At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky shore, stands a man--a small, dark, motionless dot.

Behind him is the cold, almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the ocean is rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness.

Its mighty approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are rising from the depths.

Even sniffing sounds are heard--it is as though a drove of monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying down on their backs, and panting contentedly, deriving their monstrous pleasures.
The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying seaweeds, of its grass.

The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.
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.