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 in the light of one candle, at the man with no faith in anything except the truth of his own sensations. Looking out of the window, Decoud was met by a darkness so impenetrable that he could see neither the mountains nor the town, nor yet the buildings near the harbor; and there was not a sound, as if the tremendous obscurity of the Placid Gulf, spreading from the waters over the land, had made it dumb as well as blind. Presently Decoud felt a light tremor of the floor and distant clank of iron. A bright white light appeared, deep in the darkness, growing bigger with a thundering noise. The rolling-stock usually kept on the sidings in Rincon was being run back to the yards for safe-keeping. Like a mysterious stirring of the darkness behind the head-light of the engine, the train passed in a gust of hollow uproar by the end of the house, which seemed to vibrate all over in response. And nothing was clearly visible but, on the end of the last flat-car, a negro, in white trousers and naked to the waist, swinging a blazing torch-basket incessantly with a circular movement of his bare arm. Decoud did not stir.

Behind him, on the back of the chair from which he had risen, hung his elegant Parisian overcoat, with a pearl-gray silk lining. But when he turned back to come to the table the candle-light fell upon a face that was grimy and scratched. His rosy lips were blackened with heat, the smoke of gunpowder. Dirt and rust tarnished the lustre of his short beard. His shirt collar and cuffs were crumpled, the blue silken tie hung down his breast like a rag; a greasy smudge crossed his white brow. He had not taken off his