And the night deepened over the River Yann, a night all white with stars.
And with the night there rose the helmsman's song. As soon as he had
prayed he began to sing to cheer himself all through the lonely night. But
first he prayed, praying the helmsman's prayer. And this is what I
remember of it, rendered into English with a very feeble equivalent of the
rhythm that seemed so resonant in those tropic nights.

To whatever god may hear.

Wherever there be sailors whether of river or sea: whether their way be
dark or whether through storm: whether their peril be of beast or of rock:
or from enemy lurking on land or pursuing on sea: wherever the tiller is
cold or the helmsman stiff: wherever sailors sleep or helmsmen watch:
guard, guide and return us to the old land, that has known us: to the far
homes that we know.

To all the gods that are.

To whatever god may hear.

So he prayed, and there was silence. And the sailors laid them down to
rest for the night. The silence deepened, and was only broken by the
ripples of Yann that lightly touched our prow. Sometimes some monster of
the river coughed.

Silence and ripples, ripples and silence again.

And then his loneliness came upon the helmsman, and he began to sing. And
he sang the market songs of Durl and Duz, and the old dragon-legends of