ryone, had come to the surface.
Decoud, with careful movements, slipped off his overcoat and divested
himself of his boots; he did not consider himself bound in honour to
sink with the treasure. His object was to get down to Barrios, in Cayta,
as the Capataz knew very well; and he, too, meant, in his own way,
to put into that attempt all the desperation of which he was capable.
Nostromo muttered, "True, true! You are a politician, senor. Rejoin the
army, and start another revolution." He pointed out, however, that there
was a little boat belonging to every lighter fit to carry two men, if
not more. Theirs was towing behind.

Of that Decoud had not been aware. Of course, it was too dark to see,
and it was only when Nostromo put his hand upon its painter fastened to
a cleat in the stern that he experienced a full measure of relief. The
prospect of finding himself in the water and swimming, overwhelmed
by ignorance and darkness, probably in a circle, till he sank from
exhaustion, was revolting. The barren and cruel futility of such an end
intimidated his affectation of careless pessimism. In comparison to it,
the chance of being left floating in a boat, exposed to thirst, hunger,
discovery, imprisonment, execution, presented itself with an aspect of
amenity worth securing even at the cost of some self-contempt. He did
not accept Nostromo's proposal that he should get into the boat at
once. "Something sudden may overwhelm us, senor," the Capataz remarked
promising faithfully, at the same time, to let go the painter at the
moment when the necessity became manifest.

But Decoud assured him lightly that he did not mean to take to the boat
till the very last moment, and that then he meant the Capataz to come
along, too. The darkness of the gulf was no longer for him the end of
all things. It was part of a living world since, pervading it, failure
and death could be felt at your elbow. And at the same time it was a
shelter. He exulted in its impenetrable obscurity. "Like a wall, like a
wall," he muttered to himself.

The only thing which checked his confidence was the thought of Senor
Hirsch. Not to have bound and gagged him seemed to Decoud now the height
of improvident folly. As long as the miserable creature had the power to
raise a yell he was a constant danger. His abject terror was mute now,
but there was no saying from what cause it might suddenly find vent in
shrieks.

This very madness of fear which both Decoud and