His chest was bare. As he passed beneath the
window he sang a loud song that sounded Eastern, such a song as the
Spanish wagoners sing in Algeria, as they set out by night on their
long journeys towards the desert. Upon a tiny platform of wood,
fastened to slanting stakes which met together beneath it in a tripod,
a stout man in shirt and trousers, with black whiskers, was sitting on
a chair fishing with a rod and line. A boy sat beside him dangling his
legs over the water. At a little distance a large fishing-smack, with
sails set to catch the breeze farther out in the Bay, was being
laboriously rowed towards the open sea by half-naked men, who shouted
as they toiled at the immense oars.
Artois wondered where they were going. Their skins were a rich orange
color. From a distance in the sunlight they looked like men of gold.
Their cries and their fierce movements suggested some fantastic quest
to lands of mysterious tumult.
Artois wished that Vere could see them.
What were the inhabitants of the island doing?
To-day his mind was beyond his governance, and roamed like a vagrant
on a long, white road.
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