is Basque, and always and everywhere he must succour a Basque. Such is
Pyrenean fraternity.

All the time the hooker was in the gulf, the sky, although threatening,
did not frown enough to cause the fugitives any uneasiness. They were
flying, they were escaping, they were brutally gay. One laughed, another
sang; the laugh was dry but free, the song was low but careless.

The Languedocian cried, "_Caoucagno!_" "_Cocagne_" expresses the highest
pitch of satisfaction in Narbonne. He was a longshore sailor, a native
of the waterside village of Gruissan, on the southern side of the
Clappe, a bargeman rather than a mariner, but accustomed to work the
reaches of the inlet of Bages, and to draw the drag-net full of fish
over the salt sands of St. Lucie. He was of the race who wear a red cap,
make complicated signs of the cross after the Spanish fashion, drink
wine out of goat-skins, eat scraped ham, kneel down to blaspheme, and
implore their patron saint with threats--"Great saint, grant me what I
ask, or I'll throw a stone at thy head, _ou té feg un pic_." He might
be, at need, a useful addition to the crew.

The Provençal in the caboose was blowing up a turf fire under an
iron pot, and making broth. The broth was a kind of puchero, in which
fish took the place of meat, and into which the Provençal threw
chick peas, little bits of bacon cut in squares, and pods of red
pimento--concessions made by the eaters of _bouillabaisse_ to the
eaters of _olla podrida_. One of the bags of provisions was beside him
unpacked. He had lighted over his head an iron lantern, glazed with
talc, which swung on a hook from the ceiling. By its side, on another
hook, swung the weather-cock halcyon. There was a popular belief in
those days that a dead halcyon, hung by the beak, always turned its