I am a drunkard, that's true." "If you are not inventing--then you had better choke yourself with your gold, you dog!" says the abbot.
HAGGART--Khorre! KHORRE--Yes.
HAGGART--To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes.

Abbot, order a hundred lashes for him! ABBOT--With pleasure, my son.

With pleasure.
The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but there is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at their pipes, in the light quiver of their tanned hands.

Some of them arise and look out of the window with feigned indifference.
"The fog is rising!" says one, looking out of the window.

"Do you hear what I said about the fog ?" "It's time to go to sleep.