Victor read over slowly what he had written: "_Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers?
Where is La Place with its musketeers, Golden nights and the May-time breeze?
And where are the belles of the balconies ?_" Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris?
Were they all alive, the good lads in his company?
And how went the war with Spain?
Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis courts?
With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on.
The truth is, the poet was homesick.

But he was not alone in this affliction.
Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom.

He was reading from his favorite book.

Time after time he would look toward the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing.

Finally he closed the book and rose to gaze out upon the sea.