Ностромо

           AttheendofhisfirstdayontheGreatIsabel,Decoud,turninginhislairofcoarsegrass,undertheshadeofatree,saidtohimself—

           “Ihavenotseenasmuchasonesinglebirdallday.”

           Andhehadnotheardasound,either,alldaybutthatonenowofhisownmutteringvoice.Ithadbeenadayofabsolutesilence—thefirsthehadknowninhislife.Andhehadnotsleptawink.Notforallthesewakefulnightsandthedaysoffighting,planning,talking;notforallthatlastnightofdangerandhardphysicaltoiluponthegulf,hadhebeenabletoclosehiseyesforamoment.Andyetfromsunrisetosunsethehadbeenlyingproneontheground,eitheronhisbackoronhisface.

           Hestretchedhimself,andwithslowstepsdescendedintothegullytospendthenightbythesideofthesilver.IfNostromoreturned—ashemighthavedoneatanymoment—itwastherethathewouldlookfirst;andnightwould,ofcourse,bethepropertimeforanattempttocommunicate.Herememberedwithprofoundindifferencethathehadnoteatenanythingyetsincehehadbeenleftaloneontheisland.

           Hespentthenightopen-eyed,andwhenthedaybrokeheatesomethingwiththesameindifference.Thebrilliant“SonDecoud,”thespoileddarlingofthefamily,theloverofAntoniaandjournalistofSulaco,wasnotfittograpplewithhimselfsingle-handed.