breathing inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind,
saturated with the sea, is heavy and damp.

Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are
sleeping now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners
of the room there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the
only taburet is overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the
sailor got up, lit a large illumination lamp, and was about to do
more, but he was overcome by intoxication again and fell asleep upon
his thin mattress of straw and seagrass. Tossed by the wind, the
flame of the illumination-lamp is quivering in yellow, restless spots
over the uneven, mutilated walls, losing itself in the dark opening
of the door, which leads to the other rooms of the castle.

Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run
noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his
straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion,
rush back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and
uneven; from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes
several weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast
helplessly.

Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating
against the rocks--this is the second day a storm is raging in the
ocean. The ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the
waves. It responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling
plaster, with the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are
torn down, with the whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its
way in the passages. It whispers and mutters like an old woman.