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242 man's coffin—should have been elastic to accommodate all the human flesh that was being stowed therein, all those pariahs for whom wily thaumaturges evoked, out of the leaden fogs of the Scheldt, the gleaming, distant Pactolus.

However, two huge trucks of the American Nation, requisitioned by Jean Vingerhout, drove down to the quay. Out of honor to him, two pairs of Furnes horses, enormous, epic palfreys, stately, slow-paced workers, whose equal and solemn step bettered the trot of a racer, had been harnessed to them. The proud beasts had never drawn such light and pitiable merchandise; the baggage piled up, but was not heavy. So very little that in order not to humiliate the powerful horses, the emigrants themselves rode on the drays.

In the midst of the confusion, the disorder of white cases tightly nailed and roped, of opened sacks, of shabby outfits tied up in checked cotton scarfs, there lounged about groups of young emigrants from Lille, Brasschaet, Santvliet, Pulderbosch and Viersel.

A few were boisterously laughing, noisily skipping about, questioning the curious onlookers, seeming to exult. In reality they were forcing themselves to self-deception, to renounce the fixed idea that was gnawing them as keenly as remorse. Under the pretext of heartening their less cheerful and exuberant companions, they clapped them stoutly on the back. Among these villagers there were at most one or two whose immoderate and demonstrative joy was sincere. The others were trying to excite themselves. But, now that the gamble had been taken, and they could neither change their minds nor extricate themselves, as the xnist of illusion began to dissipate, and their