Ностромо
Chapter 7
“Itismostamazing,”mutteredNostromo.“Couldanybodyhaveconcealedhimselfonboardwhilethelighterwaslyingalongsidethewharf?”
“Andyousayitwaslikesobbing?”askedDecoud,loweringhisvoice,too.“Ifheisweeping,whoeverheishecannotbeverydangerous.”
Clamberingoverthepreciouspileinthemiddle,theycrouchedlowontheforesideofthemastandgropedunderthehalf-deck.Rightforward,inthenarrowestpart,theirhandscameuponthelimbsofaman,whoremainedassilentasdeath.Toostartledthemselvestomakeasound,theydraggedhimaftbyonearmandthecollarofhiscoat.Hewaslimp—lifeless.
Thelightofthebitofcandlefelluponaround,hook-nosedfacewithblackmoustachesandlittleside-whiskers.Hewasextremelydirty.Agreasygrowthofbeardwassproutingontheshavenpartsofthecheeks.Thethicklipswereslightlyparted,buttheeyesremainedclosed.Decoud,tohisimmenseastonishment,recognizedSenorHirsch,thehidemerchantfromEsmeralda.Nostromo,too,hadrecognizedhim.Andtheygazedateachotheracrossthebody,lyingwithitsnakedfeethigherthanitshead,inanabsurdpretenceofsleep,faintness,ordeath.
