The discovery of the fox, it seems, is going to be a very funny business, for he is ready to die with laughter at the thought of it. And he makes the man, who is already tipsy, turn round and round several times so that we may follow the hunt which continues its downward course. In the neighbourhood of his loins, the hunt thickens and one foresees the end is near.
"See! there he is!" cries the captain with the head of a river god, at the height of his savage merriment, throwing himself back, transported with satisfaction and laughter.
The hunted beast has gone to earth; only half of it can be seen. And that is the great culminating surprise. The sailor is invited to drink with us, as a reward for letting us see him.
It was time to go on deck and get a little pure air, the fresh and delicious air of the evening. The sea, which still was motionless and heavy, gleamed in the distance, reflecting the last lights that came from the west. And now the men began to dance to a jig-like air played on a flute.
As they danced the men cast sidelong glances at us, half in shy curiosity, half in scornful disdain. They had some of those tricks of physiognomy which sea-going men have preserved from our primitive ancestors; and comical gestures at every turn, an excessive mimicry, like animals in the wild state. Sometimes they threw themselves back, cambering their bodies; sometimes, by virtue of natural suppleness and their habits of stratagem, they crouched down, arching their backs, in the manner of wild beasts when they walk in the light of day. Round and round they went, to the sound of the fluted music, of the little jigging, infantine tol-de-rol-lol; very serious, dancing very well, with graceful poses of arms and circular movements of legs.
But Yves and Goulven continued to walk up and down together. They had many things still to say to each other, and they were making the most of these last final minutes, for they knew that I was about to leave. They had seen each other once, fifteen years before, while Yves was still quite a little fellow, on that day which Goulven had spent at Plouherzel, in hiding like a fugitive, and, as far as could be seen, they would never meet again.
Suddenly, we saw two of the dancers seize each other round the waist, throw themselves to the ground, still close grappled one with the other, and then begin to fight, to throttle one another, taken with a sudden rage; they tried to use their knives and already there were red marks of blood on the deck.
The captain with the river god head separated them by lashing them both with a whip of hippopotamus hide.
"No matter," he said in English; "they are drunk!"
It was time to go. Goulven and Yves embraced each other, and I saw tears in Goulven's eyes.