voices? What are the voices that agitate me and fill my soul with
phantoms of sorrow, and yet say nothing? And whence comes this
night? And whence comes my sorrow? Are you sighing, sir, or is it
the sigh of the ocean blending with your voice? My hearing is
beginning to fail me, my master, my dear master."

The sad voice replies:

"It is my sigh, Haggart. My great sorrow is responding to your
sorrow. You see at night like an owl, Haggart; then look at my thin
hands and at my rings. Are they not pale? And look at my face--is
it not pale? Is it not pale--is it not pale? Oh, Haggart, my dear
Haggart."

They grieve silently. The heavy ocean is splashing, tossing about,
spitting and snorting and sniffing peacefully. The sea is calm
to-night and alone, as always.

"Tell Haggart--" says the sad voice.

"Very well. I will tell Haggart."

"Tell Haggart that I love him."

Silence--and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:

"If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you
were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something
to Haggart? But no--I sense a different meaning in your words, and
you frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real