gh his thought had butted against a solid obstacle. The doctor's
mind pursued its own schemes with Machiavellian subtlety. He said as
sympathetically as he was able--

"It is unfortunate, Capataz. But no one would think of blaming you. Very
unfortunate. To begin with, the treasure ought never to have left the
mountain. But it was Decoud who--however, he is dead. There is no need
to talk of him."

"No," assented Nostromo, as the doctor paused, "there is no need to talk
of dead men. But I am not dead yet."

"You are all right. Only a man of your intrepidity could have saved
himself."

In this Dr. Monygham was sincere. He esteemed highly the intrepidity of
that man, whom he valued but little, being disillusioned as to mankind
in general, because of the particular instance in which his own manhood
had failed. Having had to encounter singlehanded during his period of
eclipse many physical dangers, he was well aware of the most dangerous
element common to them all: of the crushing, paralyzing sense of human
littleness, which is what really defeats a man struggling with natural
forces, alone, far from the eyes of his fellows. He was eminently fit
to appreciate the mental image he made for himself of the Capataz, after
hours of tension and anxiety, precipitated suddenly into an abyss of
waters and darkness, without earth or sky, and confronting it not only
with an undismayed mind, but with sensible success. Of course, the man
was an incomparable swimmer, that was known, but the doctor judged that
this instance testified to a still greater intrepidity of spirit. It was
pleasing to him; he augured well from it for the success of the arduous
mission with which he meant to entrust the Capataz so marvellously
restored to usefulness. And in a tone vaguely gratified, he observed--

"It must have been terribly dark!"

"It was the worst darkness of the Golfo," the Capataz assented, briefly.
He was mollified by what seemed a sign of some faint interest in such
things as had befallen him, and dropped a few descriptive phrases with
an affected and curt nonchalance. At that moment he felt communicative.
He expected the continuance of that interest which, whether accepted
or rejected, would have restored to him his personality--the only thing
lost in that desperate affair. But the doctor, engrossed by a desperate
adventure of his own, was terrible in the pursuit of his idea. He let an
exclamation of regret escape him.

"I could almos