d the sun."

"Last evening I was drunk and I slept. But this is not true. I have
never seen it. You are testing me. Beware!"

"Shall I tell you if I see it again?"

"How can you tell me?"

"I shall come up your hill."

Haggart looks at her attentively.

"If you are only telling me the truth. What sort of people are there in
your land--false or not? In the lands I know, all the people are false.
Has any one else seen that ship?"

"I don't know. I was alone on the shore. Now I see that it was not your
ship. You are not glad to hear of it."

Haggart is silent, as though he has forgotten her presence.

"You have a pretty uniform. You are silent? I shall come up to you."

Haggart is silent. His dark profile is stern and wildly gloomy; every
motion of his powerful body, every fold of his clothes, is full of the
dull silence of the taciturnity of long hours, or days, or perhaps of a
lifetime.

"Your sailor will not kill me? You are silent. I have a betrothed. His
name is Philipp, but I don't love him. You are now like that rock which
lies on the road leading to the castle."

Haggart turns around silently and starts.

"I also remember your name. Your name is Haggart."

He goes away.

"Haggart!" calls Mariet, but he has already disappeared behind the
house. Only the creaking of the scattered cobblestones is heard, dying
away in the misty air. Dan, who has taken a rest, is playing again; he
is telling God about those who have perished at sea.

The night is growing darker. Neither the rock nor the castle is visible
now; only the light in the window is redder and brighter.

The dull thuds of the tireless breakers are telling the story of
different lives.

CHAPTER II

A strong wind is tossing the fragment of a sail which is hanging over
the large, open window. The sail is too small to cover the entire
window, and, through the gaping hole, the dark night is breathing
inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind, saturated with
the sea, is heavy and damp.

Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are sleeping
now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners of the room
there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the only taburet is
overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the sailor got up, lit a
large illumination lamp, and was about to do more, but he was overcome
by intoxication again and fell asleep upon his thin mattress of straw
and seagrass. Tos