Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle, where we all know there are rare good vocalists.

“Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves,” etc.

A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for bravery, The sailor stands, I trow.  Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him, Whose glory never can grow dim!

This was sung by one of the bride’s supporters, in a feeling tone that went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly voices.

But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance.  When they looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like that of transparently shaded lamps.  They spoke in even a lower voice, and still held each other’s hands.  Gaud bent her head, too, gradually overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.

The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own; he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which ought not to be shaken, he said.  He told the story of it.  One day out fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had, with most of its contents.  It was impossible to take all, so they had signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had flocked round the flotsam.

“And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy when we got back to Pors-Even at night!” he chuckled liquorishly.

The wind still went on with its fearful din.

Downstairs the children were dancing in rings; except some of the youngest, sent to bed; but the others, who were romping about, led by little Fantec (Francis) and Laumec (Guillaume), wanted to go and play outside.  Every minute they were opening the door and letting in furious gusts, which blew out the candles.

The pilot cousin went on with his story.  Forty bottles had fallen to his lot, he said.  He begged them all to say nothing about it, because of “Monsieur le Commissaire de l’Inscription Maritime,” who would surely make a fuss over the undeclared find.

“But, d’ye see,” he went on, “it sarved the lubbers right to heave over such a vallyble cask or let it ’scape the lashings, for it’s superior quality, with sartinly more jinywine grape-juice in it than in all the wine-merchants’ cellars of Paimpol.  Goodness knows whence it came—­this here castaway liquor.”

It was very strong and rich in colour, dashed with sea-water, and had the flavour of cod-pickle, but in spite of that, relishable; and several bottles were emptied.

Some heads began to spin; the Babel of voices became more confused, and the lads kissed the lasses less surreptitiously.

The songs joyously continued; but the winds would not moderate, and the seamen exchanged tokens of apprehension about the bad weather increasing.