Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART THIRD: THE LIGHTHOUSE 8. CHAPTER EIGHT (continued)

The barking of the dogs about that man's ranche was the first
thing that checked his speed. He had forgotten the dogs. He
swerved sharply, and plunged into the palm-grove, as into a
wilderness of columns in an immense hall, whose dense obscurity
seemed to whisper and rustle faintly high above his head. He
traversed it, entered a ravine, and climbed to the top of a steep
ridge free of trees and bushes.

From there, open and vague in the starlight, he saw the plain
between the town and the harbour. In the woods above some
night-bird made a strange drumming noise. Below beyond the
palmaria on the beach, the Indian's dogs continued to bark
uproariously. He wondered what had upset them so much, and,
peering down from his elevation, was surprised to detect
unaccountable movements of the ground below, as if several oblong
pieces of the plain had been in motion. Those dark, shifting
patches, alternately catching and eluding the eye, altered their
place always away from the harbour, with a suggestion of
consecutive order and purpose. A light dawned upon him. It was a
column of infantry on a night march towards the higher broken
country at the foot of the hills. But he was too much in the dark
about everything for wonder and speculation.

The plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the
ridge and found himself in the open solitude, between the harbour
and the town. Its spaciousness, extended indefinitely by an
effect of obscurity, rendered more sensible his profound
isolation. His pace became slower. No one waited for him; no one
thought of him; no one expected or wished his return. "Betrayed!
Betrayed!" he muttered to himself. No one cared. He might have
been drowned by this time. No one would have cared--unless,
perhaps, the children, he thought to himself. But they were with
the English signora, and not thinking of him at all.

He wavered in his purpose of making straight for the Casa Viola.
To what end? What could he expect there? His life seemed to fail
him in all its details, even to the scornful reproaches of
Teresa. He was aware painfully of his reluctance. Was it that
remorse which she had prophesied with, what he saw now, was her
last breath?