"That's right, row more gently. So that the water tells no tales.
There's a channel to cross. Softly, softly. Here, brother, are
serious people. They are quite capable of amusing themselves with a
gun, They could raise a fine lump on your forehead before you'd have
time to cry out."
The boat glided over the water almost without sound. Blue drops fell
from the oars and when they touched the sea there flamed up for an
instant a little blue spot. The night was growing darker and more
silent. The sky no longer resembled a rough sea; the clouds extended
over its surface, forming a thick, even curtain, hanging motionless
above the ocean. The sea was calmer and blacker, its warm and salty
odor was stronger and it did not appear as vast as before.
"Oh! if it would only rain!" murmured Tchelkache; "we would be hidden
by a curtain."
On the right and left of the boat, the motionless, melancholy, black
hulls of ships emerged from the equally black water. A light moved to
and fro on one; someone was walking with a lantern. The sea, caressing
their sides, seemed to dully implore them while they responded by a
cold, rumbling echo, as though they were disputing and refusing to
yield.
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