day an altar, always the same, and
imitating a rocky grotto, was erected on the quay; and over it, in the
midst of anchors, oars and nets, was enthroned the Virgin Mary, calm,
and beaming with affection, the patroness of sailors; she would be
brought from her chapel for the occasion, and had looked upon generation
after generation with her same lifeless eyes, blessing the happy for
whom the season would be lucky, and the others who never more would
return.

The Host, followed by a slow procession of wives, mothers, sweethearts,
and sisters, was borne round the harbour, where the boats bound for
Iceland, bedecked in all colours, saluted it on its way. The priest
halted before each, giving them his holy blessing; and then the fleet
started, leaving the country desolate of husbands, lovers, and sons;
and as the shores faded from their view, the crews sang together in low,
full voices, the hymns sacred to "the Star of the Ocean." And every year
saw the same ceremonies, and heard the same good-byes.

Then began the life out upon the open sea, in the solitude of three or
four rough companions, on the moving thin planks in the midst of the
seething waters of the northern seas.

Until now _La Marie_ followed the custom of many Icelanders, which
is merely to touch at Paimpol, and then to sail down to the Gulf of
Gascony, where fish fetches high prices, or farther on to the Sandy
Isles, with their salty swamps, where they buy the salt for the next
expedition. The crews of lusty fellows stay a few days in the southern,
sun-kissed harbour-towns, intoxicated by the last rays of summer, by the
sweetness of the balmy air, and by the downright jollity of youth.

With the mists of autumn they return home to Paimpol, or to the
scattered huts of the land of Goelo, to remain some time in their
families, in the midst of love, marriages, and births. Very often they
find unseen babies upon their return, waiting for godfathers ere they
can be baptized, for many children are needed to keep up this race of
fishermen, which the Icelandic Moloch devours.

CHAPTER III--THE WOMEN AT HOME

At Paimpol, one fine evening of this same year, upon a Sunday in June,
two women were deeply busy in writing a letter. This took place before
a large open window, with a row of flowerpots on its heavy old granite
sill.

As well as could be seen from their bending over the table, both were
young. Once wore a very large old-fashioned cap; the other quite