Before them was a plain
with a few clumps of trees,
which led to the woods, a
little forest which seemed
to remind them of that
other forest at Kermarivan.
The wheat and oat fields
bordered on the narrow
path, and Jean Kerderen
said each time to Luc Le
Ganidec:
"It's just like home, just
like Plounivon."
"Yes, it's just like home."
And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories
of home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.
Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the
private estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of
Locneuven.
As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec
would cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on,
thinking of the folks at home.
Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.
From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some
boyish prank which would give them food for plenty of thought.
And the home country, so dear and so distant, would little by little
gain possession of their minds, sending them back through space,
to the well-known forms and noises, to the familiar scenery, with
the fragrance of its green fields and sea air. They no longer noticed
the smells of the city. And in their dreams they saw their friends
leaving, perhaps forever, for the dangerous fishing grounds.
They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen,
contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and
penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days
of its freedom.
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