The people are waiting for Haggart--some have gone out to search for
him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated
themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to
be slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak
meditatively and cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary
words. Whenever a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the
curtain, then he silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those
who have no place on the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his
head lowered; when any one is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside
with his hand. He is silent and knits his brows convulsively.
Occasionally he glances at the door or at the window and listens.

The only woman present there is Mariet. She is sitting by the table
and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes. She
shudders slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it
opens, at the noise of distant footsteps.

At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth. And such
perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the
distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross. Warning is thus given to the
ships that have lost their way in the fog.

Some one in the corner says:

"Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed
him. Our people can't strike like that. He stuck the knife here,
then slashed over there, and almost cut his head off."