ross hollows where trees grew and seemed to defy
the winds. There was no view here, only dead leaves scattered beneath
their feet and chilly dampness; the narrow way, bordered on both sides
by green reeds, seemed very dismal under the shadow of the branches;
hemmed in by the walls of some dark, lonely hamlet, rotting with old
age, and slumbering in this hollow.

A crucifix arose inevitably before them, among the dead branches, with
its colossal image of Our Saviour in weather-worn wood, its features
wrung with His endless agony.

Then the pathway rose again, and they found themselves commanding the
view of immense horizons--and breathed the bracing air of sea-heights
once more.

He, to match her, spoke of Iceland, its pale, nightless summers and sun
that never set. Gaud did not understand and asked him to explain.

"The sun goes all round," said he, waving his arm in the direction of
the distant circle of the blue waters. "It always remains very low,
because it has no strength to rise; at midnight, it drags a bit
through the water, but soon gets up and begins its journey round again.
Sometimes the moon appears too, at the other side of the sky; then they
move together, and you can't very well tell one from t'other, for they
are much alike in that queer country."

To see the sun at midnight! How very far off Iceland must be for such
marvels to happen! And the fjords? Gaud had read that word several times
written among the names of the dead in the chapel of the shipwrecked,
and it seemed to portend some grisly thing.

"The fjords," said Yann, "they are not broad bays, like Paimpol, for
instance; only they are surrounded by high mountains--so high that
they seem endless, because of the clouds upon their tops. It's a sorry
country, I can tell you, darling. Nothing but stones. The people of
Iceland know of no such things as trees. In the middle of August, when
our fishery is over, it's quite time to return, for the nights begin
again then, and they lengthen out very quickly; the sun falls below the
earth without being able to get up, and that night lasts all the
winter through. Talking of night," he continued, "there's a little
burying-ground on the coast in one of the fjords, for Paimpol men who
have died during the season or went down at sea; it's consecrated earth,
just like at Pors-Even, and the dead have wooden crosses just like
ours here, with their names painted on them. The two Goazdious from
Ploubazlanec lie