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LL the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola, even in the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the custom-house. "If I see smoke rising over there," he thought to himself, "they are lost." Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italian workmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards the town. That part of the rabble he was pursuing seemed to think of making a stand under the house; a volley fired by his followers from behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for the rails of the harbor branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on his silver-gray mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his revolver, and he had galloped up to the café window. He had an idea that old Giorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.

His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried, "Hola! Vecchio! Oh, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?"

"You see—" murmured old Viola to his wife.

Signora Teresa was silent now. Outside Nostromo laughed.

"I can hear the padrona is not dead."

"You have done your best to kill me with fear,"