And there is but one little light in the black space of water and night—­the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.

The rattle of cobblestones is heard from under a cautious step:  Haggart is coming down to the sea along a steep path.  He pauses, silent with restraint, breathing deeply after the strain of passing the dangerous slope, and goes forward.  He is now at the edge—­he straightens himself and looks for a long time at him who had long before taken his strange but customary place at the very edge of the deep.  He makes a few steps forward and greets him irresolutely and gently—­Haggart greets him even timidly: 

“Good evening, stranger.  Have you been here long?”

A sad, soft, and grave voice answers: 

“Good evening, Haggart.  Yes, I have been here long.”

“You are watching?”

“I am watching and listening.”

“Will you allow me to stand near you and look in the same direction you are looking?  I am afraid that I am disturbing you by my uninvited presence—­for when I came you were already here—­but I am so fond of this spot.  This place is isolated, and the sea is near, and the earth behind is silent; and here my eyes open.  Like a night-owl, I see better in the dark; the light of day dazzles me.  You know, I have grown up on the sea, sir.”

“No, you are not disturbing me, Haggart.  But am I not disturbing you?  Then I shall go away.”

“You are so polite, sir,” mutters Haggart.

“But I also love this spot,” continues the sad, grave voice.  “I, too, like to feel that the cold and peaceful granite is behind me.  You have grown up on the sea, Haggart—­tell me, what is that faint light on the right?”

“That is the lighthouse of the Holy Cross.”

“Aha!  The lighthouse of the Holy Cross.  I didn’t know that.  But can such a faint light help in time of a storm?  I look and it always seems to me that the light is going out.  I suppose it isn’t so.”

Haggart, agitated but restrained, says: 

“You frighten me, sir.  Why do you ask me what you know better than I do?  You want to tempt me—­you know everything.”

There is not a trace of a smile in the mournful voice—­nothing but sadness.

“No, I know little.  I know even less than you do, for I know more.  Pardon my rather complicated phrase, Haggart, but the tongue responds with so much difficulty not only to our feeling, but also to our thought.”

“You are polite,” mutters Haggart agitated.  “You are polite and always calm.  You are always sad and you have a thin hand with rings upon it, and you speak like a very important personage.  Who are you, sir?”

“I am he whom you called—­the one who is always sad.”

“When I come, you are already here; when I go away, you remain.  Why do you never want to go with me, sir?”

“There is one way for you, Haggart, and another for me.”