“All those from Tréguier and from Saint-Brieuc have been back for a week,” said Fante at last, pitilessly, in a voice low and almost irritated. She carried a taper, meaning to make a votive offering.
Ah! Yes! a votive offering—Gaud had not wished to think as yet of that last resort of the desolate. But she entered the chapel behind Fante, without saying anything more, and they knelt side by side, like two sisters.
To the Virgin, Star of the Sea, they said their passionate prayers with all their hearts. But only the sound of sobs was heard, and their rapid tears began to fall upon the floor.
They arose together, more tender, more confident. Fante aided the tottering Gaud, and, taking her in her arms, she kissed her.
After wiping away their tears, arranging their hair, and brushing the saltpetre and dust of the flagstones from their skirts at the knees, they went away without saying anything more, by different paths.
This September’s close was like another summer, only it was somewhat melancholy. The weather was really so beautiful this year that had it not been for the dead leaves that fell in a mournful shower along the roadways one might have said that it was the gay month of June. Husbands, fiancés, sweethearts, had all returned, and everywhere was the joy of a second spring-time of love.
At last one day one of the delayed ships from Iceland was signalled in the offing. Which one?
On the cliff, groups of mute and anxious women quickly formed. Gaud was there, trembling and pale, by the side of the father of her Yann.
“I firmly believe,” said the old fisher—“I firmly believe it’s them! A red sail, a topsail that clews up—that’s jolly well like them anyhow. What do you say, Gaud, my girl?