Towards evening we come out on the high seas. The bad weather has not become permanent, but the crossing will be unpleasant because of the short choppy swell that comes from Corfu and Santa Maura. Already the _Mousqueton_ is covered with showers of spray; the _Waldeck-Rousseau_ slowly heaves and rolls; at the end of the towing-line, which vibrates like a rubber band, the _Gay-Lussac_ bounces in the swell. The dull twilight comes on; the clouds descend a little lower, the wind rises, a gray night follows the slaty evening, and we begin the crossing which will be twelve or fourteen hours like so many others. In the middle of the night I take the watch and look for my two comrades. If I did not know that they were there, I should have difficulty in finding them. An indistinct spot in front of the prow seems to keep us company; it is the _Mousqeton_. She rises and falls like a dripping black cloth which a laundress shakes incessantly. She lurches ceaselessly right and left, without finding any support, and reflects restless gleams in the night. Thanks to this dark artificial fire, I do not lose track of her. The _Gay-Lussac_ is following us back there among the hills of water. The sentries on our cruiser, on the side of the towing-line, can tell by touch whether it remains taut; as long as the cable is tight, the submarine has not left us; nothing except its sudden slackness could warn us of a break of the line. Several times I go down to the after deck, unable to tell with my eyes whether the _Gay-Lussac_ is there or not, but the tension of the cable reassures me.