Ностромо

           Onthisoccasion,withhisgunheldatreadybeforehim,hestoopeddowntohiswife’shead,and,keepinghiseyessteadfastlyonthebarricadeddoor,hebreathedoutintoherearthatNostromowouldhavebeenpowerlesstohelp.Whatcouldtwomenshutupinahousedoagainsttwentyormorebentuponsettingfiretotheroof?Gian’Battistawasthinkingofthecasaallthetime,hewassure.

           “Hethinkofthecasa!He!”gaspedSignoraViola,crazily.Shestruckherbreastwithheropenhands.“Iknowhim.Hethinksofnobodybuthimself.”

           Adischargeoffirearmsnearbymadeherthrowherheadbackandclosehereyes.OldGiorgiosethisteethhardunderhiswhitemoustache,andhiseyesbegantorollfiercely.Severalbulletsstrucktheendofthewalltogether;piecesofplastercouldbeheardfallingoutside;avoicescreamed“Heretheycome!”andafteramomentofuneasysilencetherewasarushofrunningfeetalongthefront.

           ThenthetensionofoldGiorgio’sattituderelaxed,andasmileofcontemptuousreliefcameuponhislipsofanoldfighterwithaleonineface.Thesewerenotapeoplestrivingforjustice,butthieves.EventodefendhislifeagainstthemwasasortofdegradationforamanwhohadbeenoneofGaribaldi’simmortalthousandintheconquestofSicily.Hehadanimmensescornforthisoutbreakofscoundrelsandleperos,whodidnotknowthemeaningoftheword“liberty