Ностромо

           Heclungtotheminstinctively,inthevagueapprehensionofbeingflungaboutagain;andimmediatelyheheardanotherlotofshrieksforhelp,prolongedanddespairing,notnearhimatall,butunaccountablyinthedistance,awayfromthelighteraltogether,asifsomespiritinthenightweremockingatSenorHirsch’sterroranddespair.

           Thenallwasstill—asstillaswhenyouwakeupinyourbedinadarkroomfromabizarreandagitateddream.Thelighterrockedslightly;therainwasstillfalling.Twogropinghandstookholdofhisbruisedsidesfrombehind,andtheCapataz’svoicewhispered,inhisear,“Silence,foryourlife!Silence!Thesteamerhasstopped.”

           Decoudlistened.Thegulfwasdumb.Hefeltthewaternearlyuptohisknees.“Arewesinking?”heaskedinafaintbreath.

           “Idon’tknow,”Nostromobreathedbacktohim.“Senor,makenottheslightestsound.”

           Hirsch,whenorderedforwardbyNostromo,hadnotreturnedintohisfirsthiding-place.Hehadfallennearthemast,andhadnostrengthtorise;moreover,hefearedtomove.Hehadgivenhimselfupfordead,butnotonanyrationalgrounds.Itwassimplyacruelandterrifyingfeeling.Wheneverhetriedtothinkwhatwouldbecomeofhimhisteethwouldstartchatteringviolently.Hewastooabsorbedintheuttermiseryofhisfeartotakenoticeofanything.