“I have a headache.  What is that cry?  Was there a shipwreck?”

“No, Noni.  It is the wind playing roguishly.”

“Khorre!”

“Captain.”

“Give me the bottle.”

He drinks a little more and sets the bottle on the table.  Then he paces the room, straightening his shoulders and his chest, and looks out of the window.  Khorre looks over his shoulder and whispers: 

“Not a single light.  It is dark and deserted.  Those who had to die have died already, and the cautious cowards are sitting on the solid earth.”

Haggart turns around and says, wiping his face: 

“When I am intoxicated, I hear voices and singing.  Does that happen to you, too, Khorre?  Who is that singing now?”

“The wind is singing, Noni—­only the wind.”

“No, but who else?  It seems to me a human being is singing, a woman is singing, and others are laughing and shouting something.  Is that all nothing but the wind?”

“Only the wind.”

“Why does the wind deceive me?” says Haggart haughtily.

“It feels lonesome, Noni, just as I do, and it laughs at the human beings.  Have you heard the wind lying like this and mocking in the open sea?  There it tells the truth, but here—­it frightens the people on shore and mocks them.  The wind does not like cowards.  You know it.”

Haggart says morosely: 

“I heard their organist playing not long ago in church.  He lies.”

“They are all liars.”

“No!” exclaims Haggart angrily.  “Not all.  There are some who tell the truth there, too.  I shall cut your ears off if you will slander honest people.  Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

They are silent; they listen to the wild music of the sea.  The wind has evidently grown mad.  Having taken into its embrace a multitude of instruments with which human beings produce their music—­harps, reed-pipes, priceless violins, heavy drums and brass trumpets—­it breaks them all, together with a wave, against the sharp rocks.  It dashes them and bursts into laughter—­only thus does the wind understand music—­each time in the death of an instrument, each time in the breaking of strings, in the snapping of the clanging brass.  Thus does the mad musician understand music.  Haggart heaves a deep sigh and with some amazement, like a man just awakened from sleep, looks around on all sides.  Then he commands shortly: 

“Give me my pipe.”

“Here it is.”

Both commence to smoke.

“Don’t be angry, Noni,” says the sailor.  “You have become so angry that one can’t come near you at all.  May I chat with you?”

“There are some who do tell the truth there, too,” says Haggart sternly, emitting rings of smoke.

“How shall I say it you, Noni?” answers the sailor cautiously but stubbornly.  “There are no truthful people there.  It has been so ever since the deluge.  At that time all the honest people went out to sea, and only the cowards and liars remained upon the solid earth.”