The bright colours of a Mexican serape twisted on the cantle, the enormous silver buttons on the embroidered leather jacket, the row of tiny silver buttons down the seam of the trousers, the snowy linen, a silk sash with embroidered ends, the silver plates on headstall and saddle, proclaimed the unapproachable style of the famous Capataz de Cargadores--a Mediterranean sailor--got up with more finished splendour than any well-to-do young ranchero of the Campo had ever displayed on a high holiday.
"It is a great thing for me," murmured old Giorgio, still thinking of the house, for now he had grown weary of change.

"The signora just said a word to the Englishman." "The old Englishman who has enough money to pay for a railway?
He is going off in an hour," remarked Nostromo, carelessly.

"_Buon viaggio_, then.

I've guarded his bones all the way from the Entrada pass down to the plain and into Sulaco, as though he had been my own father." Old Giorgio only moved his head sideways absently.

Nostromo pointed after the Goulds' carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in the old town wall that was like a wall of matted jungle.
"And I have sat alone at night with my revolver in the Company's warehouse time and again by the side of that other Englishman's heap of silver, guarding it as though it had been my own." Viola seemed lost in thought.