A Tale of the Seaboard Joseph Conrad - Penn State University

Joseph Conrad
gringos on Azuera, that cannot die Ha! ha! Sailors like myself.
There is no getting away from a treasure that once fastens upon
your mind.”
“You are a devil of a man, Capataz. It is the most plausible thing.”
Nostromo pressed his arm.
“It will be worse for him than thirst at sea or hunger in a town full
of people. Do you know what that is He shall suffer greater torments
than he inflicted upon that terrified wretch who had no invention.
None! none! Not like me. I could have told Sotillo a deadly
tale for very little pain.”
He laughed wildly and turned in the doorway towards the body
of the late Señor Hirsch, an opaque long blotch in the semi-transparent
obscurity of the room between the two tall parallelograms of
the windows full of stars.
“You man of fear!” he cried. “You shall be avenged by me—
Nostromo. Out of my way, doctor! Stand aside—or, by the suffering
soul of a woman dead without confession, I will strangle you
with my two hands.”
He bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt
of astonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the
pursuit. At the bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall, pitching
forward on his face with a force that would have stunned a spirit
less intent upon a task of love and devotion. He was up in a moment,
jarred, shaken, with a queer impression of the terrestrial globe
having been flung at his head in the dark. But it wanted more than
that to stop Dr. Monygham’s body, possessed by the exaltation of
self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation, determined not to lose whatever
advantage chance put into its way. He ran with headlong, tottering
swiftness, his arms going like a windmill in his effort to keep
his balance on his crippled feet. He lost his hat; the tails of his open
gaberdine flew behind him. He had no mind to lose sight of the
indispensable man. But it was a long time, and a long way from the
Custom House, before he managed to seize his arm from behind,
roughly, out of breath.
“Stop! Are you mad”
Already Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if
checked in his pace by the weariness of irresolution.
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