The sun traced over the whiteness of his ceiling and sheets a restless network of gold whose meshes constantly succeeded each other.

This was the reflection of the invisible water.

When his ship was immovable in the ports, there always came in through his window the whirling noise of the cranes, the cries of the stevedores and the voices of those who were in the neighboring vessels.

On the high sea the cool and murmuring silence of immensity used to fill his sleeping room.

A wind of infinite purity that came perhaps from the other side of the planet--slipping past thousands of leagues, over the salty deserts without touching a single bit of corruption--would come stealing into Ferragut's throat like an effervescent wine.