Ностромо

           FatherRoman,dried-up,small,alert,wrinkled,withbigroundeyes,asharpchin,andagreatsnuff-taker,wasanoldcampaigner,too;hehadshrivenmanysimplesoulsonthebattlefieldsoftheRepublic,kneelingbythedyingonhillsides,inthelonggrass,inthegloomoftheforests,tohearthelastconfessionwiththesmellofgunpowdersmokeinhisnostrils,therattleofmuskets,thehumandspatterofbulletsinhisears.Andwherewastheharmif,atthepresbytery,theyhadagamewithapackofgreasycardsintheearlyevening,beforeDonPepewenthislastroundstoseethatallthewatchmenofthemine—abodyorganizedbyhimself—wereattheirposts?ForthatlastdutybeforehesleptDonPepedidactuallygirdhisoldswordontheverandahofanunmistakableAmericanwhiteframehouse,whichFatherRomancalledthepresbytery.Nearby,along,low,darkbuilding,steeple-roofed,likeavastbarnwithawoodencrossoverthegable,wastheminers’chapel.ThereFatherRomansaidMasseverydaybeforeasombrealtar-piecerepresentingtheResurrection,thegreyslabofthetombstonebalancedononecorner,afiguresoaringupwards,long-limbedandlivid,inanovalofpallidlight,andahelmetedbrownlegionarysmittendown,rightacrossthebituminousforeground.