“What sad dreams there are in your land.”

The abbot rises and walks over to the fishermen.

“Well, what did you say about the church, old man?  You said something interesting about the church, or was I mistaken?”

He casts a swift glance at Mariet and Haggart.

“It isn’t the church alone, abbot.  There are four of us old men:  Legran, Stoffle, Puasar, Kornu, and seven old women.  Do I say that we are not going to feed them?  Of course, we will, but don’t be angry, father—­it is hard!  You know it yourself, abbot—­old age is no fun.”

“I am an old man, too!” begins old Rikke, lisping, but suddenly he flings his hat angrily to the ground.  “Yes, I am an old man.  I don’t want any more, that’s all!  I worked, and now I don’t want to work.  That’s all!  I don’t want to work.”

He goes out, swinging his hand.  All look sympathetically at his stooping back, at his white tufts of hair.  And then they look again at Desfoso, at his mouth, from which their words come out.  A voice says: 

“There, Rikke doesn’t want to work any more.”

All laugh softly and forcedly.

“Suppose we send Gart to the city—­what then?” Desfoso goes on, without looking at Haggart.  “Well, the city people will hang him—­ and then what?  The result will be that a man will be gone, a fisherman will be gone—­you will lose a son, and Mariet will lose her husband, and the little boy his father.  Is there any joy in that?”

“That’s right, that’s right!” nods the abbot, approvingly.  “But what a mind you have, Desfoso!”

“Do you pay attention to them, Abbot?” asked Haggart.

“Yes, I do, Haggart.  And it wouldn’t do you any harm to pay attention to them.  The devil is prouder than you, and yet he is only the devil, and nothing more.”

Desfoso affirms: 

“What’s the use of pride?  Pride isn’t necessary.”

He turns to Haggart, his eyes still lowered; then he lifts his eyes and asks: 

“Gart!  But you don’t need to kill anybody else.  Excepting Philipp, you don’t feel like killing anybody else, do you?”

“No.”

“Only Philipp, and no more?  Do you hear?  Only Philipp, and no more.  And another question—­Gart, don’t you want to send away this man, Khorre?  We would like you to do it.  Who knows him?  People say that all this trouble comes through him.”

Several voices are heard: 

“Through him.  Send him away, Gart!  It will be better for him!”

The abbot upholds them.

“True!”

“You, too, priest!” says Khorre, gruffly.  Haggart looks with a faint smile at his angry, bristled face, and says: 

“I rather feel like sending him away.  Let him go.”

“Well, then, Abbot,” says Desfoso, turning around, “we have decided, in accordance with our conscience—­to take the money.  Do I speak properly?”