“There is no such land.”

“There is, Khorre.  Let us drink and laugh, Khorre.  That organist lies.  Sing something for me, Khorre—­you sing well.  In your hoarse voice I hear the creaking of ropes.  Your refrain is like a sail that is torn by the storm.  Sing, sailor!”

Khorre nods his head gloomily.

“No, I will not sing.”

“Then I shall force you to pray as they prayed!”

“You will not force me to pray, either.  You are the Captain, and you may kill me, and here is your revolver.  It is loaded, Noni.  And now I am going to speak the truth, Captain!  Khorre, the boatswain, speaks to you in the name of the entire crew.”

Haggart says: 

“Drop this performance, Khorre.  There is no crew here.  You’d better drink something.”

He drinks.

“But the crew is waiting for you, you know it.  Captain, is it your intention to return to the ship and assume command again?”

“No.”

“Captain, is it perhaps your intention to go to the people on the coast and live with them?”

“No.”

“I can’t understand your actions, Noni.  What do you intend to do, Captain?”

Haggart drinks silently.

“Not all at once, Noni, not at once.  Captain, do you intend to stay in this hole and wait until the police dogs come from the city?  Then they will hang us, and not upon a mast, but simply on one of their foolish trees.”

“Yes.  The wind is getting stronger.  Do you hear, Khorre?  The wind is getting stronger!”

“And the gold which we have buried here?” He points below, with his finger.

“The gold?  Take it and go with it wherever you like.”

The sailor says angrily: 

“You are a bad man, Noni.  You have only set foot on earth a little while ago, and you already have the thoughts of a traitor.  That’s what the earth is doing!”

“Be silent, Khorre.  I am listening.  Our sailors are singing.  Do you hear?  No, that’s the wine rushing to my head.  I’ll be drunk soon.  Give me another bottle.”

“Perhaps you will go to the priest?  He would absolve your sins.”

“Silence!” roars Haggart, clutching at his revolver.

Silence.  The storm is increasing.  Haggart paces the room in agitation, striking against the walls.  He mutters something abruptly.  Suddenly he seizes the sail and tears it down furiously, admitting the salty wind.  The illumination lamp is extinguished and the flame in the fireplace tosses about wildly—­like Haggart.

“Why did you lock out the wind?  It’s better now.  Come here.”

“You were the terror of the seas!” says the sailor.

“Yes, I was the terror of the seas.”

“You were the terror of the coasts!  Your famous name resounded like the surf over all the coasts, wherever people live.  They saw you in their dreams.  When they thought of the ocean, they thought of you.  When they heard the storm, they heard you, Noni!”