He, the cynical robber, loved the sea. His ardent temperament, greedy
for impressions, never tired of contemplating its infinite, free and
powerful immensity. It offended him to receive such a reply to his
question concerning the beauty of the sea that he loved. Seated at
the tiller, he cleaved the water with his oar and gazed tranquilly
before him, filled with the desire to thus continue rowing forever over
this velvet plain.

On the sea, warm and generous impulses rose within him, filled his soul
and in a measure purified it of the defilements of life. He enjoyed
this effect and liked to feel himself better, out here, amid the waves
and air where the thoughts and occupations of life lose their interest
and life itself sinks into insignificance. In the night, the sound of
its soft breathing is wafted over the slumbering sea, and this infinite
murmur fills the soul with peace, checks all unworthy impulses and
brings forth mighty dreams.

"The nets, where are they, eh?" suddenly asked Gavrilo, inspecting the
boat.

Tchelkache shuddered.

"There's the net, at the rudder."

"What kind of a net's that?" asked Gavrilo, suspiciously.

"A sweep-net. . ."

But Tchelkache was ashamed to lie to this child to conceal his real
purpose; he also regretted the thoughts and feelings that the lad had