Then another went on:  “When I was bo’s’n’s mate aboard of the Zenobie, a-lying at Aden, and a-doing the duty of a corporal of marines, by the same token, you ought to ha’ seen the ostridge feather traders a-trying to scramble up over the side. [Imitating the broken talk] ’Bon-joo, cap’n! we’re not thiefs—­we’re honest merchants’—­Honest, my eye! with a sweep of the bucket, a purtending to draw some water up, I sent ’em all flying back an oar’s length.  ‘Honest merchants, are ye,’ says I, ’then send us up a bunch of honest feathers first—­with a hard dollar or two in the core of it, d’ye see, and then I’ll believe in your honesty!’ Why, I could ha’ made my fortun’ out of them beggars, if I hadn’t been born and brought up honest myself, and but a sucking-dove in wisdom, saying nothing of my having a sweetheart at Toulon in the millinery line, who could have used any quantity of feathers——­”

Ha! here’s one of Yann’s little brothers, a future Iceland fisherman, with a fresh pink face and bright eyes, who is suddenly taken ill from having drunk too much cider.  So little Laumec has to be carried off, which cuts short the story of the milliner and the feathers.

The wind wailed in the chimney like an evil spirit in torment; with fearful strength, it shook the whole house on its stone foundation.

“It strikes me the wind is stirred up, acos we’re enjoying of ourselves,” said the pilot cousin.

“No, it’s the sea that’s wrathy,” corrected Yann, smiling at Gaud, “because I’d promised I’d be wedded to her.”

A strange languor seemed to envelop them both; they spoke to one another in a low voice, apart, in the midst of the general gaiety.  Yann, knowing thoroughly the effect of wine, did not drink at all.  Now and then he turned dull too, thinking of Sylvestre.  It was an understood thing that there was to be no dancing, on account of him and of Gaud’s dead father.

It was the dessert now; the singing would soon begin.  But first there were the prayers to say, for the dead of the family; this form is never omitted, at all wedding-feasts, and is a solemn duty.  So when old Gaos rose and uncovered his white head, there was a dead silence around.

“This,” said he, “is for Guillaume Gaos, my father.”  Making the sign of the cross, he began the Lord’s prayer in Latin:  “Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tumm——­”

The silence included all, even to the joyful little ones downstairs, and every voice was repeating in an undertone the same eternal words.

“This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the Sea of Iceland.  This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard the Zelie.”  When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned towards grandmother Moan, saying, “This one is for Sylvestre Moan.”

Yann wept as he recited another prayer.

“Sed libera nos a malo.  Amen!”