CHAPTER VIII
THE BROTHER'S GRIEF
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.
