About a month later, around Iceland, the weather was of that rare kindthat the sailors call a dead calm; in other words, in the air nothingmoved, as if all the breezes were exhausted and their task done.

　　The sky was covered with a white veil, which darkened towards itslower border near the horizon, and gradually passed into dull grayleaden tints; over this the still waters threw a pale light, whichfatigued the eyes and chilled the gazer through and through. All atonce, liquid designs played over the surface, such light evanescentrings as one forms by breathing on a mirror. The sheen of the watersseemed covered with a net of faint patterns, which intermingled andreformed, rapidly disappearing. Everlasting night or everlasting day,one could scarcely say what it was; the sun, which pointed to nospecial hour, remained fixed, as if presiding over the fading glory ofdead things; it appeared but as a mere ring, being almost withoutsubstance, and magnified enormously by a shifting halo.

　　Yann and Sylvestre, leaning against one another, sang "Jean-Francoisde Nantes," the song without an end; amused by its very monotony,looking at one another from the corner of their eyes as if laughing atthe childish fun, with which they began the verses over and overagain, trying to put fresh spirit into them each time. Their cheekswere rosy under the sharp freshness of the morning: the pure air theybreathed was strengthening, and they inhaled it deep down in theirchests, the very fountain of all vigorous existence. And yet, aroundthem, was a semblance of non-existence, of a world either finished ornot yet created; the light itself had no warmth; all things seemedwithout motion, and as if chilled for eternity under the great ghostlyeye that represented the sun.

　　The /Marie/ projected over the sea a shadow long and black as night,or rather appearing deep green in the midst of the polished surface,which reflected all the purity of the heavens; in this shadowed part,which had no glitter, could be plainly distinguished through thetransparency, myriads upon myriads of fish, all alike, gliding slowlyin the same direction, as if bent towards the goal of their perpetualtravels. They were cod, performing their evolutions all as parts of asingle body, stretched full length in the same direction, exactlyparallel, offering the effect of gray streaks, unceasingly agitated bya quick motion that gave a look of fluidity to the mass of dumb lives.

　　Sometimes, with a sudden quick movement of the tail, all turned roundat the same time, showing the sheen of their silvered sides; and thesame movement was repeated throughout the entire shoal by slowundulations, as if a thousand metal blades had each thrown a tinyflash of lightning from under the surface.

　　The sun, already very low, lowered further; so night had decidedlycome. As the great ball of flame descended into the leaden-colouredzones that surrounded the sea, it grew yellow, and its outer rimbecame more clear and solid. Now it could be looked straight at, as ifit were but the moon. Yet it still gave out light and looked quitenear in the immensity; it seemed that by going in a ship, only so faras the edge of the horizon, one might collide with the great mournfulglobe, floating in the air just a few yards above the water.

　　Fishing was going on well; looking into the calm water, one could seeexactly what took place; how the cod came to bite, with a greedyspring; then, feeling themselves hooked, wriggled about, as if to hookthemselves still firmer. And every moment, with rapid action, thefishermen hauled in their lines, hand overhand, throwing the fish tothe man who was to clean them and flatten them out.

　　The Paimpol fleet were scattered over the quiet mirror, animating thedesert. Here and there appeared distant sails, unfurled for mereform's sake, considering there was no breeze. They were like clearwhite outlines upon the greys of the horizon. In this dead calm,fishing off Iceland seemed so easy and tranquil a trade that ladies'

　　yachting was no name for it.

　　"Jean Francois de Nantes;Jean Francois,Jean Francois!"So they sang, like a couple of children.

　　Yann little troubled whether or no he was handsome and good-looking.

　　He was boyish only with Sylvestre, it is true, and sang and joked withno other; on the contrary, he was rather distant with the others andproud and disdainful--very willing though, when his help was required,and always kind and obliging when not irritated.

　　So the twain went on singing their song, with two others, a few stepsoff, singing another, a dirge--a clashing of sleepiness, health, andvague melancholy. But they did not feel dull, and the hours flew by.

　　Down in the cabin a fire still smouldered in the iron range, and thehatch was kept shut, so as to give the appearance of night there forthose who needed sleep. They required but little air to sleep; indeed,less robust fellows, brought up in towns, would have wanted more. Theyused to go to bed after the watch at irregular times, just when theyfelt inclined, hours counting for little in this never-fading light.

　　And they always slept soundly and peacefully without restlessness orbad dreams.

　　"Jean Francois de Nantes;Jean Francois,Jean Francois!"They looked attentively at some almost imperceptible object, far offon the horizon, some faint smoke rising from the waters like a tinyjot of another gray tint slightly darker than the sky's. Their eyeswere used to plumbing depths, and they had see............