He picks up some brushwood, and throws it into the fireplace.

“I love you, Noni.  I am now going to start a fire to warm your feet.  I used to be your nurse, Noni; but you have lost your reason—­ that’s true.  I am a wise man, but I don’t understand your conduct at all.  Why did you drop your ship?  You will be hanged, Noni, you will be hanged, and I will dangle by your side.  You have lost your reason, that’s true!”

He starts a fire, then prepares food and drink.

“What will you say when you wake up?  ‘Fire.’  And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’  Then you will say, ‘Something to drink.’  And I will answer, ‘Here it is.’  And then you will drink your fill again, and I will drink with you, and you will prate nonsense.  How long is this going to last?  We have lived this way two months now, or perhaps two years, or twenty years—­I am drowning in gin—­I don’t understand your conduct at all, Noni.”

He drinks.

“Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a ship is being wrecked near by.  How they are crying!”

He looks out of the window.

“No, no one is here.  It is the wind.  The wind feels weary, and it plays all by itself.  It has seen many shipwrecks, and now it is inventing.  The wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the wind itself is laughing—­the rogue!  But if you think that this rag with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool!  We are not going anywhere!  We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”

He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.

“Get up, Noni.  I feel lonesome.  If we must drink, let’s drink together—­I feel lonesome.  Noni!”

Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes: 

“Fire.”

“Here it is.”

“Something to drink.”

“Here it is!  A fine wind, Noni.  I looked out of the window, and the sea splashed into my eyes.  It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up to the tower.  I feel lonesome, Noni.  I want to speak to you.  Don’t be angry!”

“It’s cold.”

“Soon the fire will burn better.  I don’t understand your actions.  Don’t be angry, Noni, but I don’t understand your actions!  I am afraid that you have lost your mind.”

“Did you drink again?”

“I did.”

“Give me some.”

He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace.  He is not quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream.  With each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and then the entire tower seems to dance—­the last shadows melt and rush off into the open door.

“Don’t drink it all at once, Noni!  Not all at once!” says the sailor and gently takes the bottle away from him.  Haggart seats himself and clasps his head with both hands.