“Lost at sea, Near the Norden-Fjord, In the storm of the 4th and 5th of August, 1880.”

She read mechanically under the arch of the doorway; her eyes sought to pierce the distance over the sea.  That morning it was untraceable under the gray mist, and a dragging drapery of clouds overhung the horizon like a mourning veil.

Another gust of wind, and other leaves danced in in whirls.  A stronger gust still, as if the western storm that had strewn those dead over the sea, wished to deface the very inscriptions that remembered their names to the living.

Gaud looked with involuntary persistency at an empty space upon the wall that seemed to yawn expectant.  By a terrible impression she was pursued, the thought of a fresh slab which might soon, perhaps, be placed there, with another name which she did not even dare to think of in such a spot.

She felt cold, and remained seated on the granite bench, her head reclining against the stone wall.

* * * * *

. . . “near the Norden-Fjord, In the storm of the 4th and 5th of August, At the age of 23 years, Requiescat in pace!”

Then Iceland loomed up before her, with its little cemetery lighted up from below the sea-line by the midnight sun.  Suddenly in the same empty space on the wall, with horrifying clearness she saw the fresh slab she was thinking of; a clear white one, with a skull and cross-bones, and in a flash of foresight, a name—­the worshipped name of “Yann Gaos!” Then she suddenly and fearfully drew herself up straight and stiff, with a hoarse, wild cry in her throat like a mad creature.

Outside the gray mist of the dawn fell over the land, and the dead leaves were again blown dancingly into the porch.

Steps on the footpath?  Somebody was coming?  She rose and quickly smoothed down her cap and composed her face.  Nearer drew the steps.  She assumed the air of one who might be there by chance; for, above all, she did not wish to appear yet, like the widow of a shipwrecked mariner.

It happened to be Fante Floury, the wife of the second mate of the Leopoldine.  She understood immediately what Gaud was doing there; it was useless to dissemble with her.  At first each woman stood speechless before the other.  They were angry and almost hated each other for having met with a like sentiment of apprehension.

“All the men of Treguier and Saint Brieuc have been back this week,” said Fante at last, in a pitiless, muffled, half-irritated voice.

She carried a blessed taper in her hand, to offer up a prayer.  Gaud did not wish yet to resort to that extreme resource of despairing wives.  Yet silently she entered the chapel behind Fante, and they knelt down together side by side, like two sisters.

To the “Star of the Sea” they offered ardent imploring prayers, with their whole soul in them.  A sound of sobbing was alone heard, as their rapid tears swiftly fell upon the floor.  They rose together, more confident and softened.  Fante held up Gaud, who staggered, and taking her in her arms, kissed her.