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rock, which was overgrown with moss, and now looks sad and gloomy.
On its side, turned to the sea, the waves throw out the slime and seaweed. This stone, so pasted over with them, seems to be hung on to the narrow sandy tract of land which divides the sea from the mountains. The flames of our hearth illumine it, and when the flames flicker upon the old stone, wrinkled with a net of deep cracks, the shadows play upon it.
One could say: This stone thinks and feels.
We both, with Bahim, are cooking the soup, composed of small fish, only just caught, and both are in that special humour when all seems to be fantastical, when the heart feels itself so clear, so light, that, except the wish to be thoughtful, there is no other desire in it.
The sea clings close to the shore, and the murmur is so melancholy, so gentle,
