On his broad shoulders is
set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark profile is stern
and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is dressed in a partly
military uniform, he does not subject his body to the discipline of his
clothes, but masters it as a free man. The folds of his clothes fall
submissively.

Mariet greets him:

"Good evening."

He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly. He
waits silently, as though regretting to part with his silence.

"Did you say 'Good evening' to me?" he asks at last.

"Yes, to you. Good evening."

He looks at her silently.

"Well, good evening. This is the first time I have been greeted in this
land, and I was surprised when I heard your voice. Come nearer to me.
Why don't you sleep when all are sleeping? Who are you?"

"I am the daughter of the abbot of this place."

He laughs:

"Have priests children? Or are there special priests in your land?"

"Yes, the priests are different here."

"Now, I recall, Khorre told me something about the priest of this
place."

"Who is Khorre?"

"My sailor. The one who buys gin in your settlement."

He suddenly laughs again and continues:

"Yes, he told me something. Was it your father who cursed the Pope and
declared his own church independent?"

"Yes."

"And he makes his own prayers? And goes to sea with the fishermen? And
punishes with his own hands those who disobey him?"

"Yes. I am his daughter. My name is Mariet. And what is your name?"

"I have many names. Which one shall I tell you?"

"The one by which you were christened."

"What makes you think that I was christened?"

"Then tell me the name by which your mother called you."

"What makes you think that I had a mother? I do not know my mother."

Mariet says softly:

"Neither do I know my mother."

Both are silent. They look at each other kindly.

"Is that so?" he says. "You, too, don't know your mother? Well, then,
call me Haggart."

"Haggart?"

"Yes. Do you like the name? I have invented it myself--Haggart. It's a
pity that you have been named already. I would have invented a fine name
for you."

Suddenly he frowned.

"Tell me, Mariet, why is your land so mournful? I walk along your paths
and only the cobblestones creak under my feet. And on both sides are
huge rocks."

"That is on the road to the castle--none of us ever go there. Is it true
that these stones stop the passersby with the question: 'Where are