcely human, in fact," Decoud commented under his breath, his head at rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.
"The victim of this faithless age," Father Corbelàn resumed in a deep but subdued voice.
"But of some use as a journalist." Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a more animated tone. "Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the guerrillero, for a combination of lackey and spy. What could be more effective? In local affairs it urges the provincial government to enlist bodily into the national army the band of Hernandez the Robber—who is apparently the protégé of the Church—or at least of the Great Vicar. Nothing could be more sound."
The priest nodded, and turned on the heels of his square-toed shoes with big steel buckles. Again, with his hands clasped behind his back, he paced about, planting his feet firmly. When he swung about, the
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