There were a great many letters this time for the Iceland fleet. Among
the rest, two for "_La Marie_, Captain Guermeur"; one addressed to
"Monsieur Gaos, Yann," the other to "Monsieur Moan, Sylvestre." The
latter had come by way of Rykavyk, where the cruiser had taken it on.

The purser, diving into his post-bags of sailcloth, distributed them
all round, often finding it hard to read the addresses, which were not
always written very skilfully, while the captain kept on saying: "Look
alive there, look alive! the barometer is falling."

He was rather anxious to see all the tiny yawls afloat, and so many
vessels assembled in that dangerous region.

Yann and Sylvestre used to read their letters together. This time they
read them by the light of the midnight sun, shining above the horizon,
still like a dead luminary. Sitting together, a little to one side, in a
retired nook of the deck, their arms about each other's shoulders, they
very slowly read, as if to enjoy more thoroughly the news sent them from
home.

In Yann's letter Sylvestre got news of Marie Gaos, his little
sweetheart; in Sylvestre's, Yann read all Granny Moan's funny stories,
for she had not her like for amusing the absent ones you will remember;
and the last paragraph concerning him came up: the "word of greeting to
young Gaos."

When the letters were got through, Sylvestre timidly showed his to his
big friend, to try and make him admire the writing of it.

"Look, is it not pretty writing, Yann?"

But Yann, who knew very well whose hand had traced it, turned aside,
shrugging his shoulders, as much as to say that he was worried too often
about this Gaud girl.

So Sylvestre carefully folded up the poor, rejected paper, put it into
its envelope and all in his jersey, next his breast, saying to himself
sadly: "For sure, they'll never marry. But what on earth can he have to
say against her?"

Midnight was struck on the cruiser's bell. And yet our couple remained
sitting there, thinking of home, the absent ones, a thousand things in
reverie. At this same moment the everlasting sun, which had dipped its
lower edge into the waters, began slowly to reascend, and lo! this was
morning.

PART II -- IN THE BRETON LAND

CHAPTER I--THE PLAYTHING OF THE STORM

The Northern sun had taken another aspect and changed its colour,
opening the new day by a sinister morn. Completely free from its veil,
it gave forth its grand rays, crossing the sky in fitful