Haggart slowly rubs his brow.

“I don’t know.  It is true I love you, Mariet.  But how incomprehensible your land is—­in your land a man sees dreams even when he is not asleep.  Perhaps I am smiling already.  Look, Mariet.”

The abbot stops in front of Khorre.

“Ah, old friend, how do you do?  You are smiling already.  Look, Mariet.”

“I don’t want to work,” ejaculates the sailor sternly.

“You want your own way?  This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Khorre, “thinks that he is an atheist.  But he is simply a fool; he does not understand that he is also praying to God—­but he is doing it the wrong way, like a crab.  Even a fish prays to God, my children; I have seen it myself.  When you will be in hell, old man,give my regards to the Pope.  Well, children, come closer, and don’t gnash your teeth.  I am going to start at once.  Eh, you, Mathias—­you needn’t put out the fire in your pipe; isn’t it the same to God what smoke it is, incense or tobacco, if it is only well meant.  Why do you shake your head, woman?”

Woman—­His tobacco is contraband.

Young fisherman—­God wouldn’t bother with such trifles.  The abbot thinks a while: 

“No; hold on.  I think contraband tobacco is not quite so good.  That’s an inferior grade.  Look here; you better drop your pipe meanwhile, Mathias; I’ll think the matter over later.  Now, silence, perfect silence.  Let God take a look at us first.”

All stand silent and serious.  Only a few have lowered their heads.  Most of the people are looking ahead with wide-open, motionless eyes, as though they really saw God in the blue of the sky, in the boundless, radiant, distant surface of the sea.  The sea is approaching with a caressing murmur; high tide has set in.

“My God and the God of all these people!  Don’t judge us for praying, not in Latin but in our own language, which our mothers have taught us.  Our God!  Save us from all kinds of terrors, from unknown sea monsters; protect us against storms and hurricanes, against tempests and gales.  Give us calm weather and a kind wind, a clear sun and peaceful waves.  And another thing, O Lord! we ask You; don’t allow the devil, to come close to our bedside when we are asleep.  In our sleep we are defenceless, O Lord! and the devil terrifies us, tortures us to convulsions, torments us to the very blood of our heart.  And there is another thing, O Lord!  Old Rikke, whom You know, is beginning to extinguish Your light in his eyes and he can make nets no longer—­”

Rikke frequently shakes his head in assent.

“I can’t, I can’t!”

“Prolong, then, O Lord!  Your bright day and bid the night wait.  Am I right, Rikke?”

“Yes.”

“And here is still another, the last request, O Lord.  I shall not ask any more:  The tears do not dry up in the eyes of our old women crying for those who have perished.  Take their memory away, O Lord, and give them strong forgetfulness.  There are still other trifles, O Lord, but let the others pray whose turn has come before You.  Amen.”