of Garibaldi's immortal thousand in the conquest of Sicily. He
had an immense scorn for this outbreak of scoundrels and leperos, who
did not know the meaning of the word "liberty."

He grounded his old gun, and, turning his head, glanced at the coloured
lithograph of Garibaldi in a black frame on the white wall; a thread
of strong sunshine cut it perpendicularly. His eyes, accustomed to the
luminous twilight, made out the high colouring of the face, the red of
the shirt, the outlines of the square shoulders, the black patch of the
Bersagliere hat with cock's feathers curling over the crown. An immortal
hero! This was your liberty; it gave you not only life, but immortality
as well!

For that one man his fanaticism had suffered no diminution. In the
moment of relief from the apprehension of the greatest danger, perhaps,
his family had been exposed to in all their wanderings, he had turned to
the picture of his old chief, first and only, then laid his hand on his
wife's shoulder.

The children kneeling on the floor had not moved. Signora Teresa opened
her eyes a little, as though he had awakened her from a very deep and
dreamless slumber. Before he had time in his deliberate way to say a
reassuring word she jumped up, with the children clinging to her, one on
each side, gasped for breath, and let out a hoarse shriek.

It was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck on the
outside of the shutter. They could hear suddenly the snorting of a
horse, the restive tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hard path in front
of the house; the toe of a boot struck at the shutter again; a spur
jingled at every blow, and an excited voice shouted, "Hola! hola, in
there!"

CHAPTER FOUR

All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola,
even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. "If
I see smoke rising over there," he thought to himself, "they are lost."
Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian
workmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards
the town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of
making a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from
behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for
the rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on
his silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his
revolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an