OUR FIRST ROUGH SKETCHES FILLED IN.


While the hooker was in the gulf of Portland, there was but little sea
on; the ocean, if gloomy, was almost still, and the sky was yet clear.
The wind took little effect on the vessel; the hooker hugged the cliff
as closely as possible; it served as a screen to her.

There were ten on board the little Biscayan felucca--three men in crew,
and seven passengers, of whom two were women. In the light of the open
sea (which broadens twilight into day) all the figures on board were
clearly visible. Besides they were not hiding now--they were all at
ease; each one reassumed his freedom of manner, spoke in his own note,
showed his face; departure was to them a deliverance.

The motley nature of the group shone out. The women were of no age. A
wandering life produces premature old age, and indigence is made up of
wrinkles. One of them was a Basque of the Dry-ports. The other, with the
large rosary, was an Irishwoman. They wore that air of indifference
common to the wretched. They had squatted down close to each other when
they got on board, on chests at the foot of the mast. They talked to
each other. Irish and Basque are, as we have said, kindred languages.
The Basque woman's hair was scented with onions and basil. The skipper
of the hooker was a Basque of Guipuzcoa. One sailor was a Basque of the
northern slope of the Pyrenees, the other was of the southern
slope--that is to say, they were of the same nation, although the first
was French and the latter Spanish. The Basques recognize no official
country. _Mi madre se llama Montaña_, my mother is called the mountain,
as Zalareus, the muleteer, used to say. Of the five men who were with
the two women, one was a Frenchman of Languedoc, one a Frenchman of