“Who made it?”
All look at the little ship.
“He,” answers Desfoso. “He made it when he wanted to go to America as a sailor. He was always asking me how a three-masted brig is fitted out.”
They look at the ship again, at its perfect little sails—at the little rags. Lebon returns.
“I don’t know how to tell you about it, abbot. The women say that Haggart and his sailor are being led over here. The women are afraid.”
Mariet shudders and looks at the door; the abbot pauses.
“Oho, it is daybreak already, the fog is turning blue!” says one fisherman to another, but his voice breaks off.
“Yes. Low tide has started,” replies the other dully.
Silence. Then uneven footsteps resound. Several young fishermen with excited faces bring in Haggart, who is bound, and push Khorre in after him, also bound. Haggart is calm; as soon as the sailor was bound, something wildly free appeared in his movements, in his manners, in the sharpness of his swift glances.
One of the men who brought Haggart says to the abbot in a low voice: