The light of the two candles burning before the perpendicular and
breathless immobility of the late Senor Hirsch threw a gleam afar over
land and water, like a signal in the night. He remained to startle
Nostromo by his presence, and to puzzle Dr. Monygham by the mystery of
his atrocious end.
"But why shot?" the doctor again asked himself, audibly. This time he
was answered by a dry laugh from Nostromo.
"You seem much concerned at a very natural thing, senor doctor. I wonder
why? It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after
another, if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito, or Fuentes, or Gamacho.
And we may even get the estrapade, too, or worse--quien sabe?--with your
pretty tale of the silver you put into Sotillo's head."
"It was in his head already," the doctor protested. "I only--"
"Yes. And you only nailed it there so that the devil himself--"
"That is precisely what I meant to do," caught up the doctor.
"That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as I say. You are a
dangerous man."
Their voices, which without rising had been growing quarrelsome, ceased
suddenly.
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