“Strike them on the head, Noni. Strike them on the head!”
“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart. There is no ship, Khorre—there is nothing. Cut out my heart, comrade—throw out the traitor from my breast.”
“I want to play some more, Noni. Strike them on the head!”
“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing—it is all a lie. I want to drink.”
He takes a bottle and laughs:
“Look, sailor—here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked. It is all a deception, Khorre!”
“I want to play.”
“Here my sorrow is locked. Look! In the green glass it seems like water, but it isn’t water. Let us drink, Khorre—there on the bottom I see my laughter and your song. There is no ship—there is nothing! Who is coming?”
He seizes his revolver. The fire in the fire-place is burning faintly; the shadows are tossing about—but two of these shadows are darker than the others and they are walking. Khorre shouts:
“Halt!”