Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the triumphant conciliation between man and God.

The fog is growing thicker.
A loud stamping of feet--some one runs through the deserted street in agitation.
"Noni!" whispers the sailor.

"Who ran by ?" "I hear." "Noni! Another one is running.

Something is wrong." Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night--the echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken, is running away somewhere.

Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a lantern floats by.
"They have found him, Khorre.