The
others stared, shifting from foot to foot, and whispering short remarks
to each other.
Sotillo buckled on his sword and gave curt, peremptory orders to hasten
the retirement decided upon in the afternoon. Sinister, impressive, his
sombrero pulled right down upon his eyebrows, he marched first through
the door in such disorder of mind that he forgot utterly to provide for
Dr. Monygham's possible return. As the officers trooped out after him,
one or two looked back hastily at the late Senor Hirsch, merchant from
Esmeralda, left swinging rigidly at rest, alone with the two burning
candles. In the emptiness of the room the burly shadow of head and
shoulders on the wall had an air of life.
Below, the troops fell in silently and moved off by companies without
drum or trumpet. The old scarecrow major commanded the rearguard; but
the party he left behind with orders to fire the Custom House (and "burn
the carcass of the treacherous Jew where it hung") failed somehow in
their haste to set the staircase properly alight. The body of the
late Senor Hirsch dwelt alone for a time in the dismal solitude of the
unfinished building, resounding weirdly with sudden slams and clicks
of doors and latches, with rustling scurries of torn papers, and the
tremulous sighs that at each gust of wind passed under the high roof.
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