imes out of the water during the furious rocking from prow
to poop.

They were in the worst place in the Mediterranean where the winds
coming from the narrow passage of the Adriatic, from the steppes of
Asia Minor, from the African deserts and from the gap of Gibraltar
tempestuously mingled their atmospheric currents. The waters boxed in
among the numerous islands of the Grecian archipelago were writhing in
opposite directions, enraged and clashing against the ledges on the
coast with a retrograding violence that converted them into a furious
surge.

The captain, hooded like a friar and bowed before the wind that was
striving to snatch him from the bridge, kept talking and talking to his
mate, standing immovable near him and also covered with a waterproof
coat that was spouting moisture from every fold. The rain was streaking
with light, cobwebby lines the slaty darkness, of the night. The two
sailors felt as though icy nettles were falling upon face and hands
across the darkness.

Twice they anchored near the island of Tenedos, seeing the movable
archipelago of ironclads enveloped in floating veils of smoke. There
came to their ears, like incessant thunderings, the echo of the cannons
that were roaring at the entrance of the Dardanelles.

From afar off they perceived the sensation caused by the loss of some
English and French ships. The current of the Black Sea was the best
armor for the defenders of this aquatic defile against the attacks of
the fleets. They had only to throw into the strait a quantity of
floating mines and the blue river which slipped by the Dardanelles
would drag these toward the boats, destroying them with an infernal
explosion. On the coast of Tenedos the Hellenic women with their
floating hair were tossing flowers into the sea in memory of the
victims, with a theatrical grief similar to that of the heroines of
ancient Troy whose ramparts were buried in the hills opposite.

The third trip in mid-winter was a very hard one, and at the end of a
rainy night, when the faint streaks of dawn were beginning to dissipate
the sluggish shadows, the _Mare Nostrum_ arrived at the roadstead of
Salonica.

Only once had Ferragut been in this port, many years before, when it
still belonged to the Turks. At first he saw only some lowlands on
which twinkled the last gleams from the lighthouses. Then he recognized
the roadstead, a vast aquatic extension with a frame of sandy bars and
pools reflecting the unc