Fishing was going on well; looking into the calm water, one could see exactly what took place; how the cod came to bite, with a greedy spring; then, feeling themselves hooked, wriggled about, as if to hook themselves still firmer.  And every moment, with rapid action, the fishermen hauled in their lines, hand overhand, throwing the fish to the man who was to clean them and flatten them out.

The Paimpol fleet were scattered over the quiet mirror, animating the desert.  Here and there appeared distant sails, unfurled for mere form’s sake, considering there was no breeze.  They were like clear white outlines upon the greys of the horizon.  In this dead calm, fishing off Iceland seemed so easy and tranquil a trade that ladies’ yachting was no name for it.

“Jean Francois de Nantes; Jean Francois, Jean Francois!”

So they sang, like a couple of children.

Yann little troubled whether or no he was handsome and good-looking.  He was boyish only with Sylvestre, it is true, and sang and joked with no other; on the contrary, he was rather distant with the others and proud and disdainful—­very willing though, when his help was required, and always kind and obliging when not irritated.

So the twain went on singing their song, with two others, a few steps off, singing another, a dirge—­a clashing of sleepiness, health, and vague melancholy.  But they did not feel dull, and the hours flew by.

Down in the cabin a fire still smouldered in the iron range, and the hatch was kept shut, so as to give the appearance of night there for those who needed sleep.  They required but little air to sleep; indeed, less robust fellows, brought up in towns, would have wanted more.  They used to go to bed after the watch at irregular times, just when they felt inclined, hours counting for little in this never-fading light.  And they always slept soundly and peacefully without restlessness or bad dreams.

“Jean Francois de Nantes; Jean Francois, Jean Francois!”

They looked attentively at some almost imperceptible object, far off on the horizon, some faint smoke rising from the waters like a tiny jot of another gray tint slightly darker than the sky’s.  Their eyes were used to plumbing depths, and they had seen it.

“A sail, a sail, thereaway!”

“I have an idea,” said the skipper, staring attentively, “that it’s a government cruiser coming on her inspection-round.”

This faint smoke brought news of home to the sailors, and among others, a letter we wrote of, from an old grandam, written by the hand of a beautiful girl.  Slowly the steamer approached till they perceived her black hull.  Yes, it was the cruiser, making the inspection in these western fjords.