“I burnt their cities.  The deck of my ship is shaking under my feet, Khorre.  The deck is shaking under me!”

He laughs wildly, as if losing his senses.

“You sank their ships.  You sent to the bottom the Englishman who was chasing you.”

“He had ten guns more than I.”

“And you burnt and drowned him.  Do you remember, Noni, how the wind laughed then?  The night was as black as this night, but you made day of it, Noni.  We were rocked by a sea of fire.”

Haggart stands pale-faced, his eyes closed.  Suddenly he shouts commandingly: 

“Boatswain!”

“Yes,” Khorre jumps up.

“Whistle for everybody to go up on deck.”

“Yes.”

The boatswain’s shrill whistle pierces sharply into the open body of the storm.  Everything comes to life, and it looks as though they were upon the deck of a ship.  The waves are crying with human voices.  In semi-oblivion, Haggart is commanding passionately and angrily: 

“To the shrouds!—­The studding sails!  Be ready, forepart!  Aim at the ropes; I don’t want to sink them all at once.  Starboard the helm, sail by the wind.  Be ready now.  Ah, fire!  Ah, you are already burning!  Board it now!  Get the hooks ready.”

And Khorre tosses about violently, performing the mad instructions.

“Yes, yes.”

“Be braver, boys.  Don’t be afraid of tears!  Eh, who is crying there?  Don’t dare cry when you are dying.  I’ll dry your mean eyes upon the fire.  Fire!  Fire everywhere!  Khorre—­sailor!  I am dying.  They have poured molten tar into my chest.  Oh, how it burns!”

“Don’t give way, Noni.  Don’t give way.  Recall your father.  Strike them on the head, Noni!”

“I can’t, Khorre.  My strength is failing.  Where is my power?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni.  Strike them on the head!”

“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart.  There is no ship, Khorre—­there is nothing.  Cut out my heart, comrade—­throw out the traitor from my breast.”

“I want to play some more, Noni.  Strike them on the head!”

“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing—­it is all a lie.  I want to drink.”

He takes a bottle and laughs: 

“Look, sailor—­here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked.  It is all a deception, Khorre!”

“I want to play.”

“Here my sorrow is locked.  Look!  In the green glass it seems like water, but it isn’t water.  Let us drink, Khorre—­there on the bottom I see my laughter and your song.  There is no ship—­there is nothing!  Who is coming?”

He seizes his revolver.  The fire in the fire-place is burning faintly; the shadows are tossing about—­but two of these shadows are darker than the others and they are walking.  Khorre shouts: 

“Halt!”

A man’s voice, heavy and deep, answers: