“Tell Haggart that I love him.”
Silence—and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:
“If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something to Haggart? But no—I sense a different meaning in your words, and you frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real terror. Very well, I will tell Haggart everything you have said.”
“Adjust my cloak; my shoulder is cold. But it always seems to me that the light over there is going out. You called it the lighthouse of the Holy Cross, if I am not mistaken?”
“Yes, it is called so here.”
“Aha! It is called so here.”
Silence.
“Must I go now?” asks Haggart.
“Yes, go.”
“And you will remain here?”