The mist is growing thicker.

CHAPTER VI

The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning.  It is near sunrise.  A large, clean, fisherman’s hut.  A skilfully made little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set.  Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look at it, study each familiar sail.  Behind the dark curtain lies the body of Philipp—­this hut belonged to him.

The people are waiting for Haggart—­some have gone out to search for him.  On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be slumbering; others are smoking their pipes.  They speak meditatively and cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words.  Whenever a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head lowered; when any one is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside with his hand.  He is silent and knits his brows convulsively.  Occasionally he glances at the door or at the window and listens.

The only woman present there is Mariet.  She is sitting by the table and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes.  She shudders slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the noise of distant footsteps.

At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth.  And such perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.  Warning is thus given to the ships that have lost their way in the fog.

Some one in the corner says: 

“Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him.  Our people can’t strike like that.  He stuck the knife here, then slashed over there, and almost cut his head off.”

“You can’t do that with a dull knife!”

“No.  You can’t do it with a weak hand.  I saw a murdered sailor on the wharf one day—­he was cut up just like this.”

Silence.

“And where is his mother?” asks some one, nodding at the curtain.

“Selly is taking care of her.  Selly took her to her house.”

An old fisherman quietly asks his neighbour: 

“Who told you?”

“Francina woke me.  Who told you, Marle?”

“Some one knocked on my window.”

“Who knocked on your window?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“How is it you don’t know?  Who was the first to see?”

“Some one passed by and noticed him.”

“None of us passed by.  There was nobody among us who passed by.”

A fisherman seated at the other end, says: