CHAPTER IV


At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky
shore, stands a man--a small, dark, motionless dot. Behind him is
the cold, almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the
ocean is rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness. Its
mighty approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are
rising from the depths. Even sniffing sounds are heard--it is as
though a drove of monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying
down on their backs, and panting contentedly, deriving their
monstrous pleasures.

The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying
seaweeds, of its grass. The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.

And there is but one little light in the black space of water and
night--the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.

The rattle of cobblestones is heard from under a cautious step:
Haggart is coming down to the sea along a steep path. He pauses,
silent with restraint, breathing deeply after the strain of passing
the dangerous slope, and goes forward. He is now at the edge--he
straightens himself and looks for a long time at him who had long
before taken his strange but customary place at the very edge of the
deep. He makes a few steps forward and greets him irresolutely and
gently--Haggart greets him even timidly: