Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
flutter once upon the glazed emptiness of his stare. Then, slowly, without a limb having stirred, without a twitch of muscle or quiver of an eyelash, an expression, a living expression, came upon the still features, deep thought crept into the empty stare as if an outcast soul, a quiet, brooding soul, finding that untenanted body in its way, had come in stealthily to take possession.
The capataz frowned; and in the immense stillness of sea, islands, and coast, of cloud forms on the sky and trails of light upon the water, the knitting of that brow had the emphasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing else budged for a long time, then the capataz shook his head and again surrendered himself to the universal repose of all visible things. Suddenly he seized the oars, and with one movement made the dinghy spin round, head-on to the Great Isabel. But before he began to pull he bent once more over the brown stain on the gunwale.
"I know that thing," he muttered to himself, with a sagacious jerk of the head. "That's blood."
His stroke was long, vigorous, and steady. Now and then he looked over his shoulder at the Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to his anxious gaze like an impenetrable face. At last the stem touched the strand. He flung rather than dragged the boat up the little beach. At once, turning his back upon the sunset, he plunged with long strides into the ravine, making the water of the stream spurt and fly upward
at every step, as if spurning its shallow, clear, murmuring spirit, with his feet. He wanted to save every moment of daylight.
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