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All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola, even in the thick of thehottest scrimmage near the Custom House. "If I see smoke rising over there," he thought tohimself, "they are lost." Directly the mob had broken he pressed with a small band of Italianworkmen in that direction, which, indeed, was the shortest line towards the town. That part of therabble he was pursuing seemed to think of making a stand under the house; a volley fired by hisfollowers from behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped out for the rails of theharbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on his silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent afterthem one shot from his revolver, and galloped up to the cafe window. He had an idea that oldGiorgio would choose that part of the house for a refuge.His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: "Hola Vecchio O, Vecchio Isit all well with you in there?""You see-" murmured old Viola to his wife. Signora Teresa was silent now. Outside Nostromolaughed."I can hear the padrona is not dead.""You have done your best to kill me with fear," cried Signora Teresa. She wanted to saysomething more, but her voice failed her.Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted apologetically-"She is a little upset."Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh-"She cannot upset me."Signora Teresa found her voice."It is what I say. You have no heart-and you have no conscience, Gian' Battista-"They heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The party he led were babbling excitedlyin Italian and Spanish, inciting each other to the pursuit. He put himself at their head, crying,"Avanti