Not a single cloud was in the sky.
All was blue above and below, with no variation except where the bands of foam were combing themselves on the jutting points of the coast, and the restless gold of the sunlight was forming a broad roadway over the waters.

A flock of dolphins frisked around the boat like a cortege of oceanic divinities.
"If the sea were always like this!" exclaimed the captain, "what delight to be a sailor!" The crew could see the people on land running together and forming groups, attracted by the novelty of a steamer that was passing within reach of their voice.

On each of the jutting points of the shore was a low and ruddy tower,--last vestige of the thousand-year war of the Mediterranean.

Accustomed to the rugged shores of the ocean and its eternal surf, the Breton sailors were marveling at this easy navigation, almost touching the coast whose inhabitants looked like a swarm of bees.

Had the boat been directed by another captain, so close a journey would have resulted most disastrously: but Ferragut was laughing, throwing out gloomy hints to the officers who were on the bridge, merely to accentuate his professional confidence.