He winks slyly at Mariet, who has now lifted her head.

"What are you prating there, you scarecrow?" asks the abbot.

Khorre continues:

"Here it goes, Noni; I am straightening it out little by little!
But where have we buried it, the barrel? Do you remember, Noni? I
have forgotten. They say it's from the gin, kind people; they say
that one's memory fails from too much gin. I am a drunkard, that's
true."

"If you are not inventing--then you had better choke yourself with
your gold, you dog!" says the abbot.

HAGGART--Khorre!

KHORRE--Yes.

HAGGART--To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes. Abbot, order a
hundred lashes for him!

ABBOT--With pleasure, my son. With pleasure.

The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but
there is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at
their pipes, in the light quiver of their tanned hands. Some of
them arise and look out of the window with feigned indifference.

"The fog is rising!" says one, looking out of the window. "Do you