ing written so far, Don Martin Decoud, the exotic dandy of the
Parisian boulevard, got up and walked across the sanded floor of the
cafe at one end of the Albergo of United Italy, kept by Giorgio Viola,
the old companion of Garibaldi. The highly coloured lithograph of the
Faithful Hero seemed to look dimly, in the light of one candle, at the
man with no faith in anything except the truth of his own sensations.
Looking out of the window, Decoud was met by a darkness so impenetrable
that he could see neither the mountains nor the town, nor yet the
buildings near the harbour; and there was not a sound, as if the
tremendous obscurity of the Placid Gulf, spreading from the waters over
the land, had made it dumb as well as blind. Presently Decoud felt a
light tremor of the floor and a distant clank of iron. A bright white
light appeared, deep in the darkness, growing bigger with a thundering
noise. The rolling stock usually kept on the sidings in Rincon was being
run back to the yards for safe keeping. Like a mysterious stirring of
the darkness behind the headlight of the engine, the train passed in a
gust of hollow uproar, by the end of the house, which seemed to vibrate
all over in response. And nothing was clearly visible but, on the end
of the last flat car, a negro, in white trousers and naked to the waist,
swinging a blazing torch basket incessantly with a circular movement of
his bare arm. Decoud did not stir.

Behind him, on the back of the chair from which he had risen, hung his
elegant Parisian overcoat, with a pearl-grey silk lining. But when he
turned back to come to the table the candlelight fell upon a face that
was grimy and scratched. His rosy lips were blackened with heat, the
smoke of gun-powder. Dirt and rust tarnished the lustre of his short
beard. His shirt collar and cuffs were crumpled; the blue silken tie
hung down his breast like a rag; a greasy smudge crossed his white brow.
He had not taken off his clothing nor used water, except to snatch a
hasty drink greedily, for some forty hours. An awful restlessness had
made him its own, had marked him with all the signs of desperate strife,
and put a dry, sleepless stare into his eyes. He murmured to himself
in a hoarse voice, "I wonder if there's any bread here," looked vaguely
about him, then dropped into the chair and took the pencil up again. He
became aware he had not eaten anything for many hours.

It occurred to him that no one could understand him so