She goes off.  The smoke in the sky is ever increasing and the fire is subsiding, and the unknown city is already near its dark end.  The sea odour is growing ever sharper and stronger.  Night is coming from the shore.

Their heads turned, the women watch the departing old woman.  Then they turn again toward the light.

Mariet, as though defending some one, says softly: 

“There can’t be anything bad in light.  For there is light in the candles on God’s altar.”

“But there is also fire for Satan in hell,” says another old woman, heavily and angrily, and then goes off.  Now four remain, all young girls.

“I am afraid,” says one, pressing close to her companion.

The noiseless and cold conflagration in the sky is ended; the city is destroyed; the unknown land is in ruins.  There are no longer any walls or falling towers; a heap of pale blue gigantic shapes have fallen silently into the abyss of the ocean and the night.  A young little star glances at the earth with frightened eyes; it feels like coming out of the clouds near the castle, and because of its inmost neighbourship the heavy castle grows darker, and the light in its window seems redder and darker.

“Good night, Mariet,” says the girl who sat alone, and then she goes off.

“Let us also go; it is getting cold,” say the other two, rising.  “Good night, Mariet.”

“Good night.”

“Why are you alone, Mariet?  Why are you alone, Mariet, in the daytime and at night, on week days and on merry holidays?  Do you love to think of your betrothed?”

“Yes, I do.  I love to think of Philipp.”

The girl laughs.

“But you don’t want to see him.  When he goes out to sea, you look at the sea for hours; when he comes back—­you are not there.  Where are you hiding yourself?”

“I love to think of Philipp.”

“Like a blind man he gropes among the houses, forever calling:  ‘Mariet!  Mariet!  Have you not seen Mariet?’”

They go off laughing and repeating: 

“Good night, Mariet.  ‘Have you not seen Mariet!  Mariet!’”

The girl is left alone.  She looks at the light in the castle.  She hears soft, irresolute footsteps.

Old Dan, of small stature, slim, a coughing old man with a clean-shaven face, comes out from behind the church.  Because of his irresoluteness, or because of the weakness of his eyes, he steps uncertainly, touching the ground cautiously and with a certain degree of fear.

“Oho!  Oho!”

“Is that you, Dan?”

“The sea is calm, Dan.  Are you going to play to-night?”

“Oho!  I shall ring the bell seven times.  Seven times I shall ring it and send to God seven of His holy hours.”

He takes the rope of the bell and strikes the hour—­seven ringing and slow strokes.  The wind plays with them, it drops them to the ground, but before they touch it, it catches them tenderly, sways them softly and with a light accompaniment of whistling carries them off to the dark coast.