The vessel continued to sail smoothly and fast.  The night grew darker and darker.  The mists, which came inland from the ocean, were invading the zenith, from which no wind blew them away.  Only a few large stars were visible, and they disappeared one after another, so that soon there were none at all, and the whole sky was dark, infinite, and soft.  The river broadened until the banks on each side were nothing but two thin brown lines mingling with the gloom.  Out of all this shadow rose a profound peace.  Gwynplaine, half seated, held Dea in his embrace.  They spoke, they cried, they babbled, they murmured in a mad dialogue of joy!  How are we to paint thee, O joy!

“My life!”

“My heaven!”

“My love!”

“My whole happiness!”

“Gwynplaine!”

“Dea, I am drunk.  Let me kiss your feet.”

“Is it you, then, for certain?”

“I have so much to say to you now that I do not know where to begin.”

“One kiss!”

“O my wife!”

“Gwynplaine, do not tell me that I am beautiful.  It is you who are handsome.”

“I have found you again.  I hold you to my heart.  This is true.  You are mine.  I do not dream.  Is it possible?  Yes, it is.  I recover possession of life.  If you only knew!  I have met with all sorts of adventures.  Dea!”

“Gwynplaine, I love you!”

And Ursus murmured,—­

“Mine is the joy of a grandfather.”

Homo, having come from under the van, was going from one to the other discreetly, exacting no attention, licking them left and right—­now Ursus’s thick shoes, now Gwynplaine’s cape, now Dea’s dress, now the mattress.  This was his way of giving his blessing.

They had passed Chatham and the mouth of the Medway.  They were approaching the sea.  The shadowy serenity of the atmosphere was such that the passage down the Thames was being made without trouble:  no manoeuvre was needful, nor was any sailor called on deck.  At the other end of the vessel the skipper, still alone, was steering.  There was only this man aft.  At the bow the lantern lighted up the happy group of beings who, from the depths of misery, had suddenly been raised to happiness by a meeting so unhoped for.

CHAPTER IV.

NAY; ON HIGH!

Suddenly Dea, disengaging herself from Gwynplaine’s embrace, arose.  She pressed both her hands against her heart, as if to still its throbbings.

“What is wrong with me?” said she.  “There is something the matter.  Joy is suffocating.  No, it is nothing!  That is lucky.  Your reappearance, O my Gwynplaine, has given me a blow—­a blow of happiness.  All this heaven of joy which you have put into my heart has intoxicated me.  You being absent, I felt myself dying.  The true life which was leaving me you have brought back.  I felt as if something was being torn away within me.  It is the shadows