others to Uvaagen (not-awake), on account of his evident predisposition
to sleep. He was incredibly _naïve_ and communicative, especially on the
subject of his wife and children (of which latter he apparently had his
nest full), and had soon become the butt of the ship. Salvé was the only
one who ever took his part, and that only because he saw all the others
against him; and having also been the means of saving his life when he
had been washed overboard one dark night in the English Channel, he had
inspired the simple fellow with a perfectly devoted attachment to him.

They were up on the mainyard together that evening, where they had been
helping to carry out an order with the mainsail. The rest had gone down
again, but Salvé, who felt a longing to be alone, had remained aloft,
and was standing on the foot-rope, with his elbows resting on the yard.
Nils's sympathetic eyes had perceived from his behaviour and whole
appearance that day that there was something unusual the matter with
him; and when he saw that Salvé remained behind, he remained too,
observing that it would be pleasant to cool for a while before going to
their hammocks in the close air between decks.

The sky above them blazed like a cupola "inlaid with patines of bright
gold;" obliquely from the horizon the Southern Cross was rising, and the
evening star shone in the warm night, before the moon had yet risen,
with a silver gleam that threw clear light and shadow upon the deck
below; while the vessel seemed to plough through a sea of
phosphorescence, leaving in her wake a long trail of bluish glittering
light.

From the forecastle below came wafted up a sentimental sailor's song,
the burden of which was pretty well summed up in the two concluding
lines:--