Chapter 4

           ALLthemorningNostromohadkepthiseyefromafarontheCasaViola,eveninthethickofthehottestscrimmageneartheCustomHouse.“IfIseesmokerisingoverthere,”hethoughttohimself,“theyarelost.”DirectlythemobhadbrokenhepressedwithasmallbandofItalianworkmeninthatdirection,which,indeed,wastheshortestlinetowardsthetown.Thatpartoftherabblehewaspursuingseemedtothinkofmakingastandunderthehouse;avolleyfiredbyhisfollowersfrombehindanaloehedgemadetherascalsfly.InagapchoppedoutfortherailsoftheharbourbranchlineNostromoappeared,mountedonhissilver-greymare.Heshouted,sentafterthemoneshotfromhisrevolver,andgallopeduptothecafewindow.HehadanideathatoldGiorgiowouldchoosethatpartofthehouseforarefuge.

           Hisvoicehadpenetratedtothem,soundingbreathlesslyhurried:“Hola!Vecchio!O,Vecchio!Isitallwellwithyouinthere?”

           “Yousee—”murmuredoldViolatohiswife.SignoraTeresawassilentnow.OutsideNostromolaughed.

           “Icanhearthepadronaisnotdead.”

           “Youhavedoneyourbesttokillmewithfear,”criedSignoraTeresa.Shewantedtosaysomethingmore,buthervoicefailedher.

           Lindaraisedhereyestoherfaceforamoment,butoldGiorgioshoutedapologetically—

           “Sheisalittleupset.”

           OutsideNostromoshoutedbackwithanotherlaugh—

           “Shecannotupsetme.