The crew had lit a fire for the bouillabaisse, by the time we were all ashore. The Master hailed me and pointed out a small outcrop of white masonry almost lost in the fog at the far end of the island: --Are you coming to the cemetery? he said. --A cemetery, Master Lionetti! Where are we then? --The Lavezzi Islands, monsieur. The six hundred souls from the _Sémillante_ are buried here, at the very spot where their frigate foundered ten years ago.... Poor souls, they don't get many visitors; the least we can do is to go and say hello to them, while we're here.... --Of course, willingly, skipper. * * * * * The _Sémillante's_ crew's last resting place was inexpressibly gloomy. I can still see its small low wall, it's iron gate, rusted and hard to open, its silent chapel, and hundreds of crosses overgrown by the grass. Not a single everlasting wreath, not one remembrance, nothing! Oh, the poor deserted dead; how cold they must be in their unwanted graves. We stayed there briefly, kneeling down. The Master was praying loudly, while gulls, sole guardians of the cemetery, circled over our heads, their harsh melancholy cries counterpoint to the sea's lamentations. The prayer finished, we plodded, sadly, back to the spot where the boat was moored. The sailors had not wasted any time; we were met by a great roaring fire in the shelter of a rock, with a hot-pot steaming. We all sat around, feet drying by the flames, and soon everyone had two slices of rye bread to dunk into a soup-filled terra cotta bowl on our knees. The meal was eaten in silence; after all, we were wet, and hungry, and near to the cemetery.... However, once the bowls were empty, we lit our pipes and started to speak about the _Sémillante_. --Well, how did it happen? I asked the boat's Captain, who was looking thoughtfully into the flames, head in hands. --How did it happen? Captain Lionetti repeated by way of a reply. Then he sighed,--Alas, monsieur, nobody alive can tell you. All we know is that the _Sémillante_, loaded with troops bound for the Crimea, had left Toulon in bad weather the previous night. Later, things changed for the worse; wind, rain, and enormous seas the like of which had never been seen before.... In the morning, the wind moderated, but the sea was still in a frenzy. On top of that, the devil's own fog descended--you couldn't see a light at four paces. Those fogs, monsieur, you can't believe how treacherous they can be.... But it didn't make any difference, I believe the _Sémillante_ must have lost her rudder that morning, for there is no such thing as a risk-free fog, and the Captain should never have gone aground there. He was a tough and experienced seafarer, as we all know. He had commanded the naval station in Corsica for three years, and knew his coast hereabouts as well as I; and it's all I do know. --At what time do you think the _Sémillante_ foundered?