d all, even to the joyful little ones downstairs, and
every voice was repeating in an undertone the same eternal words.

"This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the
Sea of Iceland. This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard
the _Zelie_." When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned
towards grandmother Moan, saying, "This one is for Sylvestre Moan."

Yann wept as he recited another prayer.

"_Sed libera nos a malo. Amen_!"

Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle,
where we all know there are rare good vocalists.

"_Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves_," etc.

A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for
bravery, The sailor stands, I trow. Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him,
Whose glory never can grow dim!

This was sung by one of the bride's supporters, in a feeling tone that
went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly
voices.

But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance. When they
looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like
that of transparently shaded lamps. They spoke in even a lower voice,
and still held each other's hands. Gaud bent her head, too, gradually
overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.

The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own;
he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which
ought not to be shaken, he said. He told the story of it. One day out
fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so
they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had,
with most of its contents. It was impossible to take all, so they had
signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had
flocked round the flotsam.

"And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy
when we got back to Pors-Even at night!" he chuckled liquorishly.

The wind still went on with its fearful din.

Downstairs the children were dancing in rings; except some of the
youngest, sent to bed; but the others, who were romping about, led by
little Fantec (Francis) and Laumec (Guillaume), wanted to go and play
outside. Every minute they were opening the door and letting in furious
gusts, which blew out the candles.

The pilot cousin went on with his story. Forty bottles had fallen to
his lot, he said. He begged them all to s