For there is such a type in which the volatile southern passion
is transmuted into solid force. He is fair, but no one could mistake him
for a man of the north even by the dim gleam of the lantern standing on
the quay. He is worth a dozen of your ordinary Normans or Bretons, but
then, in the whole immense sweep of the Mediterranean shores, you could
not find half a dozen men of his stamp.
Standing by the tiller, he pulls out his watch from under a thick jacket
and bends his head over it in the light cast into the boat. Time's up.
His pleasant voice commands, in a quiet undertone, "_Larguez_." A suddenly
projected arm snatches the lantern off the quay--and, warped along by
a line at first, then with the regular tug of four heavy sweeps in
the bow, the big half-decked boat full of men glides out of the black,
breathless shadow of the fort. The open water of the avant-port glitters
under the moon as if sown over with millions of sequins, and the long
white break water shines like a thick bar of solid silver. With a quick
rattle of blocks and one single silky swish, the sail is filled by a
little breeze keen enough to have come straight down from the frozen
moon, and the boat, after the clatter of the hauled-in sweeps, seems
to stand at rest, surrounded by a mysterious whispering so faint and
unearthly that it may be the rustling of the brilliant, overpowering
moon rays breaking like a rain-shower upon the hard, smooth, shadowless
sea.
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