Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against the rocks—­this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean.  The ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the waves.  It responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages.  It whispers and mutters like an old woman.

The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary clothes, but is unable to wake up—­his intoxication produced by a two days’ spree is heavy and severe.  But now the wind whines more powerfully than before; something heaves a deep groan.  Perhaps a part of a destroyed wall has sunk into the sea.  The quivering yellow spots commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and Khorre awakes.

He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand anything.

The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling the night with disquieting phantoms.  It seems as if the sea were full of sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling with death.  Voices are heard.  Somewhere near by people are shouting, scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking sensibly and rapidly—­it seems that soon one will see a strange human face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively.  But there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold, brings Khorre to his senses.

“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him.  After a moment’s thought, he calls once more: 

“Captain.  Noni!  Get up.”

But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters: 

“Noni is drunk and he sleeps.  Let him sleep.  Oh, what a cold night it is.  There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose.  I am cold.  I feel cold and lonesome, Noni.  I can’t drink like that, although everybody knows I am a drunkard.  But it is one thing to drink, and another to drown in gin—­that’s an entirely different matter.  Noni—­you are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse.  I feel ashamed for your sake, Noni.  I shall drink now and—­”

He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.

“A fine wind.  They call this a storm—­do you hear, Noni?  They call this a storm.  What will they call a real storm?”

He drinks again.

“A fine wind!”

He goes over to the window and, pushing aside the corner of the sail, looks out.

“Not a single light on the sea, or in the village.  They have hidden themselves and are sleeping—­they are waiting for the storm to pass.  B-r-r, how cold!  I would have driven them all out to sea; it is mean to go to sea only when the weather is calm.  That is cheating the sea.  I am a pirate, that’s true; my name is Khorre, and I should have been hanged long ago on a yard, that’s true, too—­but I shall never allow myself such meanness as to cheat the sea.  Why did you bring me to this hole, Noni?”