Then the mysterious consort would depart, the bellowing
of her trumpet fading away in the distance, and they
would remain again in the deep hush, amid the infinity
of stagnant vapour. Everything was drenched with
salt water; the cold became more penetrating; each
day the sun took longer to sink below the horizon;
there were now real nights one or two hours long,
and their gray gloaming was chilly and weird.
Every morning they heaved the lead, through fear that
the Marie might have run too near the Icelandic
coast. But all the lines on board, fastened end
to end, were paid out in vain—the bottom
could not be touched. So they knew that they
were well out in blue water.
Life on board was rough and wholesome; the comfort
in the snug strong oaken cabin below was enhanced
by the impression of the piercing cold outside, when
they went down to supper or for rest.
In the daytime, these men, who were as secluded as
monks, spoke but little among themselves. Each
held his line, remaining for hours and hours in the
same immovable position. They were separated by
some three yards of space, but it ended in not even
seeing one another.
The calm of the fog dulled the mind. Fishing
so lonely, they hummed home songs, so as not to scare
the fish away. Ideas came more slowly and seldom;
they seemed to expand, filling in the space of time,
without leaving any vacuum. They dreamed of incoherent
and mysterious things, as if in slumber, and the woof
of their dreams was as airy as fog itself.
This misty month of August usually terminated the
Iceland season, in a quiet, mournful way. Otherwise
the full physical life was the same, filling the sailors’
lungs with rustling air and hardening their already
strong muscles.
Yann’s usual manner had returned, as if his
great grief had not continued; watchful and active,
quick at his fishing work, a happy-go-lucky temper,
like one who had no troubles; communicative at times,
but very rarely—and always carrying his
head up high, with his old indifferent, domineering
look.
At supper in the rough retreat, when they were all
seated at table, with their knives busy on their hot
plates, he occasionally laughed out as he used to
do at droll remarks of his mates. In his inner
self he perhaps thought of Gaud, to whom, doubtless,
Sylvestre had plighted him in his last hours; and
she had become a poor girl now, alone in the world.
And above all, perhaps, the mourning for his beloved
brother still preyed upon his heart. But this
heart of his was a virgin wilderness, difficult to
explore and little known, where many things took place
unrevealed on the exterior.
One morning, going on three o’clock, while all
were dreaming quietly under their winding-sheet of
fog, they heard something like a clamour of voices—voices
whose tones seemed strange and unfamiliar. Those
on deck looked at each other questioningly.
