“The sea is coming.”
“High tide has started.”
“The sea is coming.”
Mariet kisses her father’s hand.
“Woman!” says the priest tenderly. “Listen, Gart, isn’t it strange that this—a woman”—he strokes his daughter tenderly with his finger on her pure forehead—“should be born of me, a man?”
Haggart smiles.
“And is it not strange that this should have become a wife to me, a man?” He embraces Mariet, bending her frail shoulders.
“Let us go to eat, Gart, my son. Whoever she may be, I know one thing well. She has prepared for you and me an excellent dinner.”
The people disperse quickly. Mariet says confusedly and cheerfully:
“I’ll run first.”