Sylvestre was soon out on the ocean, rapidly whisked away over the unknown seas, far more blue than Iceland's.

The ship that carried him off to the confines of Asia was ordered to go at full speed and stop nowhere.

Ere long he felt that he was far away, for the speed was unceasing, and even without a care for the sea or the wind.

As he was a topman, he lived perched aloft, like a bird, avoiding the soldiers crowded upon the deck.
Twice they stopped, however, on the coast of Tunis, to take up more Zouaves and mules; from afar he had perceived the white cities amid sands and arid hills.

He had even come down from his top to look at the dark-brown men draped in their white robes who came off in small boats to peddle fruit; his mates told him that these were Bedouins.
The heat and the sun, which were unlessened by the autumn season, made him feel out of his element.
One day they touched at Port Said.