He took his flight, and bade farewell to India’s beauties.
After a second week of the blue sea, they paused off another land of dewy verdure. A crowd of yellow men appeared, yelling out and pressing on deck, bringing coal in baskets.
“Already in China?” asked Sylvestre, at the sight of those grotesque figures in pigtails.
“Bless you, no, not yet,” they told him; “have a little more patience.”
It was only Singapore. He went up into his mast-top again, to avoid the black dust tossed about by the breeze, while the coal was feverishly heaped up in the bunkers from little baskets.
One day, at length, they arrived off a land called Tourane, where the Circe was anchored, to blockade the port. This was the ship to which Sylvestre had been long ago assigned, and he was left there with his bag.