sed by the wind, the flame of the illumination-lamp is
quivering in yellow, restless spots over the uneven, mutilated walls,
losing itself in the dark opening of the door, which leads to the other
rooms of the castle.

Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run
noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his
straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion, rush
back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and uneven;
from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes several
weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast helplessly.

Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against
the rocks--this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean. The
ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the waves. It
responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with
the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the
whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages. It
whispers and mutters like an old woman.

The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind
spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under
himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary
clothes, but is unable to wake up--his intoxication produced by a two
days' spree is heavy and severe. But now the wind whines more powerfully
than before; something heaves a deep groan. Perhaps a part of a
destroyed wall has sunk into the sea. The quivering yellow spots
commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and
Khorre awakes.

He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand
anything.

The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling
the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of
sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling
with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting,
scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking
sensibly and rapidly--it seems that soon one will see a strange human
face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But
there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold,
brings Khorre to his senses.

"Noni!" he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a
moment's thought, he calls once more:

"Captain. Noni!