They again took their places in the boat. Tchelkache at the helm,
Gavrilo rowing.
The gray sky was covered with clouds; the troubled, green sea, played with their craft, tossing it on its still tiny waves that broke over it in a shower of clear, salt drops. Far off, before the prow of the boat, appeared the yellow line of the sandy beach; back of the stern was the free and joyous sea, all furrowed by the troops of waves that ran up and down, already decked in their superb fringe of foam. In the far distance, ships were rocking on the bosom of the sea and, on the left, was a whole forest of masts mingled with the white masses of the houses of the town. Prom there, a dull murmur is borne out to sea and blending with the sound of the waves swelled into rapturous music. Over all stretched a thin veil of mist, widening the distance between the different objects.
"Eh! It'll be rough to-night!" said Tchelkache, nodding his head in the direction of the sea.
"A storm?" asked Gavrilo. He was rowing hard. He was drenched from head to foot by the drops blown by the wind.
"Ehe!" affirmed Tchelkache.
Gavrilo looked at him curiously.
"How much did they give you?" he asked at last, seeing that Tchelkache was not disposed to talk.
"See!" said Tchelkache. He held out toward Gavrilo something that he drew from his pocket.
Gavrilo saw the variegated banknotes, and they assumed in his eyes all the colors of the rainbow.
"Oh! And I thought you were boasting! How much?"