On one of the wooden crosses this name was written in large letters:
“GAOS.—GAOS, JOEL, 80 years.”
Yes, this was the old grandfather—she knew that—for the sea had not wanted this old sailor. And many of Yann's relatives, besides, slept here; it was only natural, and she might have expected it; nevertheless, the name upon the tomb had made a sad impression.
To waste a little more time, she entered to say a prayer under the old cramped porch, worn away and daubed over with whitewash. But she stopped again with a sharp pain at her heart. “Gaos”—again that name, engraved upon one of the slabs erected in memory of those who die at sea.
She read this inscription:
“To the Memory of GAOS, JEAN-LOUIS, Aged 24 years; seaman on board the Marguerite. Disappeared off Iceland, August 3d, 1877. May he rest in peace!”
Iceland—always Iceland! All over the porch were wooden slabs bearing the names of dead sailors. It was the place reserved for the shipwrecked of Pors-Even. Filled with a dark foreboding she was sorry to have gone there.
In Paimpol church she had seen many such inscriptions; but in this village the empty tomb of the Iceland fishers seemed more sad because so lone and humble. On each side of the doorway was a granite seat for the widows and mothers; and this shady spot, irregularly shaped like a grotto, was guarded by an old image of the Virgin, coloured red, with large staring eyes, looking most like Cybele—the first goddess of the earth.
“Gaos!” Again!
“To the Memory of GAOS, FRANCOIS, Husband of Anne-Marie le Goaster, Captain on board the Paimpolais, Lost off Iceland, between the 1st and 3d of May, 1877, With the twenty-three men of his crew. May they rest in peace!”