Both go off. Only the two old men, seated in a friendly manner on two neighbouring rocks, remain on the deserted shore. And the old men resemble each other so closely, and whatever they may say to each other, the whiteness of their hair, the deep lines of their wrinkles, make them kin.
The tide is coming.
“They have all gone away,” mutters Khorre. “Thus will they cook hot soup on the wrecks of our ship, too. Eh, Dan! Do you know he ordered me to drink no gin for three days. Let the old dog croak! Isn’t that so, Noni?”
“Of those who died at sea... Those who died at sea,” mutters Dan. “A son taken from his father, a son from his father. The father said go, and the son perished in the sea. Oi, oi, oi!”
“What are you prating there, old man? I say, he ordered me to drink no gin. Soon he will order, like that King of yours, that the sea be lashed with chains.”
“Oho! With chains.”
“Your king was a fool. Was he married, your king?”
“The sea is coming, coming!” mutters Dan. “It brings along its noise, its secret, its deception. Oh, how the sea deceives man. Those who died at sea—yes, yes, yes. Those who died at sea.”
“Yes, the sea is coming. And you don’t like it?” asks Khorre, rejoicing maliciously. “Well, don’t you like it? I don’t like your music. Do you hear, Dan? I hate your music!”
“Oho! And why do you come to hear it? I know that you and Gart stood by the wall and listened.”