ass of the treacherous Jew where it hung") failed somehow in
their haste to set the staircase properly alight. The body of the
late Senor Hirsch dwelt alone for a time in the dismal solitude of the
unfinished building, resounding weirdly with sudden slams and clicks
of doors and latches, with rustling scurries of torn papers, and the
tremulous sighs that at each gust of wind passed under the high roof.
The light of the two candles burning before the perpendicular and
breathless immobility of the late Senor Hirsch threw a gleam afar over
land and water, like a signal in the night. He remained to startle
Nostromo by his presence, and to puzzle Dr. Monygham by the mystery of
his atrocious end.

"But why shot?" the doctor again asked himself, audibly. This time he
was answered by a dry laugh from Nostromo.

"You seem much concerned at a very natural thing, senor doctor. I wonder
why? It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after
another, if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito, or Fuentes, or Gamacho.
And we may even get the estrapade, too, or worse--quien sabe?--with your
pretty tale of the silver you put into Sotillo's head."

"It was in his head already," the doctor protested. "I only--"

"Yes. And you only nailed it there so that the devil himself--"

"That is precisely what I meant to do," caught up the doctor.

"That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as I say. You are a
dangerous man."

Their voices, which without rising had been growing quarrelsome, ceased
suddenly. The late Senor Hirsch, erect and shadowy against the stars,
seemed to be waiting attentive, in impartial silence.

But Dr. Monygham had no mind to quarrel with Nostromo. At this supremely
critical point of Sulaco's fortunes it was borne upon him at last that
this man was really indispensable, more indispensable than ever the
infatuation of Captain Mitchell, his proud discoverer, could conceive;
far beyond what Decoud's best dry raillery about "my illustrious friend,
the unique Capataz de Cargadores," had ever intended. The fellow was
unique. He was not "one in a thousand." He was absolutely the only
one. The doctor surrendered. There was something in the genius of that
Genoese seaman which dominated the destinies of great enterprises and
of many people, the fortunes of Charles Gould, the fate of an admirable
woman. At this last thought the doctor had to clear his throat before he
could speak.

In a completely changed tone he