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Chapter 8

           TheCapatazdeCargadores,onarevulsionofsubjectiveness,exasperatedalmosttoinsanity,beheldallhisworldwithoutfaithandcourage.Hehadbeenbetrayed!

           Withtheboundlessshadowsoftheseabehindhim,outofhissilenceandimmobility,facingtheloftyshapesofthelowerpeakscrowdedaroundthewhite,mistysheenofHiguerota,Nostromolaughedaloudagain,sprangabruptlytohisfeet,andstoodstill.Hemustgo.Butwhere?

           “Thereisnomistake.Theykeepusandencourageusasifweweredogsborntofightandhuntforthem.Thevecchioisright,”hesaid,slowlyandscathingly.HerememberedoldGiorgiotakinghispipeoutofhismouthtothrowthesewordsoverhisshoulderatthecafe,fullofengine-driversandfittersfromtherailwayworkshops.Thisimagefixedhiswaveringpurpose.HewouldtrytofindoldGiorgioifhecould.Godknowswhatmighthavehappenedtohim!Hemadeafewsteps,thenstoppedagainandshookhishead.Totheleftandright,infrontandbehindhim,thescrubbybushrustledmysteriouslyinthedarkness.

           “Teresawasright,too,”headdedinalowtonetouchedwithawe.Hewonderedwhethershewasdeadinherangerwithhimorstillalive.Asifinanswertothisthought,halfofremorseandhalfofhope,withasoftflutterandobliqueflight,abigowl,whoseappallingcry:“Ya-acabo!Ya-acabo!itisfinished;itisfinished”—announcescalamityanddeathinthepopularbelief,driftedvaguelylikealargedarkballacrosshispath.

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