Joseph Conrad: Nostromo

PART THIRD: THE LIGHTHOUSE 9. CHAPTER NINE (continued)

He bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt of
astonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the
pursuit. At the bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall,
pitching forward on his face with a force that would have stunned
a spirit less intent upon a task of love and devotion. He was up
in a moment, jarred, shaken, with a queer impression of the
terrestrial globe having been flung at his head in the dark. But
it wanted more than that to stop Dr. Monygham's body, possessed
by the exaltation of self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation,
determined not to lose whatever advantage chance put into its
way. He ran with headlong, tottering swiftness, his arms going
like a windmill in his effort to keep his balance on his crippled
feet. He lost his hat; the tails of his open gaberdine flew
behind him. He had no mind to lose sight of the indispensable
man. But it was a long time, and a long way from the Custom
House, before he managed to seize his arm from behind, roughly,
out of breath.

"Stop! Are you mad?"

Already Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if
checked in his pace by the weariness of irresolution.

"What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want me for something.
Always. Siempre Nostromo."

"What do you mean by talking of strangling me?" panted the
doctor.

"What do I mean? I mean that the king of the devils himself has
sent you out of this town of cowards and talkers to meet me
to-night of all the nights of my life."

Under the starry sky the Albergo d'ltalia Una emerged, black and
low, breaking the dark level of the plain. Nostromo stopped
altogether.

"The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?" he added, through
his clenched teeth.

"My good man, you drivel. The devil has nothing to do with this.
Neither has the town, which you may call by what name you please.
But Don Carlos Gould is neither a coward nor an empty talker. You
will admit that?" He waited. "Well?"