"And here is still another, the last request, O Lord. I shall not
ask any more: The tears do not dry up in the eyes of our old women
crying for those who have perished. Take their memory away, O Lord,
and give them strong forgetfulness. There are still other trifles, O
Lord, but let the others pray whose turn has come before You. Amen."

Silence. Old Dan tugs the abbot by the sleeve, and whispers
something in his ear.

ABBOT--Dan is asking me to pray for those who perished at sea.

The women exclaim in plaintive chorus:

"For those who perished at sea! For those who died at sea!"

Some of them kneel. The abbot looks tenderly at their bowed heads,
exhausted with waiting and fear, and says:

"No priest should pray for those who died at sea--these women should
pray. Make it so, O Lord, that they should not weep so much!"

Silence. The incoming tide roars more loudly--the ocean is carrying
to the earth its noise, its secrets, its bitter, briny taste of
unexplored depths.

Soft voices say:

"The sea is coming."