Tipped to one side, the boat skimmed lightly through the foaming waves.
The three sails were comfortably swelled; the masts creaked and the wind
rattled the pulleys. A cabin-boy stood at the helm singing. We could not
catch the words, but it was some slow, monotonous lay which neither rose
nor fell and was repeated again and again, with long-drawn-out
inflections and languid refrain. And it swept softly and sadly out over
the ocean, as some confused memory sweeps through one's mind.
The horse stood as straight as it could on its four legs and pulled at a
bundle of hay. The sailors, with folded arms, looked absently at the
sails and smiled a far-away smile.
* * * * *
So we journeyed on without speaking a word and as best we could, without
reaching the edge of the bay, where it looked as if Plouharnel might be.
However, after a while we arrived there. But when we did, we were
confronted by the ocean, for we had followed the right side of the coast
instead of the left, and were forced to turn back and go over a part of
the route.
A muffled sound was heard. A bell tinkled and a hat appeared. It was the
Auray post.
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