a double tongue, but ask the serpent what it wants--and
it will tell you the truth. It is your heart that lied. Was it not you,
girl, that I met that time on the road? And you said: 'Good evening.'
How you have deceived me!"

Desfoso asks loudly:

"Well, abbot? You are coming along with us, aren't you, father.
Otherwise something wrong might come out of it. Do I speak properly?"

The abbot replies merrily:

"Of course, of course, children. I am going with you. Without me, you
will think of the church. I have just been thinking of the church--of
the kind of church you need. Oh, it's hard to get along with you,
people!"

The fishermen go out very slowly--they are purposely lingering.

"The sea is coming," says one. "I can hear it."

"Yes, yes, the sea is coming! Did you understand what he said?"

The few who remained are more hasty in their movements. Some of them
politely bid Haggart farewell.

"Good-bye, Gart."

"I am thinking, Haggart, what kind of a church we need. This one will
not do, it seems. They prayed here a hundred years; now it is no good,
they say. Well, then, it is necessary to have a new one, a better one.
But what shall it be?"

"'Pope's a rogue, Pope's a rogue.' But, then, I am a rogue, too. Don't
you think, Gart, that I am also something of a rogue? One moment,
children, I am with you."

There is some crowding in the doorway. The abbot follows the last man
with his eyes and roars angrily:

"Eh, you, Haggart, murderer! What are you smiling at? You have no right
to despise them like that. They are my children. They have worked--have
you seen their hands, their backs? If you haven't noticed that, you are
a fool! They are tired. They want to rest. Let them rest, even at the
cost of the blood of the one you killed. I'll give them each a little,
and the rest I will throw out into the sea. Do you hear, Haggart?"

"I hear, priest."

The abbot exclaims, raising his arms:

"O Lord! Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the
murdered and the murderer! Gart, go home. Take him home, Mariet, and
wash his hands!"

"To whom do you lie, priest?" asks Haggart, slowly. "To God or to the
devil? To yourself or to the people? Or to everybody?"

He laughs bitterly.

"Eh, Gart! You are drunk with blood."

"And with what are you drunk?"

They face each other. Mariet cries angrily, placing herself between
them:

"May a thunder strike you down, both of you, that's what I am praying
to