The sun, sinking low, seemed incapable of ever rising over all things, though glowing through this phantom island so tangible that it seemed placed in front of it.
Incomprehensible sight! no longer was it surrounded by a halo, but its disc had become firmly spread, rather like some faded yellow planet slowly decaying and suddenly checked there in the heart of chaos.
The cruiser, which had stopped, was fully surrounded by the fleet of Icelanders.

From all boats were lowered, like so many nut-shells, and conveyed their strong, long-bearded men, in barbaric-looking dresses, to the steamer.
Like children, all had something to beg for; remedies for petty ailments, materials for repairs, change of diet, and home letters.
Others came, sent by their captains, to be clapped in irons, to expiate some fault; as they had all been in the navy, they took this as a matter of course.

When the narrow deck of the cruiser was blocked-up by four or five of these hulking fellows, stretched out with the bilboes round their feet, the old sailor who had just chained them up called out to them, "Roll o' one side, my lads, to let us work, d'ye hear ?" which they obediently did with a grin.
There were a great many letters this time for the Iceland fleet.

Among the rest, two for "_La Marie_, Captain Guermeur"; one addressed to "Monsieur Gaos, Yann," the other to "Monsieur Moan, Sylvestre." The latter had come by way of Rykavyk, where the cruiser had taken it on.
The purser, diving into his post-bags of sailcloth, distributed them all round, often finding it hard to read the addresses, which were not always written very skilfully, while the captain kept on saying: "Look alive there, look alive! the barometer is falling." He was rather anxious to see all the tiny yawls afloat, and so many vessels assembled in that dangerous region.
Yann and Sylvestre used to read their letters together.

This time they read them by the light of the midnight sun, shining above the horizon, still like a dead luminary.