"You certainly make me feel happy by saying so. What is your name?"
"Douarnek."
"You must be a Breton!"
"From the neighborhood of Vannes."
"My family also comes from that neighborhood."
"I thought as much, your name being a Breton name. Well, friend Schanvoch, may we sing a song? Our officer gave us orders to obey you as we would himself. I know not whither you are taking us, but a song is heard far away, especially when it is struck up in chorus by vigorous and broad-chested lads. Perhaps we must not draw attention upon our bark?"
"Just now you may sing—later not—we shall have to advance without making any noise."
"Well, boys, what shall we sing?" said the veteran without either himself or his companions intermitting the regular strokes of their oars, and only slightly turning his head towards them, seeing that, seated as he was on the first bench, he sat opposite to me. "Come, make your choice!"
"The song of the mariners, will that suit you?" answered one of the soldiers.
"That is rather long," replied Douarnek.