d whose family was
now extinguished.

At last Gaud said: "_I'll_ come to you, good granny, to live with you;
I'll bring my bed that they've left me, and I'll take care of you and
nurse you--you shan't be all alone."

She wept, too, for her little friend Sylvestre, but in her sorrow she
was led involuntarily to think of another--he who had gone back to the
deep-sea fishery.

They would have to write to Yann and tell him Sylvestre was dead; it was
just now that the fishers were starting. Would he, too, weep for him?
Mayhap he would, for he had loved him dearly. In the midst of her own
tears, Gaud thought a great deal of him; now and again waxing wroth
against the hard-hearted fellow, and then pitying him at the thought
of that pain which would strike him also, and which would be as a link
between them both--one way and another, her heart was full of him.

CHAPTER VIII--THE BROTHER'S GRIEF

One pale August evening, the letter that announced Yann's brother's
death, at length arrived on board the _Marie_, upon the Iceland seas;
it was after a day of hard work and excessive fatigue, just as they were
going down to sup and to rest. With eyes heavy with sleep, he read it in
their dark nook below deck, lit by the yellow beam of the small lamp; at
the first moment he became stunned and giddy, like one dazed out of
fair understanding. Very proud and reticent in all things concerning the
feelings was Yann, and he hid the letter in his blue jersey, next his
breast, without saying anything, as sailors do. But he did not feel the
courage to sit down with the others to supper, and disdaining even to
explain why, he threw himself into his berth and fell asleep. Soon he
dreamed of Sylvestre dead, and of his funeral going by.

Towards midnight, being in that state of mind that is peculiar to seaman
who are conscious of the time of day in their slumber, and quite
clearly see the hour draw night when to awaken for the watch--he saw the
funeral, and said to himself: "I am dreaming; luckily the mate will come
and wake me up, and the vision will pass away."

But when a heavy hand was laid upon him and a voice cried out: "Tumble
out, Gaos! watch, boy!" he heard the slight rustling of paper at his
breast, a fine ghastly music that affirmed the fact of the death. Yes,
the letter! It was true, then? The more cruel, heartrending impression
deepened, and he jumped up so quickly in his sudden start, that he
struck his forehead against the