ere to die? That is unChristian, Christian."

"Although I am a priest, I am a poor Christian, and the Lord knows it,"
says the abbot angrily. "I have no desire to save such a rude scamp. Let
us go, Mariet."

"Captain?" asks Khorre.

"Be silent, Khorre," says Haggart. "So that's the way you speak, abbot;
so you are not a liar?"

"Come with me and you shall see."

"Where shall I go with you?"

"To my house."

"To your house? Do you hear, Khorre? To the priest! But do you know whom
you are calling to your house?"

"No, I don't know. But I see that you are young and strong. I see that
although your face is gloomy, it is handsome, and I think that you could
be as good a workman as others."

"A workman? Khorre, do you hear what the priest says?"

Both laugh. The abbot says angrily:

"You are both drunk."

"Yes, a little! But if I were sober I would have laughed still more,"
answers Haggart.

"Don't laugh, Haggart," says Mariet.

Haggart replies angrily:

"I don't like the tongues of false priests, Mariet--they are coated with
truth on top, like a lure for flies. Take him away, and you, girl, go
away, too! I have forgotten your name!"

He sits down and stares ahead sternly. His eyebrows move close together,
and his hand is pressed down heavily by his lowered head, by his strong
chin.

"He does not know you, father! Tell him about yourself. You speak so
well. If you wish it, he will believe you, father. Haggart!"

Haggart maintains silence.

"Noni! Captain!"

Silence. Khorre whispers mysteriously:

"He feels sad. Girl, tell the priest that he feels sad."

"Khorre," begins Mariet. Haggart looks around quickly.

"What about Khorre? Why don't you like him, Mariet? We are so much like
each other."

"He is like you?" says the woman with contempt. "No, Haggart! But here
is what he did: He gave gin to little Noni again to-day. He moistened
his finger and gave it to him. He will kill him, father."

Haggart laughs:

"Is that so bad? He did the same to me."

"And he dipped him in cold water. The boy is very weak," says Mariet
morosely.

"I don't like to hear you speak of weakness. Our boy must be strong.
Khorre! Three days without gin."

He shows him three fingers.

"Who should be without gin? The boy or I?" asks Khorre gloomily.

"You!" replies Haggart furiously. "Begone!"

The sailor sullenly gathers his belongings--the pouch, the pipe, and the
flask--and wabbling, goes off. But he does not