One pale August evening, the letter that announced Yann's brother'sdeath, at length arrived on board the /Marie/, upon the Iceland seas; it wasafter a day of hard work and excessive fatigue, just as they were goingdown to sup and to rest. With eyes heavy with sleep, he read it in theirdark nook below deck, lit by the yellow beam of the small lamp; at thefirst moment he became stunned and giddy, like one dazed out of fairunderstanding. Very proud and reticent in all things concerning thefeelings 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 tosit down with the others to supper, and disdaining even to explain why, hethrew himself into his berth and fell asleep. Soon he dreamed of Sylvestredead, and of his funeral going by.
Towards midnight, being in that state of mind that is peculiar toseaman who are conscious of the time of day in their slumber, and quiteclearly see the hour draw night when to awaken for the watch--he saw thefuneral, and said to himself: "I am dreaming; luckily the mate will comeand 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 athis breast, a fine ghastly music that affirmed the fact of the death. Yes, theletter! It was true, then? The more cruel, heartrending impressiondeepened, and he jumped up so quickly in his sudden start, that he struckhis forehead against the overhead beam. He dressed and opened thehatchway to go up mechanically and take his place in the fishing.
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