The tide is coming.

“They have all gone away,” mutters Khorre.  “Thus will they cook hot soup on the wrecks of our ship, too.  Eh, Dan!  Do you know he ordered me to drink no gin for three days.  Let the old dog croak!  Isn’t that so, Noni?”

“Of those who died at sea...  Those who died at sea,” mutters Dan.  “A son taken from his father, a son from his father.  The father said go, and the son perished in the sea.  Oi, oi, oi!”

“What are you prating there, old man?  I say, he ordered me to drink no gin.  Soon he will order, like that King of yours, that the sea be lashed with chains.”

“Oho!  With chains.”

“Your king was a fool.  Was he married, your king?”

“The sea is coming, coming!” mutters Dan.  “It brings along its noise, its secret, its deception.  Oh, how the sea deceives man.  Those who died at sea—­yes, yes, yes.  Those who died at sea.”

“Yes, the sea is coming.  And you don’t like it?” asks Khorre, rejoicing maliciously.  “Well, don’t you like it?  I don’t like your music.  Do you hear, Dan?  I hate your music!”

“Oho!  And why do you come to hear it?  I know that you and Gart stood by the wall and listened.”

Khorre says sternly: 

“It was he who got me out of bed.”

“He will get you out of bed again.”

“No!” roars Khorre furiously.  “I will get up myself at night.  Do you hear, Dan?  I will get up at night and break your music.”

“And I will spit into your sea.”

“Try,” says the sailor distrustfully.  “How will you spit?”

“This way,” and Dan, exasperated, spits in the direction of the sea.  The frightened Khorre, in confusion, says hoarsely: 

“Oh, what sort of man are you?  You spat!  Eh, Dan, look out; it will be bad for you—­you yourself are talking about those who died at sea.”

Dan shouts, frightened: 

“Who speaks of those that perished at sea?  You, you dog!”

He goes away, grumbling and coughing, swinging his hand and stooping.  Khorre is left alone before the entire vastness of the sea and the sky.

“He is gone.  Then I am going to look at you, O sea, until my eyes will burst of thirst!”

The ocean, approaching, is roaring.

CHAPTER IV

At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky shore, stands a man—­a small, dark, motionless dot.  Behind him is the cold, almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the ocean is rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness.  Its mighty approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are rising from the depths.  Even sniffing sounds are heard—­it is as though a drove of monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying down on their backs, and panting contentedly, deriving their monstrous pleasures.

The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying seaweeds, of its grass.  The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.