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each side, gasped for breath, and let out a hoarse shriek.
It was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck on the
outside of the shutter. They could hear suddenly the snorting of a
horse, the restive tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hard path in front
of the house; the toe of a boot struck at the shutter again; a spur
jingled at every blow, and an excited voice shouted, "Hola! hola, in
there!"
CHAPTER FOUR
All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola,
even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. "If
I see smoke rising over there," he thought to himself, "they are lost."
Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian
workmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards
the town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of
making a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from
behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for
the rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on
his silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his
revolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an idea that old
Giorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.
His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: "Hola!
Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?"
"You see--" murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent
now. Outside Nostromo laughed.
"I can hear the padrona is not dead."
"You have done your best to kill me with fear," cried Signora Teresa.
She wanted to say something more, but her voice failed her.
Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted
apologetically--
"She is a little upset."
Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh--
"She cannot upset me."
Signora Teresa found her voice.
"It is what I say. You have no heart--and you have no conscience, Gian'
Battista--"
They heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The party he led
were babbling excitedly in Italian and Spanish, inciting each other to
the pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying, "Avanti!"
"He has not stopped very long with us. There is no praise from strangers
to be got here," Signora Teresa said tragically. "Avanti! Yes! That is
all he cares for. To be first somewhere--somehow--to be first with these
English. They will be showing him to everybody. 'This is our Nostromo!'"
She laughed ominously. "What a name! What is that? Nostromo? He would
take a name that is properly no word from them."
Meantime Giorgio, with tranquil movements, had been unfastening the
door; the flood of light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girls
gathered to her side, a picturesque woman in a pose of maternal
exaltation. Behind her the wall was dazzlingly white, and the crude
colours of the Garibaldi lithograph paled in the sunshine.
Old Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwards as if referring all his
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