majesty of silence and peace. Four ingots short!

and blood! The capataz got up slowly. " He might simply have cut his hand," he muttered. "But, then" He sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as if he had been chained to the treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air of hopeless submission,; like a slave set on guard. Once only he lifted his head smartly; the rattle of hot musketry fire had reach- ed his ears, like pouring from on high a stream of dry peas upon a drum. After listening for a while, he said, j half aloud : " He will never come back to explain." And he lowered his head again. "Impossible!" he muttered, gloomily. The sounds of firing died out. The loom of a great conflagration in Sulaco flashed up red above the coast, played on the clouds at the head of the gulf, seemed to touch with a ruddy and sinister reflection the forms of the three Isabels. He never saw it, though he raised his head. "But, then, I cannot know," he pronounced dis- tinctly, and remained silent and staring for hours. He could not know. Nobody was to know. As might have been supposed, the end of Don Martin Decoud never became a subject of speculation for any one except Nostromo. Had the truth of the facts been known, there would always ha*e remained the ques- tion, Why? Whereas the version of his death at the sinking of the lighter had no uncertainty of motive.

The young apostle of Separation had died striving for