It had gone to a military harbor,--a narrow river winding through the interior of the city, dividing it in two.

A great drawbridge put in communication the two shores bordered with vast constructions and high chimneys, naval shops, warehouses, arsenals, and dry-docks for cleaning up the boats.
Tug-boats were continually stirring up its green and miry waters.
Steamers undergoing repairs were lined up the length of the break-waters undergoing a continual pounding that made their plates resound.

Lighters topped with hills of pit coal were going slowly to take their position along the flanks of the ships.

Under the drawbridge launches were coming and going from the warships, leaving on the floating piers the crews celebrating their shore-leave with scandalous uproar.
The _Mare Nostrum_ remained isolated while the workmen from the arsenal were installing on the poop rapid-fire guns and the wireless telegraph apparatus.

No one could come aboard that did not belong to the crew.
The sailors' families were waiting for them on the wharf, and Caragol had occasion to become acquainted with many Breton women,--mothers, sisters, or fiancees of his new friends.