e. . . . Senora, she would have followed to the end of
the world Nostromo the thief. . . . I have said the word. The spell is
broken!"

A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down.

"I cannot see her. . . . No matter," he went on, with the shadow of the
old magnificent carelessness in his voice. "One kiss is enough, if
there is no time for more. An airy soul, senora! Bright and warm, like
sunshine--soon clouded, and soon serene. They would crush it there
between them. Senora, cast on her the eye of your compassion, as famed
from one end of the land to the other as the courage and daring of
the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in time. And even
Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not Ramirez
who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores." He paused, made an
effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared--

"I die betrayed--betrayed by----"

But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed.

"She would not have betrayed me," he began again, opening his eyes very
wide. "She was faithful. We were going very far--very soon. I could have
torn myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I
would have left boxes and boxes of it--full. And Decoud took four. Four
ingots. Why? Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure
with four ingots missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The
doctor would have said that. Alas! it holds me yet!"

Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated--cold with apprehension.

"What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?"

"Who knows? I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was
to come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think
I have killed him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has
killed me. It has held me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is.
But you are the wife of Don Carlos, who put it into my hands and said,
'Save it on your life.' And when I returned, and you all thought it
was lost, what do I hear? 'It was nothing of importance. Let it go. Up,
Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for dear life!'"

"Nostromo!" Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. "I, too, have hated
the idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart."

"Marvellous!--that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so
well how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the
poor, as old Giorgio says. You have been always good to the