“Hello, abbot.”
“You have arranged a fine night, Haggart!”
Haggart speaks with restraint:
“It is unpleasant for me to see you. Why did you come here? Go home, priest, no one will touch you. Keep on fishing—and what else were you doing? Oh, yes—make your own prayers. We are going out to the ocean; your daughter, you know, is also going with me. Do you see the ship? That is mine. It’s a pity that you don’t know about ships—you would have laughed for joy at the sight of such a beautiful ship! Why is he silent, Mariet? You had better tell him.”
ABBOT—Prayers? In what language? Have you, perhaps, discovered a new language in which prayers reach God? Oh, Haggart, Haggart!
He weeps, covering his face with his hands. Haggart, alarmed, asks:
“You are crying, abbot?”
“Look, Gart, he is crying. Father never cried. I am afraid, Gart.”
The abbot stops crying. Heaving a deep sigh, he says:
“I don’t know what they call you: Haggart or devil or something else—I have come to you with a request. Do you hear, robber, with a request? Tell your crew not to gnash their teeth like that—I don’t like it.”