Lebon goes out.

“Wait,” the abbot stops.  “Ask how the mother is feeling; Selly is taking care of her.”

Desfoso says: 

“You say, chase away the women, abbot?  And your daughter?  She is here.”

The abbot looks at Mariet.  She says: 

“I am not going away from here.”

Silence.  The abbot paces the room again; he looks at the little ship fastened to the ceiling and asks: 

“Who made it?”

All look at the little ship.

“He,” answers Desfoso.  “He made it when he wanted to go to America as a sailor.  He was always asking me how a three-masted brig is fitted out.”

They look at the ship again, at its perfect little sails—­at the little rags.  Lebon returns.

“I don’t know how to tell you about it, abbot.  The women say that Haggart and his sailor are being led over here.  The women are afraid.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the door; the abbot pauses.

“Oho, it is daybreak already, the fog is turning blue!” says one fisherman to another, but his voice breaks off.

“Yes.  Low tide has started,” replies the other dully.

Silence.  Then uneven footsteps resound.  Several young fishermen with excited faces bring in Haggart, who is bound, and push Khorre in after him, also bound.  Haggart is calm; as soon as the sailor was bound, something wildly free appeared in his movements, in his manners, in the sharpness of his swift glances.

One of the men who brought Haggart says to the abbot in a low voice: 

“He was near the church.  Ten times we passed by and saw no one, until he called:  ‘Aren’t you looking for me?’ It is so foggy, father.”

The abbot shakes his head silently and sits down.  Mariet smiles to her husband with her pale lips, but he does not look at her.  Like all the others, he has fixed his eyes in amazement on the toy ship.

“Hello, Haggart,” says the abbot.

“Hello, father.”

“You call me father?”

“Yes, you.”

“You are mistaken, Haggart.  I am not your father.”

The fishermen exchanged glances contentedly.

“Well, then.  Hello, abbot,” says Haggart with indifference, and resumes examining the little ship.  Khorre mutters: 

“That’s the way, be firm, Noni.”

“Who made this toy?” asks Haggart, but no one replies.

“Hello, Gart!” says Mariet, smiling.  “It is I, your wife, Mariet.  Let me untie your hands.”

With a smile, pretending that she does not notice the stains of blood, she unfastens the ropes.  All look at her in silence.  Haggart also looks at her bent, alarmed head.

“Thank you,” he says, straightening his hands.

“It would be a good thing to untie my hands, too,” said Khorre, but there is no answer.

Abbot—­Haggart, did you kill Philipp?

Haggart—­I.