The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning.

It is near sunrise.

A large, clean, fisherman's hut.

A skilfully made little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set.
Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look at it, study each familiar sail.

Behind the dark curtain lies the body of Philipp--this hut belonged to him.
The people are waiting for Haggart--some have gone out to search for him.