Haggart is silent for a minute; then he takes the pipe from his mouth and laughs gaily.
“Have you invented it yourself?”
“I think so,” says Khorre modestly.
“Clever! And it was worth teaching you sacred history for that! Were you taught by a priest?”
“Yes. In prison. At that time I was as innocent as a dove. That’s also from sacred scriptures, Noni. That’s what they always say there.”
“He was a fool! It was not necessary to teach you, but to hang you,” says Haggart, adding morosely: “Don’t talk nonsense, sailor. Hand me a bottle.”
They drink. Khorre stamps his foot against the stone floor and asks:
“Do you like this motionless floor?”
“I should have liked to have the deck of a ship dancing under my feet.”
“Noni!” exclaims the sailor enthusiastically. “Noni! Now I hear real words! Let us go away from here. I cannot live like this. I am drowning in gin. I don’t understand your actions at all, Noni! You have lost your mind. Reveal yourself to me, my boy. I was your nurse. I nursed you, Noni, when your father brought you on board ship. I remember how the city was burning then and we were putting out to sea, and I didn’t know what to do with you; you whined like a little pig in the cook’s room. I even wanted to throw you overboard—you annoyed me so much. Ah, Noni, it is all so touching that I can’t bear to recall it. I must have a drink. Take a drink, too, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once!”