surf. Like seagulls in a storm, the sounds soar amidst the high
waves, unable to rise higher on their overburdened wings. The stern
ocean holds them captive by its wild and eternal charms. But when
they have risen, the lowered ocean roars more dully; now they rise
still higher--and the heavy, almost voiceless pile of water is
shaking helplessly. Varied voices resound through the expanse of the
resplendent distances. Day has one sorrow, night has another sorrow,
and the proud, ever rebellious, black ocean suddenly seems to become
an eternal slave.

Her cheek pressed against the cold stone of the wall, Mariet is
listening, all alone. She is growing reconciled to something; she is
grieving ever more quietly.

Suddenly, firm footsteps are heard on the road; the cobblestones are
creaking under the vigorous steps--and a man appears from behind the
church. He walks slowly and sternly, like those who do not roam in
vain, and who know the earth from end to end. He carries his hat in
his hands; he is thinking of something, looking ahead. On his broad
shoulders is set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark
profile is stern and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is
dressed in a partly military uniform, he does not subject his body to
the discipline of his clothes, but masters it as a free man. The
folds of his clothes fall submissively.

Mariet greets him:

"Good evening."

He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly.