While the Capataz began to devour this beggar's fare, taking up with stony-eyed
voracity piece after piece lying by his side, the Garibaldino went off, and
squatting down in another corner filled an earthenware mug with red wine out of
a wicker-covered demijohn. With a familiar gesture, as when serving customers
in the cafe, he had thrust his pipe between his teeth to have his hands free.
The Capataz drank greedily. A slight flush deepened the bronze of his cheek.
Before him, Viola, with a turn of his white and massive head towards the
staircase, took his empty pipe out of his mouth, and pronounced slowly--
"After the shot was fired down here, which killed her as surely as if the bullet had
struck her oppressed heart, she called upon you to save the children. Upon you,
Gian' Battista."
The Capataz looked up.
"Did she do that, Padrone? To save the children! They are with the English
senora, their rich benefactress. Hey! old man of the people. Thy benefactress. . .
."
"I am old," muttered Giorgio Viola. "An Englishwoman was allowed to give a bed
to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever lived. A man of
the people, too--a sailor. I may let another keep a roof over my head. Si . . . I am
old. I may let her. Life lasts too long sometimes."
"And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are out,
unless I . . . What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head? Am I to try--
and save all the Blancos together with her?"
"You shall do it," said old Viola in a strong voice. "You shall do it as my son would
have. . . ."
"Thy son, viejo! .. .. There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I must try. . . .
But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me on? . . . And so she called
upon me to save--and then----?"
"She spoke no more." The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought of the
eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form stretched out on the
bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand to his furrowed brow. "She
was dead before I could seize her hands," he stammered out, pitifully.
Before the wide eyes of the Capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark
staircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in distress,
freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man. It was impossible
for him to do anything. He could only hold his tongue, since there was no one to
trust. The treasure would be lost, probably--unless Decoud. . . . And his thought
came abruptly to an end. He perceived that he could not imagine in the least
what Decoud was likely to do.
Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionless Capataz dropped his long, soft
eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce, black-whiskered face a
touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had lasted for a long time.
"God rest her soul!" he murmured, gloomily.
