Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
A mass of earth, grass, and smashed bushes had
fallen down very naturally from above upon the cavity
under the leaning tree. Decoud had attended to the
concealment of the silver as instructed, using the spade
with some intelligence. But Nostromo's half-smile of
approval changed into a scornful curl of the lip by the
sight of the spade itself flung there in full view, as if
in utter carelessness or sudden panic, giving away the
whole thing. Ah! They were all alike in their folly,
these hombres finos that invented laws and governments
and barren tasks for the people.
The capataz picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his palm the desire of having a look at the horse-hide boxes of treasure came upon him suddenly. In a very few strokes he uncovered the edges and corners of several; then, clearing away more earth, became aware that one of them had been slashed with a knife.
He exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voice, and dropped on his knees with a look of irrational apprehension over one shoulder, then over the other. The stiff hide had closed, and he hesitated before he pushed his hand through the long slit and felt the ingots inside. There they were. One, two, three. Yes, four gone. Taken away. Four ingots. But who? Decoud? Nobody else. And why? For what purpose? For what cursed fancy? Let him explain. Four ingots carried off in a boat, and—blood!
In the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, unclouded, unaltered, plunged into the waters in a grave and untroubled mystery of self-immolation consummated far from all mortal eyes, with an infinite
553
