Nostromo - A Tale of the Seaboard.pdf - Planet eBook

have ploughed the sea.’ He did not care, he declared boldly;he seized every opportunity to tell her that though shehad managed to make a Blanco journalist of him, he wasno patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for culturedminds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious;and secondly, in connection with the everlasting troubles ofthis unhappy country it was hopelessly besmirched; it hadbeen the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of lawlessness, ofcrimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving.He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. Hehad no need to drop his voice; it had been low all the time, amere murmur in the silence of dark houses with their shuttersclosed early against the night air, as is the custom ofSulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantlythe blaze of its four windows, the bright appeal of light inthe whole dumb obscurity of the street. And the murmuron the little balcony went on after a short pause.‘But we are labouring to change all that,’ Antonia protested.‘It is exactly what we desire. It is our object. It is the greatcause. And the word you despise has stood also for sacrifice,for courage, for constancy, for suffering. Papa, who—‘‘Ploughing the sea,’ interrupted Decoud, looking down.There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps.‘Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has justturned under the gate,’ observed Decoud. ‘He said Mass forthe troops in the Plaza this morning. They had built for himan altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside allthe painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints