Ностромо

           Severaltimeshehadenteredthetorture-chamberwherehissword,horsewhip,revolver,andfield-glasswerelyingonthetable,toaskwithforcedcalmness,“Willyouspeakthetruthnow?No?Icanwait.”Buthecouldnotaffordtowaitmuchlonger.Thatwasjustit.Everytimehewentinandcameoutwithaslamofthedoor,thesentryonthelandingpresentedarms,andgotinreturnablack,venomous,unsteadyglance,which,inreality,sawnothingatall,beingmerelythereflectionofthesoulwithin—asoulofgloomyhatred,irresolution,avarice,andfury.

           Thesunhadsetwhenhewentinoncemore.Asoldiercarriedintwolightedcandlesandslunkout,shuttingthedoorwithoutnoise.

           “Speak,thouJewishchildofthedevil!Thesilver!Thesilver,Isay!Whereisit?Wherehaveyouforeignrogueshiddenit?Confessor—”

           Aslightquiverpassedupthetautropefromtherackedlimbs,butthebodyofSenorHirsch,enterprisingbusinessmanfromEsmeralda,hungundertheheavybeamperpendicularandsilent,facingthecolonelawfully.Theinflowofthenightair,cooledbythesnowsoftheSierra,spreadgraduallyadeliciousfreshnessthroughthecloseheatoftheroom.

           “Speak—thief—scoundrel—picaro—or—”

           Sotillohadseizedtheriding-whip,andstoodwithhisarmliftedup.