r. It is a dream."

Khorre is terrified.

"Drink some gin, Noni."

"I don't need it. I drank something else already."

"Your hands?"

"Be silent, Khorre. Don't you see that everything is silent and is
listening, and you alone are talking? The musician may feel offended!"

He laughs quietly. Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the
triumphant conciliation between man and God. The fog is growing thicker.

A loud stamping of feet--some one runs through the deserted street in
agitation.

"Noni!" whispers the sailor. "Who ran by?"

"I hear."

"Noni! Another one is running. Something is wrong."

Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night--the
echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their
terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken,
is running away somewhere. Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a
lantern floats by.

"They have found him, Khorre. They have found the man I killed, sailor!
I did not throw him into the sea; I brought him and set his head up
against the door of his house. They have found him."

Another lantern floats by, swinging from side to side. As if hearing
the alarm, the organ breaks off at a high chord. An instant of silence,
emptiness of dread waiting, and then a woman's sob of despair fills it
up to the brim.

The mist is growing thicker.

CHAPTER VI

The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning. It is
near sunrise. A large, clean, fisherman's hut. A skilfully made
little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set.
Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of
attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look
at it, study each familiar sail. Behind the dark curtain lies the body
of Philipp--this hut belonged to him.

The people are waiting for Haggart--some have gone out to search for
him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated
themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be
slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak meditatively and
cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words. Whenever
a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he
silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on
the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head
lowe