but a seaman feels, and few of them
can tell.

Yann's sadness had disappeared too. Like his ship, he became lively once
more, cured by the healthy manual labour; he had found his reckless look
again, and had thrown off his glum thoughts.

Next morning, when the kedges were fished up, the _Marie_ went on her
way to Iceland, and Yann's heart, to all appearance, was as free as in
his early years.

CHAPTER XIII--HOME NEWS

The home letters were being distributed on board the _Circe_, at anchor
at Ha-Long, over on the other side of the earth. In the midst of a group
of sailors, the purser called out, in a loud voice, the names of the
fortunate men who had letters to receive. This went on at evening, on
the ship's side, all crushing round a funnel.

"Moan, Sylvestre!" There was one for him, postmarked "Paimpol," but it
was not Gaud's writing. What did that mean? from whom did it come else?

After having turned and flourished it about, he opened it fearingly, and
read:

"PLOUBAZLANEC, March 5th, 1884.

"MY DEAR GRANDSON:"

So, it was from his dear old granny. He breathed free again. At the
bottom of the letter she even had placed her signature, learned by
heart, but trembling like a school-girl's scribble: "Widow Moan."

"Widow Moan!" With a quick spontaneous movement he carried the paper to
his lips and kissed the poor name, as a sacred relic. For this letter
arrived at a critical moment of his life; to-morrow at dawn, he was to
set out for the battlefield.

It was in the middle of April; Bac-Ninh and Hong-Hoa had just been
taken. There was no great warfare going on in Tonquin, yet the
reinforcements arriving were not sufficient; sailors were taken from
all the ships to make up the deficit in the corps already disembarked.
Sylvestre, who had languished so long in the midst of cruises and
blockades, had just been selected with some others to fill up the
vacancies.

It is true that now peace was spoken of, but something told them that
they yet would disembarck in good time to fight a bit. They packed their
bags, made all their other preparations, and said good-bye, and all the
evening through they strolled about with their unfortunate mates who had
to remain, feeling much grander and prouder than they. Each in his
own way showed his impression at this departure--some were grave and
serious, others exuberant and talkative.

Sylvestre was very quiet and thoughtful, though impatient; only, when
they looked a