To waste a little more time, she entered to say a prayer under the old cramped porch, worn away and daubed over with whitewash.  But she stopped again with a sharp pain at her heart.  “Gaos”—­again that name, engraved upon one of the slabs erected in memory of those who die at sea.

She read this inscription: 

“To the Memory of GAOS, JEAN-LOUIS, Aged 24 years; seaman on board the Marguerite.  Disappeared off Iceland, August 3d, 1877.  May he rest in peace!”

Iceland—­always Iceland!  All over the porch were wooden slabs bearing the names of dead sailors.  It was the place reserved for the shipwrecked of Pors-Even.  Filled with a dark foreboding she was sorry to have gone there.

In Paimpol church she had seen many such inscriptions; but in this village the empty tomb of the Iceland fishers seemed more sad because so lone and humble.  On each side of the doorway was a granite seat for the widows and mothers; and this shady spot, irregularly shaped like a grotto, was guarded by an old image of the Virgin, coloured red, with large staring eyes, looking most like Cybele—­the first goddess of the earth.

“Gaos!” Again!

“To the Memory of GAOS, FRANCOIS, Husband of Anne-Marie le Goaster, Captain on board the Paimpolais, Lost off Iceland, between the 1st and 3d of May, 1877, With the twenty-three men of his crew.  May they rest in peace!”

And, lower down, were two cross-bones under a black skull with green eyes, a simple but ghastly emblem, reminding one of all the barbarism of a bygone age.

“Gaos, Gaos!” The name was everywhere.  As she read, thrills of sweet tenderness came over her for this Yann of her choice, damped by a feeling of hopelessness.  Nay, he would never be hers!  How could she tear him from the sea where so many other Gaoses had gone down, ancestors and brothers, who must have loved the sea like he!  She entered the chapel.  It was almost dark, badly lit by low windows with heavy frames.  And there, her heart full of tears that would better have fallen, she knelt to pray before the colossal saints, surrounded by common flowers, touching the vaulted roof with their massive heads.  Outside, the rising wind began to sob as if it brought the death-gasps of the drowned men back to their Fatherland.

Night drew near; she rose and went on her way.  After having asked in the village, she found the home of the Gaos family, which was built up against a high cliff.  A dozen granite steps led up to it.  Trembling a little at the thought that Yann might have returned, she crossed the small garden where chrysanthemums and veronicas grew.

When she was indoors, she explained she had come to bring the money for the boat, and they very politely asked her to sit down, to await the father’s return, as he was the one to sign the receipt for her.  Amidst all, her eyes searched for Yann—­but did not see him.

They were very busy in the home.  Already they were cutting out the new waterproof cloth on the clean white table, and getting it ready for the approaching Iceland season.