ssolution which beset a subjective nature at any strong
check to its ruling passion had a bitterness approaching that of death
itself. He was simple. He was as ready to become the prey of any belief,
superstition, or desire as a child.

The facts of his situation he could appreciate like a man with a
distinct experience of the country. He saw them clearly. He was as if
sobered after a long bout of intoxication. His fidelity had been taken
advantage of. He had persuaded the body of Cargadores to side with the
Blancos against the rest of the people; he had had interviews with Don
Jose; he had been made use of by Father Corbelan for negotiating with
Hernandez; it was known that Don Martin Decoud had admitted him to
a sort of intimacy, so that he had been free of the offices of the
Porvenir. All these things had flattered him in the usual way. What
did he care about their politics? Nothing at all. And at the end of it
all--Nostromo here and Nostromo there--where is Nostromo? Nostromo can
do this and that--work all day and ride all night--behold! he found
himself a marked Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for
instance, would choose to take, now the Montero party, had, after all,
mastered the town. The Europeans had given up; the Caballeros had given
up. Don Martin had indeed explained it was only temporary--that he
was going to bring Barrios to the rescue. Where was that now--with Don
Martin (whose ironic manner of talk had always made the Capataz feel
vaguely uneasy) stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody had given up.
Even Don Carlos had given up. The hurried removal of the treasure out
to sea meant nothing else than that. The Capataz de Cargadores, on a
revulsion of subjectiveness, exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all
his world without faith and courage. He had been betrayed!

With the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of his silence and
immobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowded around
the white, misty sheen of Higuerota, Nostromo laughed aloud again,
sprang abruptly to his feet, and stood still. He must go. But where?

"There is no mistake. They keep us and encourage us as if we were dogs
born to fight and hunt for them. The vecchio is right," he said, slowly
and scathingly. He remembered old Giorgio taking his pipe out of his
mouth to throw these words over his shoulder at the cafe, full of
engine-drivers and fitters from the railway workshops. This image fixed
his wav