But Sylvestre was worried, because a mate called Jean (which Bretons pronounce “Yann”) did not come down below.  Where could Yann be, by the way? was he lashed to his work on deck?  Why did he not come below to take his share in their feast?

“It’s close on midnight, hows’ever,” observed the captain; and drawing himself up he raised the scuttle with his head, so as to call Yann that way.

Then a weird glimmer fell from above.

“Yann!  Yann!  Look alive, matey!”

“Matey” answered roughly from outside while through the half-opened hatchway the faint light kept entering like that of dawn.  Nearly midnight, yet it looked like a peep of day, or the light of the starry gloaming, sent from afar through mystic lenses of magicians.

When the aperture closed, night reigned again, save for the small lamp, “sended” now and again aside, which shed its yellow light.  A man in clogs was heard coming down the wooden steps.

He entered bent in two like a big bear, for he was a giant.  At first he made a wry face, holding his nose, because of the acrid smell of the souse.

He exceeded a little too much the ordinary proportions of man, especially in breadth, though he was straight as a poplar.  When he faced you the muscles of his shoulders, moulded under his blue jersey, stood out like great globes at the tops of his arms.  His large brown eyes were very mobile, with a grand, wild expression.

Sylvestre threw his arms round Yann, and drew him towards him tenderly, after the fashion of children.  Sylvestre was betrothed to Yann’s sister, and he treated him as an elder brother, of course.  And Yann allowed himself to be pulled about like a young lion, answering by a kind smile that showed his white teeth.  These were somewhat far apart, and appeared quite small.  His fair moustache was rather short, although never cut.  It was tightly curled in small rolls above his lips, which were most exquisitely and delicately modelled, and then frizzed off at the ends on either side of the deep corners of his mouth.  The remainder of his beard was shaven, and his highly coloured cheeks retained a fresh bloom like that of fruit never yet handled.

When Yann was seated, the mugs were filled up anew.

The lighting of all the pipes was an excuse for the cabin boy to smoke a few wiffs himself.  He was a robust little fellow, with round cheeks—­a kind of little brother to them all, more or less related to one another as they were; otherwise his work had been hard enough for the darling of the crew.  Yann let him drink out of his own glass before he was sent to bed.  Thereupon the important topic of marriage was revived.

“But I say, Yann,” asked Sylvestre, “when are we going to celebrate your wedding?”

“You ought to be ashamed,” said the master; “a hulking chap like you, twenty-seven years old and not yet spliced; ho, ho!  What must the lasses think of you when they see you roll by?”