One pale August evening, the letter that announced Yann's brother's
death, at length arrived on board the _Marie_, upon the Iceland seas;
it was after a day of hard work and excessive fatigue, just as they were
going down to sup and to rest. With eyes heavy with sleep, he read it in
their dark nook below deck, lit by the yellow beam of the small lamp; at
the first moment he became stunned and giddy, like one dazed out of
fair understanding. Very proud and reticent in all things concerning the
feelings was Yann, and he hid the letter in his blue jersey, next his
breast, without saying anything, as sailors do. But he did not feel the
courage to sit down with the others to supper, and disdaining even to
explain why, he threw himself into his berth and fell asleep. Soon he
dreamed of Sylvestre dead, and of his funeral going by.
Towards midnight, being in that state of mind that is peculiar to seaman
who are conscious of the time of day in their slumber, and quite
clearly see the hour draw night when to awaken for the watch--he saw the
funeral, and said to himself: “I am dreaming; luckily the mate will come
and wake me up, and the vision will pass away.”
But when a heavy hand was laid upon him and a voice cried out: “Tumble
out, Gaos! watch, boy!” he heard the slight rustling of paper at his
breast, a fine ghastly music that affirmed the fact of the death. Yes,
the letter! It was true, then? The more cruel, heartrending impression
deepened, and he jumped up so quickly in his sudden start, that he
struck his forehead against the overhead beam. He dressed and opened the
hatchway to go up mechanically and take his place in the fishing.