Four months later Captain Ferragut was in Barcelona.

During the interval he had made three trips to Salonica, and on the second had to appear before a naval captain of the army of the Orient.  The French officer was informed of his former expeditions for the victualing of the allied troops.  He knew his name and looked upon him as does a judge interested in the accused.  He had received from Marseilles a long telegram with reference to Ferragut.  A spy submitted to military justice was accusing him of having carried supplies to the German submarines.

“How about that, Captain?...”

Ulysses hesitated, looking at the official’s grave face, framed by a grey beard.  This man inspired his confidence.  He could respond negatively to such questions; it would be difficult for the German to prove his affirmation; but he preferred to tell the truth, with the simplicity of one who does not try to hide his faults, describing himself just as he had been, blind with lust, dragged down by the amorous artifices of an adventuress.

“The women!...  Ah, the women!” murmured the French chief with the melancholy smile of a magistrate who does not lose sight of human weaknesses and has participated in them.

Nevertheless Ferragut’s transgression was of gravest importance.  He had aided in staging the submarine attack in the Mediterranean....  But when the Spanish captain related how he had been one of the first victims, how his son had died in the torpedoing of the Californian, the judge appeared touched, looking at him less severely.

Then Ferragut related his encounter with the spy in the harbor of Marseilles.

“I have sworn,” he said finally, “to devote my ship and my life to causing all the harm possible to the murderers of my son....  That man is denouncing me in order to avenge himself.  I realize that my headlong blindness dragged me to a crime that I shall never forget.  I am sufficiently punished in the death of my son....  But that does not matter; let them sentence me, too.”

The chief remained sunk in deep reflection, forehead in hand and elbow on the table.  Ferragut recognized here military justice, expeditious, intuitive, passional, attentive to the sentiments that have scarcely any weight in other tribunals, judging by the action of conscience more than by the letter of the law, and capable of shooting a man with the same dispatch that he would employ in setting him at liberty.

When the eyes of the judge again fixed themselves upon him, they had an indulgent light.  He had been guilty, not on account of money nor treason, but crazed by a woman.  Who has not something like this in his own history?...  “Ah, the women!” repeated the Frenchman, as though lamenting the most terrible form of enslavement....  But the victim had already suffered enough in the loss of his son.  Besides, they owed to him the discovery and arrest of an important spy.

“Your hand, Captain,” he concluded, holding out his own.  “All that we have said will be just between ourselves.  It is a sacred, confessional secret.  I will arrange it with the Council of War....  You may continue lending your services to our cause.”

And Ferragut was not annoyed further about the affair of Marseilles.  Perhaps they were watching him discreetly and keeping sight of him in order to convince themselves of his entire innocence; but this suspected vigilance never made itself felt nor occasioned him any trouble.

On the third trip to Salonica the French captain saw him once at a distance, greeting him with a grave smile which showed that he no longer was thinking of him as a possible spy.

Upon its return, the Mare Nostrum anchored at Barcelona to take on cloth for the army service, and other industrial articles of which the troops of the Orient stood in need.  Ferragut did not make this trip for mercantile reasons.  An affectionate interest was drawing him there....  He needed to see Cinta, feeling that in his soul the past was again coming to life.

The image of his wife, vivacious and attractive, as in the early years of their marriage, kept rising before him.  It was not a resurrection of the old love; that would have been impossible....  But his remorse made him see her, idealized by distance, with all her qualities of a sweet and modest woman.

He wished to reestablish the cordial relations of other times, to have all the past pardoned, so that she would no longer look at him with hatred, believing him responsible for the death of her son.

In reality she was the only woman who had loved him sincerely, as she was able to love, without violence or passional exaggeration, and with the tranquillity of a comrade.  The other women no longer existed.  They were a troop of shadows that passed through his memory like specters of visible shape but without color.  As for that last one, that Freya whom bad luck had put in his way ...  How the captain hated her!  How he wished to meet her and return a part of the harm she had done him!...

Upon seeing his wife, Ulysses imagined that no time had passed by.  He found her just as at parting, with her two nieces seated at her feet, making interminable, complicated blonde lace upon the cylindrical pillows supported on their knees.

The only novelty of the captain’s stay in this dwelling of monastic calm was that Don Pedro abstained from his visits.  Cinta received her husband with a pallid smile.  In that smile he suspected the work of time.  She had continued thinking of her son every hour, but with a resignation that was drying her tears and permitting her to continue the deliberate mechanicalness of existence.  Furthermore, she wished to remove the impression of the angry words, inspired by grief, the remembrance of that scene of rebellion in which she had arisen like a wrathful accuser against the father.  And Ferragut for some days believed that he was living just as in past years when he had not yet bought the Mare Nostrum and was planning to remain always ashore.  Cinta was attentive to his wishes and obedient as a Christian wife ought to be.  Her words and acts revealed a desire to forget, to make herself agreeable.

But something was lacking that had made the past so sweet.  The cordiality of youth could not be resuscitated.  The remembrance of the son was always intervening between the two, hardly ever leaving their thoughts.  And so it would always be!

Since that house could no longer be a real home to him, he again began to await impatiently the hour of sailing.  His destiny was to live henceforth on the ship, to pass the rest of his days upon the waves like the accursed captain of the Dutch legend, until the pallid virgin wrapped in black veils Death should come to rescue him.

While the steamer finished loading he strolled through the city visiting his cousins, the manufacturers, or remaining idly in the cafes.  He looked with interest on the human current passing through the Ramblas in which were mingled the natives of the country and the picturesque and absurd medley brought in by the war.

The first thing that Ferragut noticed was the visible diminution of German refugees.

Months before he had met them everywhere, filling the hotels and monopolizing the cafes, their green hats and open-neck shirts making them recognized immediately.  The German women in showy and extravagant gowns, were everywhere kissing each other when meeting, and talking in shrieks.  The German tongue, confounded with the Catalan and the Castilian, seemed to have become naturalized.  On the roads and mountains could be seen rows of bare-throated boys with heads uncovered, staff in hand, and Alpine knapsack on the back, occupying their leisure with pleasure excursions that were at the same time, perhaps, a foresighted study.

These Germans had all come from South America, especially from Brazil, Argentina, and Chile.  From Barcelona they had, at the beginning of the war, tried to return to their own country but were now interned, unable to continue their voyage for fear of the French and English cruisers patrolling the Mediterranean.

At first no one had wished to take the trouble to settle down in this land, and they had all clustered together in sight of the sea with the hope of being the first to embark at the very moment that the road of navigation might open for them.

The war was going to be very short....  Exceedingly short!  The Kaiser and his irresistible army would require but six months to impose their rule upon all Europe.  The Germans enriched by commerce were lodged in the hotels.  The poor who had been working in the new world as farmers or shop clerks were quartered in a slaughter house on the outskirts.  Some, who were musicians, had acquired old instruments and, forming strolling street bands, were imploring alms for their roarings from village to village.

But the months were passing by, the war was being prolonged, and nobody could now discern the end.  The number of those taking arms against the medieval imperialism of Berlin was constantly growing greater, and the German refugees, finally convinced that their wait was going to be a very long one, were scattering themselves through the interior of the state, hunting a more satisfying and less expensive existence.  Those who had been living in luxurious hotels were establishing themselves in villas and chalets of the suburbs; the poor, tired of the rations of the slaughter-house, were exerting themselves to find jobs in the public works of the interior.

Many were still remaining in Barcelona, meeting together in certain beer gardens to read the home periodicals and talk mysteriously of the works of war.

Ferragut recognized them at once upon passing them in the Rambla.  Some were dealers, traders established for a long time in the country, bragging of their Catalan connections with that lying facility of adaptability peculiar to their race.  Others came from South America and were associated with those in Barcelona by the free-masonry of comradeship and patriotic interest.  But they were all Germans, and that was enough to make the captain immediately recall his son, planning bloody vengeance.  He sometimes wished to have in his arm all the blind forces of Nature in order to blot out his enemies with one blow.  It annoyed him to see them established in his country, to have to pass them daily without protest and without aggression, respecting them because the laws demanded it.

He used to like to stroll among the flower stands of the Rambla, between the two walls of recently-cut flowers that were still guarding in their corollas the dews of daybreak.  Each iron table was a pyramid formed of all the hues of the rainbow and all the fragrance that the earth can bring forth.

The fine weather was beginning.  The trees of the Ramblas were covering themselves with leaves and in their shady branches were twittering thousands of birds with the deafening tenacity of the crickets.

The captain found special enjoyment in surveying the ladies in lace mantillas who were selecting bouquets in the refreshing atmosphere.  No situation, however anguished it might be, ever left him insensible to feminine attractions.

One morning, passing slowly through the crowds, he noticed that a woman was following him.  Several times she crossed his path, smiling at him, hunting a pretext for beginning conversation.  Such insistence was not particularly gratifying to his pride; for she was a female of protruding bust and swaying hips, a cook with a basket on her arm, like many others who were passing through the Rambla in order to add a bunch of flowers to the daily purchase of eatables.

Finding that the sailor was not moved by her smiles nor the glances from her sharp eyes, she planted herself before him, speaking to him in Catalan.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you not a ship captain named Don Ulysses?...”

This started the conversation.  The cook, convinced that it was he, continued talking with a mysterious smile.  A most beautiful lady was desirous of seeing him....  And she gave him the address of a towered villa situated at the foot of Tibidabo in a recently constructed district.  He could make his visit at three in the afternoon.

“Come, sir,” she added with a look of sweet promise.  “You will never regret the trip.”

All questions were useless.  The woman would say no more.  The only thing that could be gathered from her evasive answers was that the person sending her had left her upon seeing the captain.

When the messenger had gone away he wished to follow her.  But the fat old wife shook her head repeatedly.  Her astuteness was quite accustomed to eluding pursuit, and without Ferragut’s knowing exactly how, she slipped away, mingling with the groups near the Plaza of Catalunia.

“I shall not go,” was the first thing that Ferragut said on finding himself alone.

He knew just what that invitation signified.  He recalled an infinite number of former unconfessable friendships that he had had in Barcelona, women that he had met in other times, between voyages, without any passion whatever, but through his vagabond curiosity, anxious for novelty.  Perhaps some one of these had seen him in the Rambla, sending this intermediary in order to renew the old relations.  The captain probably enjoyed the fame of a rich man now that everybody was commenting upon the amazingly good business transacted by the proprietors of ships.

“I shall not go,” he again told himself energetically.  He considered it useless to bother about this interview, to encounter the mercenary smile of a familiar but forgotten acquaintance.

But the insistence of the recollection and the very tenacity with which he kept repeating to himself his promise not to keep the tryst, made Ferragut begin to suspect that it might be just as well to go after all.

After luncheon his will-power weakened.  He didn’t know what to do with himself during the afternoon.  His only distraction was to visit his cousins in their counting-houses, or to meander through the Rambla.  Why not go?...  Perhaps he might be mistaken, and the interview might prove an interesting one.  At all events, he would have the chance of retiring after a brief conversation about the past....  His curiosity was becoming excited by the mystery.

And at three in the afternoon he took a street car that conducted him to the new districts springing up around the base of Tibidabo.

The commercial bourgeoisie had covered these lands with an architectural efflorescence, legitimate daughter of their dreams.  Shopkeepers and manufacturers had wished to have here a pleasure house, traditionally called a torre, in order to rest on Sundays and at the same time make a show of their wealth with these Gothic, Arabic, Greek, and Persian creations.  The most patriotic were relying on the inspiration of native architects who had invented a Catalan art with pointed arches, battlements, and ducal coronets.  These medieval coronets, which were repeated even on the peaks of the chimney pots, were the everlasting decorative motif of an industrial city little given to dreams and lusting for lucre.

Ferragut advanced through the solitary street between two rows of freshly transplanted trees that were just sending forth their first growth.  He looked at the façades of the torres made of blocks of cement imitating the stone of the old fortresses, or with tiles which represented fantastic landscapes, absurd flowers, bluish, glazed nymphs.

Upon getting out of the street car he made a resolution.  He would look at the outside only of the house.  Perhaps that would aid him in discovering the woman!  Then he would just continue on his way.

But on reaching the torre, whose number he still kept in mind, and pausing a few seconds before its architecture of a feudal castle whose interior was probably like that of the beer gardens, he saw the door opening, and appearing in it the same woman that had talked with him in the flower Rambla.

“Come in, Captain.”

And the captain was not able to resist the suggestive smile of the cook.

He found himself in a kind of hall similar to the façade with a Gothic fireplace of alabaster imitating oak, great jars of porcelain, pipes the size of walking-sticks, and old armor adorning the walls.  Various wood-cuts reproducing modern pictures of Munich alternated with these decorations.  Opposite the fireplace William II was displaying one of his innumerable uniforms, resplendent in gold and a gaudy frame.

The house appeared uninhabited.  Heavy soft curtains deadened every sound.  The corpulent go-between had disappeared with the lightness of an immaterial being, as though swallowed up by the wall.  While scowling at the portrait of the Kaiser, the sailor began to feel disquieted in this silence which appeared to him almost hostile....  And he was not carrying arms.

The smiling woman again presented herself with the same slippery smoothness.

“Come in, Don Ulysses.”

She had opened a door, and Ferragut on advancing felt that this door was locked behind him.

The first thing that he could see was a window, broader than it was high, of colored glass.  A Valkyrie was galloping across it, with lance in rest and floating locks, upon a black steed that was expelling fire through its nostrils.  In the diffused light of the stained glass he could distinguish tapestries on the walls and a deep divan with flowered cushions.

A woman arose from the soft depths of this couch, rushing towards Ferragut with outstretched arms.  Her impulse was so violent that it made her collide with the captain.  Before the feminine embrace could close around him he saw a panting mouth, with avid teeth, eyes tearful with emotion, a smile that was a mixture of love and painful disquietude.

“You!...  You!” he stuttered, springing back.

His legs trembled with a shudder of surprise.  A cold wave ran down his back.

“Ulysses!” sighed the woman, trying again to fold him in her arms.

“You!... You!” again repeated the sailor in a dull voice.

It was Freya.

He did not know positively what mysterious force dictated his action.  It was perhaps the voice of his good counselor, accustomed to speak in his brain in critical instants, which now asserted itself....  He saw instantaneously a ship that was exploding and his son blown to pieces.

“Ah ... tal”

He raised his robust arm with his fist clenched like a mace.  The voice of prudence kept on giving him orders.  “Hard!...  No consideration!...  This female is shifty.”  And he struck as though his enemy were a man, without hesitation, without pity, concentrating all his soul in his fist.

The hatred that he was feeling and the recollection of the aggressive resources of the German woman made him begin a second blow, fearing an attack from her and wishing to repel it before it could be made....  But he stopped with his arm raised.

“Ay de mi!...”

The woman had uttered a child-like wail, staggering, swaying upon her feet, with arms drooping, without any attempt at defense whatever....  She reeled from side to side as though she were drunk.  Her knees doubled under her, and she fell with the limpness of a bundle of clothes, her head first striking against the cushions of the divan.  The rest of her body remained like a rag on the rug.

There was a long silence, interrupted from time to time by groans of pain.  Freya was moaning with closed eyes, without coming out of her inertia.

The sailor, scowling with a tragic ugliness, and transported with rage, remained immovable, looking grimly at the fallen creature.  He was satisfied with his brutality; it had been an opportune relief; he could breathe better.  At the same time he was beginning to feel ashamed of himself.  “What have you done, you coward?...”  For the first time in his existence he had struck a woman.

He raised his aching right hand to his eyes.  One of his fingers was bleeding.  Perhaps it had become hooked in her earrings, perhaps a pin at her breast had scratched it.  He sucked the blood from the deep scratch, and then forgot the wound in order to gaze again at the body outstretched at his feet.

Little by little he was becoming accustomed to the diffused light of the room.  He was already beginning to see objects clearly.  His glance rested upon Freya with a look of mingled hatred and remorse.

Her head, sunk in the cushions, presented a pitiful profile.  She appeared much older, as though her age had been doubled by her tears.  The brutal blow had made her freshness and her marvelous youth flit away with doleful suddenness.  Her half-opened eyes were encircled with temporary wrinkles.  Her nose had taken on the livid sharpness of the dead; her great mass of hair, reddening under the blow, was disheveled in golden, undulating tangles.  Something black was winding through it making streaks upon the silk of the cushion.  It was the blood that was dribbling between the heraldic flowers of the embroidery, blood flowing from the hidden forehead, being absorbed by the dryness of the soft material.

Upon making this discovery, Ferragut felt his shame increasing.  He took one step over the extended body, seeking the door.  Why was he staying there?...  All that he had to do was already done; all that he could say was already said.

“Do not go, Ulysses,” sighed a plaintive voice.  “Listen to me!...  It concerns your life.”

The fear that he might get away made her pull herself together with dolorous groans and this movement accelerated the flow of blood....  The pillow continued drinking it in like a thirsty meadow.

An irresistible compassion like that which he might feel for any stranger abandoned in the midst of the street, made the sailor draw back, his eyes fixed on a tall crystal vase which stood upon the floor filled with flowers.  With a bang he scattered over the carpet all the springtime bouquet, arranged a little while before by feminine hands with the feverishness of one who counts the minutes and lives on hope.

He moistened his handkerchief in the water of the vase and knelt down beside Freya, raising her head upon the cushion.  She let the wound be washed with the abandon of a sick creature, fixing upon her aggressor a pair of imploring eyes, opening now for the first time.

When the blood ceased to flow, forming on the temple a red, coagulated spot, Ferragut tried to raise her up.

“No; leave me so,” she murmured.  “I prefer to be at your feet.  I am your bondslave ... your plaything.  Beat me more if it will appease your wrath.”

She wished to insist upon her humility, offering her lips with the timid kiss of a grateful slave.

“Ah, no!...  No!”

To avoid this caress Ulysses stood up suddenly.  He again felt intense hatred toward this woman, who little by little was appealing to his senses.  Upon stopping the flow of blood his compassion had become extinguished.

She, guessing his thoughts, felt obliged to speak.

“Do with me what you will....  I shall not complain.  You are the first man who has ever struck me....  And I have not defended myself!  I shall not defend myself though you strike me again....  Had it been any one else, I would have replied blow for blow; but you!...  I have done you so much wrong!...”

She was silent for a few moments, kneeling before him in a supplicating attitude with her body resting upon her heels.  She reached out her arms while speaking with a monotonous and sorrowful voice, like the specters in the apparitions of the theater.

“I have hesitated a long time before seeing you,” she continued.  “I feared your wrath; I was sure that in the first moment you would let yourself be overpowered by your anger and I was terrified at the thought of the interview....  I have spied upon you ever since I knew that you were in Barcelona; I have waited near your home; many times I have seen you through the doorway of a cafe, and I have taken my pen to write to you.  But I feared that you would not come, upon recognizing my handwriting, or that you would pay no attention to a letter in another hand....  This morning in the Rambla I could no longer contain myself.  And so I sent that woman to you and I have passed some cruel hours fearing that you would not come....  At last I see you and your violence makes no difference to me.  Thank you, thank you many times for having come!”

Ferragut remained motionless with distracted glance, as though he did not hear her voice.

“It was necessary to see you,” she continued.  “It concerns your very existence.  You have set yourself in opposition to a tremendous power that can crush you.  Your ruin is decided upon.  You are one lone man and you have awakened the suspicion, without knowing it, of a world-wide organization....  The blow has not yet fallen upon you, but it is going to fall at any moment, perhaps this very day; I cannot find out all about it....  For this reason it was necessary to see you in order that you should put yourself on the defensive, in order that you should flee, if necessary.”

The captain, smiling scornfully, shrugged his shoulders as he always did when people spoke to him of danger, and counseled prudence.  Besides, he couldn’t believe a single thing that woman said.

“It’s a lie!” he said dully.  “It’s all a lie!...

“No, Ulysses:  listen to me.  You do not know the interest that you inspire in me.  You are the only man that I have ever loved...  Do not smile at me in that way:  your incredulity terrifies me....  Remorse is now united to my poor love.  I have done you so much wrong!...  I hate all men.  I long to cause them all the harm that I can; but there exists one exception:  you!...  All my desires of happiness are for you.  My dreams of the future always have you as the central personage....  Do you want me to remain indifferent upon seeing you in danger?...  No, I am not lying....  Everything that I tell you this afternoon is the truth:  I shall never be able to lie to you.  It distresses me so that my artifices and my falsity should have brought trouble upon you....  Strike me again, treat me as the worst of women, but believe what I tell you; follow my counsel.”

The sailor persisted disdainfully in his indifferent attitude.  His hands were trembling impatiently.  He was going away.  He did not wish to hear any more....  Had she hunted him out just to frighten him with imaginary dangers?...

“What have you done, Ulysses?...  What have you done?” Freya kept saying desperately.

She knew all that had occurred in the port of Marseilles, and she also knew well the infinite number of agents that were working for the greater glory of Germany.  Von Kramer, from his prison, had made known the name of his informant.  She lamented the captain’s vehement frankness.

“I understand your hatred; you cannot forget the torpedoing of the Californian....  But you should have denounced von Kramer without letting him suspect from whom the accusation came....  You have acted like a madman; yours is an impulsive character that does not fear the morrow.”

Ulysses made a scornful gesture.  He did not like subterfuges and treachery.  His way of doing was the better one.  The only thing that he lamented was that that assassin of the sea might still be living, not having been able to kill him with his own hands.

“Perhaps he may not be living still,” she continued.  “The French Council of War has condemned him to death.  We do not know whether the sentence has been carried out; but they are going to shoot him any moment, and every one in our circle knows that you are the true author of his misfortune.”

She became terrified upon thinking of the accumulated hatred brought about by this deed, and upon the approaching vengeance.  In Berlin the name of Ferragut was the object of special attention; in every nation of the earth, the civilian battalions of men and women engaged in working for Germany’s triumph were repeating his name at this moment.  The commanders of the submarines were passing along information regarding his ship and his person.  He had dared to attack the greatest empire in the world.  He, one lone man, a simple merchant captain, depriving the kaiser of one of his most valiant, valuable servants!

“What have you done, Ulysses?...  What have you done?” she wailed again.

And Ferragut began to recognize in her voice a genuine interest in his person, a terrible fear of the dangers which she believed were threatening him.

“Here, in your very own country, their vengeance will overtake you.  Flee!  I don’t know where you can go to get rid of them, but believe me....  Flee!”

The sailor came out of his scornful indifference.  Anger was lending a hostile gleam to his glance.  He was furious to think that those foreigners could pursue him in his own country; it was as though they were attacking him beside his own hearth.  National pride augmented his wrath.

“Let them come,” he said.  “I’d like to see them this very day.”

And he looked around, clenching his fists as though these innumerable and unknown enemies were about to come out from the walls.

“They are also beginning to consider me as an enemy,” continued the woman.  “They do not say so, because it is a common thing with us to hide our thoughts; but I suspect the coldness that is surrounding me....  The doctor knows that I love you the same as before, in spite of the wrath that she feels against you.  The others are talking of your ‘treason’ and I protest because I cannot stand such a lie....  Why are you a traitor?...  You are not one of our clan.  You are a father who longs to avenge himself.  We are the real traitors: I, who entangled you in the fatal adventure, they, who pushed me toward you, in order to take advantage of your services.”

Their life in Naples surged up in her memory and she felt it necessary to explain her acts.

“You have not been able to understand me.  You are ignorant of the truth....  When I met you on the road to Paestum, you were a souvenir of my past, a fragment of my youth, of the time in which I knew the doctor only vaguely, and was not yet compromised in the service of ’information.’...  From the very beginning your love and enthusiasm made an impression upon me.  You represented an interesting diversion with your Spanish gallantry, waiting for me outside the hotel in order to besiege me with your promises and vows.  I was greatly bored during the enforced waiting at Naples.  You also found yourself obliged to wait, and sought in me an agreeable recreation....  One day I came to understand that you truly were interesting me greatly, as no other man had ever interested me....  I suspected that I was going to fall in love with you.”

“It’s a lie!...  It’s a lie,” murmured Ferragut spitefully.

“Say what you will, but that was the way of it.  We love according to the place and the moment.  If we had met on some other occasion, we might have seen each other for a few hours, no more, each following his own road without further consideration.  We belong to different worlds....  But we were mobilized in the same country, oppressed by the tedium of waiting, and what had to be ... was.  I am telling you the entire truth:  if you could know what it has cost me to avoid you!...

“In the mornings, on arising in the room in my hotel, my first motion was to look through the curtains in order to convince myself that you were waiting for me in the street.  ’There is my devoted:  there is my sweetheart!’ Perhaps you had slept badly thinking about me, while I was feeling my soul reborn within me, the soul of a girl of twenty, enthusiastic and artless....  My first impulse was to come down and join you, going with you along the gulf shores like two lovers out of a novel.  Then reflection would come to my rescue.  My past would come tumbling into my mind like an old bell fallen from its tower.  I had forgotten that past, and its recurrence deafened me with its overwhelming jangle vibrating with memories.  ’Poor man!...  Into what a world of compromises and entanglements I am going to involve him!...  No!  No!’ And I fled from you with the cunning of a mischievous schoolgirl, coming out from the hotel when you had gone off for a few moments, at other times doubling a corner at the very instant that you turned your eyes away....  I only permitted myself to approach coldly and ironically when it was impossible to avoid meeting you....  And afterwards, in the doctor’s house, I used to talk about you, every instant, laughing with her over these romantic gallantries.”

Ferragut was listening gloomily, but with growing concentration.  He foresaw the explanation of many hitherto incomprehensible acts.  A curtain was going to be withdrawn from the past showing everything behind it in a new light.

“The doctor would laugh, but in spite of my jesting she would assure me just the same:  ’You are in love with this man; this Don Jose interests you.  Be careful, Carmen!’ And the queer thing was that she did not take amiss my infatuation, especially when you consider that she was the enemy of every passion that could not be made directly subservient to our work....  She told the truth; I was in love.  I recognized it the morning the overwhelming desire to go to the Aquarium took possession of me.  I had passed many days without seeing you:  I was living outside of the hotel in the doctor’s house in order not to encounter my inamorato.  And that morning I got up very sad, with one fixed thought:  ‘Poor captain!...  Let us give him a little happiness.’  I was sick that day....  Sick because of you!  Now I understood it all.  We saw each other in the Aquarium and it was I who kissed you at the same time that I was longing for the extermination of all men....  Of all men except you!”

She made a brief pause, raising her eyes toward him, in order to take in the effect of her words.

“You remember our luncheon in the restaurant of Vomero; you remember how I begged you to go away, leaving me to my fate.  I had a foreboding of the future.  I foresaw that it was going to be fatal for you.  How could I join a direct and frank life like yours to my existence as an adventuress, mixed up in so many unconfessable compromises?...  But I was in love with you.  I wished to save you by leaving you, and at the same time I was afraid of not seeing you again.  The night that you irritated me with the fury of your desires and I stupidly defended myself, as though it were an outrage, concentrating on your person the hatred which all men inspire in me, that night, alone in my bed, I wept.  I wept at the thought that I had lost you forever and at the same time I felt satisfied with myself because thus I was freeing you from my baleful influence....  Then von Kramer came.  We were in need of a boat and a man.  The doctor spoke, proud of her penetration which had made her suspect in you an available asset.  They gave me orders to go in search of you, to regain the mastery over your self-control.  My first impulse was to refuse, thinking of your future.  But the sacrifice was sweet; selfishness directs our actions ... and I sought you!  You know the rest.”

She became silent, remaining in a pensive attitude, as though relishing this period of her recollection, the most pleasing of her existence.

“Upon going over to the steamer for you,” she continued a few moments afterward, “I understood just what you represented in my life.  What need I had of you!...  The doctor was preoccupied with the Italian events.  I was only counting the days, finding that they were passing by with more slowness than the others.  One ... two ... three ...  ’My adored sailor, my amorous shark, is going to come....  He is going to come!’ And what came suddenly, while we were still believing it far away, was the blow of the war, rudely separating us.  The doctor was cursing the Italians, thinking of Germany; I was cursing them, thinking of you, finding myself obliged to follow my friend, preparing for flight in two hours, through fear of the mob....  My only satisfaction was in learning that we were coming to Spain.  The doctor was promising herself to do great things here....  I was thinking that in no place would it be easier for me to find you again.”

She had gained a little more bodily strength.  Her hands were touching Ferragut’s knees, longing to embrace them, yet not daring to do so, fearing that he might repel her and overcome that tragic inertia which permitted him to listen to her.

“When in Bilboa I learned of the torpedoing of the Californian and of the death of your son....  I shall not talk about that; I wept, I wept bitterly, hiding myself from the doctor.  From that time on I hated her.  She rejoiced in the event, passing indifferently over your name.  You no longer existed for her, because she was no longer able to make use of you....  I wept for you, for your son whom I did not know, and also for myself, remembering my blame in the matter.  Since that day I have been another woman....  Then we came to Barcelona and I have passed months and months awaiting this moment.”

Her former passion was reflected in her eyes.  A flicker of humble love lit up her bruised countenance.

“We established ourselves in this house which belongs to a German electrician, a friend of the doctor’s.  Whenever she went away on a trip leaving me free, my steps would invariably turn to the harbor.  I was waiting to see your ship.  My eyes followed the seamen sympathetically, thinking that I could see in all of them something of your person....  ‘Some day he will come,’ I would say to myself.  You know how selfish love is!  I gradually forgot the death of your son....  Besides, I am not the one who is really guilty:  there are others.  I have been deceived just as you have been.  ’He is going to come, and we shall be happy again!’... Ay!  If this room could speak ... if this divan on which I have dreamed so many times could talk!...  I was always arranging some flowers in a vase, making believe that you were going to come.  I was always fixing myself up a little bit, imagining it was for you....  I was living in your country, and it was natural that you should come.  Suddenly the paradise that I was imagining vanished into smoke.  We received the news, I don’t know how, of the imprisonment of von Kramer, and that you had been his accuser.  The doctor anathematized me, making me responsible for everything.  Through me she had known you, and that was enough to make her include me in her indignation.  All our band began to plan for your death, longing to have it accompanied with the most atrocious tortures....”

Ferragut interrupted her.  His brow was furrowed as though dominated by a tenacious idea....  Perhaps he was not listening to her.

“Where is the doctor?"...

The tone of the question was disquieting.  He clenched his fists, looking around him as though awaiting the appearance of the imposing dame.  His attitude was just like that which had accompanied his attack on Freya.

“I don’t know where she’s traveling,” said his companion.  “She is probably in Madrid, in San Sebastian, or in Cadiz.  She goes off very frequently.  She has friends everywhere....  And I have ventured to ask you here simply because I am alone.”

And she described the life that she was leading in this retreat.  For the time being her former protector was letting her remain in inaction, abstaining from giving her any work whatever.  She was doing everything herself, avoiding all intermediaries.  What had happened to von Kramer had made her so jealous and suspicious that when she needed aids, she admitted only her compatriots living in Barcelona.

A ferocious and determined band, made up of refugees from the South American republics, parasites from the coast cities or vagabonds from the inland forests, had grouped itself around her.  At their head, as message-bearer for the doctor, was Karl, the secretary that Ferragut had seen in the great old house of the district of Chiaja.

This man, in spite of his oily aspect, had several bloody crimes in his life history.  He was a worthy superintendent of the group of adventurers inflamed by patriotic enthusiasm who were forwarding supplies to the submarines in the Spanish Mediterranean.  They all knew Captain Ferragut, because of the affair at Marseilles, and they were talking about his person with gloomy reticence.

“Through them I learned of your arrival,” she continued.  “They are spying upon you, waiting for a favorable moment.  Who knows if they have not already followed you here?...  Ulysses, flee; your life is seriously threatened.”

The captain again shrugged his shoulders with an expression of disgust.

“Flee, I repeat it!...  And if you can, if I arouse in you a little compassion, if you are not completely indifferent to me ... take me with you!...”

Ferragut began to wonder if all this preamble was merely a prelude to this final request.  The unexpected demand produced an impression of scandalized amazement.  Was he to flee with her, with the one who had done him so much harm?...  Again unite his life to hers, knowing her as he now knew her!...

The proposition was so absurd that the captain smiled sardonically.

“I am just as much in danger as you are,” continued Freya with a despairing accent.  “I do not know exactly what the danger is that threatens me, nor whence it may come.  But I suspect it, I foresee it hanging over my head....  I am of absolutely no use to them now; I no longer have their confidence, and I know too many things.  Since I possess too many secrets for them to give me up, leaving me in peace, they have agreed to suppress me; I am sure of that.  I can read it in the eyes of the one who was my friend and protector....  You cannot abandon me, Ulysses.  You will not desire my death.”

Ferragut waxed indignant before these supplications, finally breaking his disdainful silence.

“Comedienne!...  All a lie!...  Inventions to entangle yourself with me, making me intervene again in the network of your life, compromising me again in your work of detestable surveillance!...”

He was now taking the right path.  His desire for vengeance had placed him among Germany’s adversaries.  He was lamenting his former blindness and was satisfied with his new interests.  He was making no secret of his conduct.  He was serving the Allies.

“And that is the reason you are hunting me up; that is the reason that you have arranged this interview, probably at the instigation of your friend, the doctor.  You wish to employ me for a second time as the secret instrument of your espionage.  ’Captain Ferragut is such an enamored simpleton,’ you have said to one another.  ’We have nothing to do but to make an appeal to his chivalry....’  And you wish to live with me, perhaps to accompany me on my voyages, to follow my existence in order to reveal my secrets to your compatriots that I may again appear as a traitor.  Ah, you hussy!...”

This supposed treason again aroused his homicidal wrath.  He raised his arm and foot, and was about to strike and crush the kneeling woman.  But her passive humiliation, her complete lack of resistance, stopped him.

“No, Ulysses ... listen to me!”

She tried her utmost to prove her sincerity.  She was afraid of her own people; she could see them now in a new light, and they filled her with horror.  Her manner of looking at things had changed radically.  Her remorse, on thinking of what she had done, was making her a martyr.  Her conscience was beginning to feel the wholesome transformation of repentant women who were formerly great sinners.  How could she wash her soul of her past crimes?...  She had not even the consolation of that patriotic faith, bloody and ferocious though it was, which inflamed the doctor and her assistants.

She had been reflecting a great deal.  For her there were no longer Germans, English, nor French; there only existed men; men with mothers, with wives, with daughters.  And her woman’s soul was horrified at the thought of the combats and the killings.  She hated war.  She had experienced her first remorse upon learning of the death of Ferragut’s son.

“Take me with you,” she urged.  “If you do not take me out of my world I shall not know how to get away from it....  I am poor.  In these last years, the doctor has supported me; I do not know any way of earning my living and I am accustomed to living well.  Poverty inspires me with greater fear than death.  You will be able to maintain me; I will accept of you whatever you wish to give me; I will be your handmaiden.  On a boat they must need the care and well-ordered supervision of a woman....  Life locks its doors against me; I am alone.”

The captain smiled with cruel irony.

“I divine what your smile means.  I know what you wish to say to me....  I can see myself; you believe without doubt that such has been my former life.  No,... no!  You are mistaken.  I have not been that.  There has to be a special predisposition, a certain talent for feigning what I do not feel....  I have tried to sell myself, and I cannot, I cannot avail myself of that.  I embitter the life of men when they do not interest me; I am their adversary.  I hate them and they flee from me.”

But the sailor prolonged his atrociously sinister smile.

“It’s a lie,” he said again, “all a lie.  Make no further effort....  You will not convince me.”

As though suddenly reanimated with new force, she rose to her feet: her face on a level with Ferragut’s eyes.  He saw her left temple with the torn skin; the spot caused by the blow extended around one eye, reddened and swollen.  On contemplating his barbarous handiwork, remorse again tormented him.

“Listen, Ulysses; you do not know my true existence.  I have always lied to you; I have eluded all your investigations in our happy days.  I wished to keep my former life a secret ... to forget it.  Now I must tell you the truth, the actual truth, just as though I were going to die.  When you know it, you will be less cruel.”

But her listener did not wish to hear it.  He protested in advance with a ferocious incredulity.

“Lies!... new lies!  I wonder when you will ever stop your inventions!”

“I am not a German woman,” she continued without listening to him.  “Neither is my name Freya Talberg....  It is my nombre de guerre, my name as an adventuress.  Talberg was the professor who accompanied me to the Andes, and who was not my husband, either....  My true name is Beatrice....  My mother was an Italian, a Florentine; my father was from Trieste.”

This revelation did not interest Ferragut.

“One fraud more!” he said.  “Another novel!...  Keep on making them up.”

The woman was in despair.  She raised her hands above her head, twisting the interlaced fingers.  Fresh tears welled up in her eyes.

“Ay! How can I succeed in making you believe me?...  What oath can I take to convince you that I am telling you the truth?...”

The captain’s impassive air gave her to understand that all such extremes would be unavailing.  There was no oath that could possibly convince him.  Even though she should tell the truth, he would not believe her.

She went on with her story, not wishing to protest against this impassable wall.

“My father also was of Italian origin but was Austrian because of the place of his birth....  Furthermore, the Germanic empires always inspired him with a blind enthusiasm.  He was among those who detest their native land, and see all the virtues in the northern people.

“Inventor of marvelous business schemes, financial promoter of colossal enterprises, he had passed his existence besieging the directors of the great banking establishments and having interviews in the lobbies of the government departments.  Eternally on the eve of surprising combinations that were bound to bring him dozens of millions, he had always lived in luxurious poverty, going from hotel to hotel always the best with his wife and his only daughter.

“You know nothing about such a life, Ulysses; you come from a tranquil and well-to-do family.  Your people have never known existence in the Palace Hotels, nor have you known difficulties in meeting the monthly account, managing to have it included with those of the former months with an unlimited credit.”

As a child she had seen her mother weeping in their extravagant hotel apartment while the father was talking with the aspect of an inspired person, announcing that the next week he was going to clear a million dollars.  The wife, convinced by the eloquence of her remarkable husband, would finally dry her tears, powder her face, and adorn herself with her pearls and her blonde laces of problematic value.  Then she would descend to the magnificent hall, filled with perfumes, with the hum of conversation and the discreet wailings of the violins, in order to take tea with her friends in the hotel, formidable millionaires from the two hemispheres who vaguely suspected the existence of an infirmity known as poverty, but incapable of imagining that it might attack persons of their own world.

Meanwhile the little girl used to play in the hotel garden of the Palace Hotel with other children dressed up and adorned like luxurious and fragile dolls, each one worth many millions.

“From my childhood,” continued Freya, “I had been a companion of women who are now celebrated for their riches in New York, Paris, and in London.  I have been on familiar terms with great heiresses that are to-day, through their marriages, duchesses and even princesses of the blood royal.  Many of them have since passed by me, without recognizing me, and I have said nothing, knowing that the equality of childhood is no more than a vague recollection....”

Thus she had grown into womanhood.  A few of her father’s casual bargains had permitted them to continue this existence of brilliant and expensive poverty.  The promoter had considered such environment indispensable for his future negotiations.  Life in the most expensive hotels, an automobile by the month, gowns designed by the greatest modistes for his wife and daughter, summers at the most fashionable resorts, winter-skating in Switzerland, all these luxuries were for him but a kind of uniform of respectability that kept him in the world of the powerful, permitting him to enter everywhere.

“This existence molded me forever, and has influenced the rest of my life.  Dishonor, death, anything is to me preferable to poverty....  I, who have no fear of danger, become a coward at the mere thought of that!”

The mother died, credulous and sensuous, worn out with expecting a solid fortune that never arrived.  The daughter continued with her father, becoming the type of young woman who lives among men from hotel to hotel, always somewhat masculine in her attitude; a half-way virgin who knows everything, is not frightened at anything, guards ferociously the integrity of her sex, calculating just what it may be worth, and adoring wealth as the most powerful divinity on earth.

Finding herself upon her father’s death with no other fortune than her gowns and a few artistic gems of scant value, she had coldly decided upon her destiny.

“In our world there is no other virtue than that of money.  The girls of the people surrender themselves less easily than a young woman accustomed to luxury having as her only fortune some knowledge of the piano, of dancing, and a few languages....  We yield our body as though fulfilling a material function, without shame and without regret.  It is a simple matter of business.  The only thing that matters is to preserve the former life with all its conveniences ... not to come down.”

She passed hastily over her recollection of this period of her existence.  An old acquaintance of her father, an old trader of Vienna, had been the first.  Then she felt romantic flutterings which even the coldest and most positive women do not escape.  She believed that she had fallen in love with a Dutch officer, a blonde Apollo who used to skate with her in Saint Moritz.  This had been her only husband.  Finally she had become bored with the colonial drowsiness of Batavia and had returned to Europe, breaking off her marriage in order to renew her life in the great hotels, passing the winter season at the most luxurious resorts.

“Ay, money!...  In no social plane was its power so evident as that in which she was accustomed to dwell.  In the Palace Hotels she had met women of soldierly aspect and common hands, smoking at all hours, with their feet up and the white triangle of their petticoats stretched over the seat.  They were like the prostitutes waiting at the doors of their huts.  How were they ever permitted to live there!...  Nevertheless, the men bowed before them like slaves, or followed as suppliants these creatures who talked with unction of the millions inherited from their fathers, of their formidable wealth of industrial origin which had enabled them to buy noble husbands and then give themselves up to their natural tastes as fast, coarse women.

“I never had any luck....  I am too haughty for that kind of thing.  Men find me ill-humored, argumentative, and nervous.  Perhaps I was born to be the mother of a family....  Who knows but what I might have been otherwise if I had lived in your country?”

Her announcement of her religious veneration for money took on an accent of hate.  Poor and well-educated girls, if afraid of the misery of poverty, had no other recourse than prostitution.  They lacked a dowry, that indispensable requisite in many civilized families for honorable marriage and home-making.

Accursed poverty!...  It had weighed upon her life like a fatality.  The men who had appeared good at first afterwards became poisoned, turning into egoists and wretches.  Doctor Talberg, on returning from America, had abandoned her in order to marry a young and rich woman, the daughter of a trader, a senator from Hamburg.  Others had equally exploited her youth, taking their share of her gayety and beauty only to marry, later, women who had merely the attractiveness of a great fortune.

She had finally come to hate them all, desiring their extermination, exasperated at the very thought that she needed them to live and could never free herself from this slavery.  Trying to be independent, she had taken up the stage.

“I have danced.  I have sung; but my successes were always because I was a woman.  Men followed after me, desiring the female, and ridiculing the actress.  Besides the life behind the scenes!...  A white-slave market with a name on the play-bills....  What exploitation!...”

The desire of freeing herself from all this had led her to make friends with the doctor, accepting her propositions.  It seemed to her more honorable to serve a great nation, to be a secret functionary, laboring in the shadow for its grandeur.  Besides, at the beginning she was fascinated by the novelty of the work, the adventures on risky missions, the proud consideration that with her espionage she was weaving the web of the future, preparing the history of time to come.

Here also she had, from the very first, stumbled upon sexual slavery.  Her beauty was an instrument for sounding the depths of consciences, a key for opening secrets; and this servitude had turned out worse than the former ones, on account of its being irremediable, she had tried to divorce herself from her life of tantalizing tourist and theatrical woman; but whoever enters into the secret service can nevermore go from it.  She learns too many things; slowly she gains a comprehension of important mysteries.  The agent becomes a slave of her functions; she is confined within them as a prisoner, and with every new act adds a new stone to the wall that is separating her from liberty.

“You know the rest of my life,” she continued.  “The obligation of obeying the doctor, of seducing men in order to snatch their secrets from them, made me hate them with a deadly aggressiveness....  But you came.  You, who are so good and generous!  You who sought me with the enthusiastic simplicity of a growing boy, making me turn back a page in my life, as though I were still only in my teens and being courted for the first time!...  Besides, you are not a selfish person.  You gave with noble enthusiasm.  I believe that if we had known each other in our early youth you would never have deserted me in order to make yourself rich by marrying some one else.  I resisted you at first, because I loved you and did not wish to do you harm....  Afterwards, the mandates of my superiors and my passion made me forget these scruples....  I gave myself up.  I was the ‘fatal woman,’ as always; I brought you misfortune....  Ulysses!  My love!...  Let us forget; there is no use in remembering the past.  I know your heart so well, and finding myself in danger, I appeal to it.  Save me!  Take me with you!...”

As she was standing opposite him, she had only to raise her hands in order to put them on his shoulders, starting the beginning of an embrace.

Ferragut remained insensible to the caress.  His immobility repelled these pleadings.  Freya had traveled much through the world, had gone through shameful adventures, and would know how to free herself by her own efforts without the necessity of complicating him again in her net.  The story that she had just told was nothing to him but a web of misrepresentations.

“It is all false,” he said in a heavy voice.  “I do not believe you.  I never shall believe you....  Each time that we meet you tell me a new tale....  Who are you?...  When do you tell the truth, all the truth at once?...  You fraud!”

Insensible to his insults, she continued speaking anxiously of her future, as though perceiving the mysterious dangers which were surrounding her.

“Where shall I go if you abandon me?...  If I remain in Spain, I continue under the doctor’s domination.  I cannot return to the empires where my life has been passed; all the roads are closed and in those lands my slavery would be reborn....  Neither can I go to France or to England; I am afraid of my past.  Any one of my former achievements would be enough to make them shoot me:  I deserve nothing less.  Besides, the vengeance of my own people fills me with terror.  I know the methods of the ‘service,’ when they find it necessary to rid themselves of an inconvenient agent who is in the enemy’s territory.  The ‘service’ itself denounces him, voluntarily making a stupid move in order that some documents may go astray, sending a compromising card with a false address in order that it may fall into the hands of the authorities of the country.  What shall I do if you do not aid me?...  Where can I flee?...”

Ulysses decided to reply, moved to pity by her desperation.  The world was large.  She could go and live in the republics of America.

She did not accept the advice.  She had had the same thought, but the uncertain future made her afraid.

“I am poor:  I have scarcely enough to pay my traveling expenses....  The ‘service’ recompenses well at the start.  Afterwards when it has us surely in its clutches because of our past, it gives us only what is necessary in order to live with a certain freedom.  What can I ever do in those lands?...  Must I pass the rest of my existence selling myself for bread?...  I will not do it.  I would rather die first!”

This desperate affirmation of her poverty made Ferragut smile sarcastically.  He looked at the necklace of pearls everlastingly reposing on the admirable cushion of her bosom, the great emeralds in her ears, the diamonds that were sparkling coldly on her hands.  She guessed his thoughts and the idea of selling these jewels gave her even greater apprehension than the terrors that the future involved.

“You do not know what all this represents to me,” she added.  “It is my uniform, my coat-of-arms, the safe-conduct that enables me to sustain myself in the world of my youth.  The women who pass alone through this world need jewels in order to free their pathway of obstructions.  The managers of a hotel become human and smile before their brilliancy.  She who possesses them does not arouse suspicion however late she may be in paying the weekly account....  The employees at the frontier become exceedingly gallant:  there is no passport more powerful.  The haughty ladies become more cordial before their sparkle, at the tea hour in the halls where one knows nobody....  What I have suffered in order to acquire them!...  I would be reduced to hunger before I would sell them.  With them, I am somebody.  A person may not have a coin in her pocket and yet, with these glittering vouchers, may enter where the richest assemble, living as one of them.”

She would take no advice.  She was like a hungry warrior in an enemy’s country asked to surrender arms in exchange for gold.  Once the necessity was satisfied, he would become a prisoner, would be vilified and on a par with the miserable creatures who a few hours before were receiving his blows.  She would meet courageously all dangers and sufferings rather than lay aside her helmet and shield, the symbols of her superior caste.  The gown more than a year old, shabby, patched shoes, negligee with badly mended rents, did not distress her in the most trying moments.  The important thing was to possess a stylish hat and to preserve a fur coat, a necklace of pearls, emeralds, diamonds, all the honorable and glorious coat-of-mail in which she wished to die.

Her glance appeared to pity the ignorance of the sailor in venturing to propose such absurdities to her.

“It is impossible, Ulysses....  Take me with you!  On the sea is where I shall be safest.  I am not afraid of the submarines.  People imagine them as numerous and close together as the flagstones of a pavement, but only one vessel in a thousand is the victim of their attacks....  Besides, with you I fear nothing; if it is our destiny to perish on the sea, we shall die together.”

She became insinuating and enticing, passing her hands over his shoulders, pulling down his neck with a passion that was equal to an embrace.  While speaking, her mouth came near to that of the sailor, the lips arched, beginning the rounding of a caressing kiss.

“Would you live so badly with Freya?...  Do you no longer remember our past?...  Am I now another being?”

Ulysses was remembering only too well that past, and began to recognize that this memory was becoming too vivid.  She, who was following with astute eyes the seductive memories whirling through his brain, guessed what they were by the contraction of his face.  And smiling triumphantly, she placed her mouth against his.  She was sure of her power....  And she reproduced the kiss of the Aquarium, that kiss which had so thrilled the sailor, making his whole body tremble.

But when she gave herself up with more abandon to this dominating ascendancy, she felt herself repelled, shot back by a brutal hand-thrust similar to the blow that had hurled her upon the cushions at the beginning of the interview.

Some one had interposed between the two, in spite of their close embrace.

The captain, who was beginning to lose consciousness of his acts, like a castaway, descending and descending through the enchanting domains of limitless pleasure, suddenly beheld the face of the dead Esteban with his glassy eyes fixed upon him.  Further on he saw another image, sad and shadowy, Cinta, who was weeping as though her tears were the only ones that should fall upon the mutilated body of their son.

“Ah, no!... No!”

He himself was surprised at his voice.  It was the roar of a wounded beast, the dry howling of a desperate creature, writhing in torment.

Freya, staggering under the rude push, again tried to draw near to him, enlacing him again in her arms, in order to repeat her imperious kiss.

“My love!...  My love!...”

She could not go on.  That tremendous hand again repelled her, but so violently that her head struck against the cushions of the divan.

The door trembled with a rude shove that made its two leaves open at the same time, dragging out the bolt of the lock.

The woman, tenacious in her desires, rose up quickly without noticing the pain of her fall.  Nimbleness only could serve her now that Ferragut was escaping after mechanically picking up his hat.

“Ulysses!...  Ulysses!...”

Ulysses was already in the street, and in the little hallway various objects of bric-a-brac that had obtruded themselves and confused the fugitive in his blind flight were still trembling and then falling and breaking on the floor with a crash.

Feeling on his forehead the sensation of the free air, the dangers to which Freya had referred now surged up in his mind.  He surveyed the street with a hostile glance....  Nobody!  He longed to meet the enemy of whom that woman had been speaking, to find vent for that wrath which he was feeling even against himself.  He was ashamed and furious at his passing weakness which had almost made him renew their former existence.

In the days following, he repeatedly recalled the band of refugees under the doctor’s control.  When meeting German-looking people on the street, he would glare at them menacingly.  Was he perhaps one of those charged with killing him?...  Then he would pass on, regretting his irritation, sure that they were tradesmen from South America, apothecaries or bank employees undecided whether to return to their home on the other side of the ocean, or to await in Barcelona the always-near triumph of their Emperor.

Finally the captain began to ridicule Freya’s recommendations.

“Just her lies!...  Inventions in order to engage my interest again and make me take her with me!  Ah, the old fraud!”

One morning, as he was stepping out on the deck of his steamer, Toni approached him with a mysterious air, his face assuming an ashy pallor.

When they reached the saloon at the stern, the mate spoke in a low voice, looking around him.

The night before he had gone ashore in order to visit the theater.  All of Toni’s literary tastes and his emotions were concentrated in vaudeville.  Men of talent had never invented anything better.  From it he used to bring back the humming songs with which he beguiled his long watches on the bridge.  Besides, it had a feminine chorus brilliantly clad and bare-legged, a prima donna rich in flesh and poor in clothes, a row of rosy and voluptuous ninepins that delighted the seamen’s imagination without making him forget the obligations of fidelity.

At one o’clock in the morning, when returning to the boat along the solitary entrance pier, some one had tried to assassinate him.  Hearing footsteps, he fancied that he had seen forms hiding behind a mountain of merchandise.  Then there had sounded three reports, three revolver shots.  A ball had whistled by one of his ears.

“And as I was not carrying any arms, I ran.  Fortunately, I was near the ship, almost to the prow.  I had only to take a few leaps to put myself aboard the vessel....  And they did not shoot any more.”

Ferragut remained silent.  He, too, had grown pale, but with surprise and anger.  Then they were true, those reports of Freya’s!...  He could not pretend incredulity, nor show himself bold and indifferent to danger while Toni continued talking.

“Take care, Ulysses!...  I have been thinking a great deal about this thing.  Those shots were not meant for me.  What enemies have I?  Who would want to harm a poor mate who never sees anybody?...  Look out for yourself!  You know perhaps where they came from; you have dealings with many people.”

The captain suspected that he was recalling the adventure of Naples and that disgraceful proposition guarded as a secret, relating it to this nocturnal attack.  But neither his voice nor his eyes justified such suspicions.  And Ferragut preferred not to seem to suspect what he was thinking about.

“Does any one else know what occurred?...”

Toni shrugged his shoulders.  “Nobody....”  He had leaped on the steamer, pacifying the dog on board, that was howling furiously.  The man on guard had heard the shots, imagining that it was some sailors’ fight.

“You have not reported this to the authorities?”

The mate became indignant on hearing this question, with the independence of the Mediterranean who never remembers authority in moments of danger and whose only defense is his manual dexterity. “You take me, perhaps, for a police-informer?...”

He had wanted to do the manly thing, but henceforth he would always go armed while he happened to be in Barcelona. Ay, with this he might shoot if he were not wounded!...  And winking an eye, he showed his captain what he called his “instrument.”

The mate disliked firearms, crazy and noisy toys of doubtful result.  With an ancestral affection which appeared to evoke the flashing battle-axes used by his ancestors, he loved the blow in silence, the gleaming weapon which was a prolongation of the hand.

With gentle stealthiness he drew from his belt an English knife, acquired at the time that he was skipper of a small boat, a shining blade which reproduced the faces of those looking at it, with the sharp point of a stiletto and the edge of a razor.

Perhaps he would not be long in making use of his “instrument.”  He recalled various individuals who a few days ago were strolling slowly along the wharf examining the vessel, and spying upon those going on and off.  If he could manage to see them again he would go off the steamer just to say a couple of words to them.

“You are to do nothing at all,” ordered Ferragut.  “I’ll take charge of this little matter.”

All day long he was troubled over this news.  Strolling about Barcelona, he looked with challenging eyes at all passersby who appeared to be Germans.  To the aggressiveness of his character was now added the indignation of a proprietor who finds himself assaulted within his home.  Those three shots were for him; and he was a Spaniard:  and the boches were daring to attack him on his own ground!  What audacity!...

Several times he put his hand in the back part of his trousers, touching a long, metallic bulk.  He was only awaiting the nightfall to carry out a certain idea that had clamped itself between his two eyebrows like a painful nail.  Whilst he was not carrying it forward he could not be tranquil.

The voice of his good counselor protested:  “Don’t do anything idiotic, Ferragut; don’t hunt the enemy, don’t provoke him.  Simply defend yourself, nothing more.”

But that reckless courage which in times gone by had made him embark on vessels destined to shipwreck, and had pushed him toward danger for the mere pleasure of conquering it, was now crying louder than prudence.

“In my own country!” he kept saying continually.  “To try to assassinate me when I am on my own land!...  I’ll just show them that I am a Spaniard....”

He knew well that waterfront saloon mentioned by Freya.  Two men in his crew had given him some fresh information.  The customers of the bar were poor Germans accustomed to endless drinking.  Some one was paying for them, and on certain days even permitted them to invite the skippers of the fishing boats and tramp vessels.  A gramophone was continually playing there, grinding out shrill songs to which the guests responded in roaring chorus.  When war news favorable to the German Empire was received, the songs and drinking would redouble until midnight and the shrill music-box would never stop for an instant.  On the walls were portraits of William II and various chromos of his generals.  The proprietor of the bar, a fat-legged German with square head, stiff hair and drooping mustache, used to answer to the nickname of Hindenburg.

The sailor grinned at the mere thought of putting that Hindenburg underneath his own counter....  He’d just like to see this establishment where his name had been uttered so many times!

At nightfall, his feet took him toward the bar with an irresistible impulse which disdained all counsels of prudence.

The glass door resisted his nervous hands, perhaps because he handled the latch with too much force.  And the captain finally opened it by giving a kick to its lower part, made of wood.

The panes almost flew out from the shock of this brutal blow.  A magnificent entrance!...  He saw much smoke, perforated by the red stars of three electric bulbs which had just been lit, and men around the various tables, facing him or with their backs turned.  The gramophone was shrilling in a nasal tone like an old woman without teeth.  Back of the counter appeared Hindenburg, his throat open, sleeves rolled up over arms as fat as legs.

“I am Captain Ulysses Ferragut.”

The voice that said this had a power similar to that of the magic words of Oriental tales which held the life of an entire city in suspense, leaving persons and objects immovable in the very attitude in which the powerful conjurer surprised them.

There was the silence of astonishment.  Those were beginning to turn their heads, attracted by the noise of the door, did not go on with the movement.  Those in front remained with their eyes fixed on the one who was entering, eyes widened with surprise as if they could not believe what they saw.  The gramophone was suddenly hushed. Hindenburg, who was washing out a glass, remained with motionless hands, without even taking the napkin from its crystal cavity.

Ferragut seated himself near an empty table with his back against the wall.  A waiter, the only one in the establishment, hastened to find out what the gentleman wished.  He was an Andalusian, small and sprightly, whose escapades had brought him to Barcelona.  He usually served his customers with indifference, without taking any interest in their words and their hymns.  He “didn’t mix himself up in politics.”  Accustomed to the ways of gay and hot-blooded people, he suspected that this man had come to pick a quarrel, and hoped to soften him with his smiling and obsequious manner.

The sailor spoke to him aloud.  He knew that in that low cafe his name was frequently used and that there were many there who desired to see him.  He could give them the message that Captain Ferragut was there at their disposition.

“I shall do so,” said the Andalusian.

And he went away to the counter, bringing him, in a little while, a bottle and a glass.

In vain Ulysses fixed his glance on those who were occupying the nearby tables.  Some, turning their backs upon him, were absolutely rigid; others had their eyes cast down and were talking quietly with mysterious whispering.

Finally two or three exchanged glances with the captain.  In their pupils was the snap of budding wrath.  The first surprise having vanished, they seemed disposed to rise up and fall upon the recent arrival.  But some one behind him appeared to be controlling them with murmured orders, and they finally obeyed him, lowering their eyes in submissive restraint.

Ulysses soon tired of this silence.  He was beginning to find his attitude of animal-tamer rather ridiculous.  He did not know whom to assail in a place where they avoided his glance and all contact with him.  On the nearest table there was an illustrated newspaper, and he took possession of it, turning its leaves.  It was printed in German, but he pretended to read it with great interest.

He had seated himself at the side, leaving free the hip on which his revolver was resting.  His hand, feigning distraction, passed near the opening of his pocket, ready to take up arms in case of attack.  In a little while he regretted this excessively swaggering posture.  They were going to fall upon him, taking advantage of his reading.  But pride made him remain motionless, that they might not suspect his uneasiness.

Then he laughed in an insolent way as though he were reading in the German illustration something that was provoking his jibes.  As though this were not enough, he raised his eyes with aggressive curiosity in order to study the portraits adorning the wall.

Then he realized the great transformation which had just taken place in the bar.  Almost all the customers had filed silently out during his reading.  There remained only four blear-eyed drunkards who were guzzling with satisfaction, occupied with the contents of their glasses. Hindenburg, turning his mighty back upon his clientele, was reading an evening newspaper on the counter.  The Andalusian, seated in the background, was looking at the captain, smiling.  “There’s an old sport for you!...”  He was mentally chuckling over the fact that one of his countrymen had put to flight the brawling and brutal drinkers who gave him so much trouble on other evenings.

Ulysses consulted his watch:  half-past seven.  Already he had driven away all those people that Freya was so afraid of.  What was left to do here?...  He paid and went out.

Night had fallen.  Under the light of the electric lamp posts street cars and automobiles were passing toward the interior of the city.  Following the arcades of the old edifices near the harbor, groups of workers from the maritime establishments were filing by.  Barcelona, dazzling with splendor, was attracting the crowds.  The inner harbor, black and solitary, was filled with weak little lights twinkling from the heights of the masts.

Ferragut stood undecided whether to go home to eat, or to a restaurant in the Rambla.  Then he suspected that some of the fugitives from that dirty cafe were near, intending to follow him.  In vain he glanced searchingly around:  he could not recognize anybody in the groups that were reading the papers or conversing while waiting for the street car.

Suddenly he felt a desire to see Toni.  Uncle Caragol would improvise something to eat while the captain was telling his mate all about his adventure at the bar.  Besides, it seemed to him a fitting finale to his escapade to offer to any enemies that might be following him a favorable occasion for attacking him on the deserted wharf.  The demon of false pride was whispering in his ears:  “Thus they will see that you are not afraid of them.”

And he marched resolutely toward the harbor, passing over railroad tracks outlining the walls of long storehouses and winding in and out among mountains of merchandise.  At first he met little groups going toward the city, then pairs, then single individuals, finally nobody absolute solitude.

Further on, the darkness was cut by silhouettes of ebony that sometimes were boats and at others, alleyways of packages or hills of coal.  The black water reflected the red and green serpents from the lights on the boats.  A transatlantic liner was prolonging its loading operations by the light of its electric reflectors, standing forth out of the darkness with the gayety of a Venetian fiesta.

From time to time a man of slow step would come within the circle of the street lamp, the muzzle of his gun gleaming.  Others were lying in ambush among the mountains of cargo.  They were custom-house men and guardians of the port.

Suddenly the captain felt an instinctive warning.  They were following him....  He stopped in the shadows, close to a pile of crates and saw some men advancing in his direction, passing rapidly over the edge of the red spot made by the electric bulbs, so as not to be under the rain of light.

Although it was impossible for him to recognize them, he was positive, nevertheless, that they were the enemy seen at the bar.

His ship was far away, near the end of the dock most deserted at that hour.  “You’ve done an idiotic thing,” he said mentally.

He began to repent of his rashness, but it was now far too late to turn back.  The city was further away than the steamer, and his enemies would fall upon him just as soon as they saw him going back.  How many were there?...  That was the only thing that troubled him.

“Go on!... Go on!” cried his pride.

He had drawn out his revolver and was carrying it in his right hand with the barrel to the front.  In this solitude he could not count upon the conventions of civilized life.  Night was swallowing him up with all the ambushed traps of a virgin forest while before his eyes was sparkling a great city, crowned with electric diamonds, throwing a halo of flame into the blackness of space.

Three times the Carabineers passed near him, but he did not wish to speak to them.  “Forward!  Only women had to ask assistance....”  Besides, perhaps he was under an hallucination:  he really could not swear that they were in pursuit of him.

After a few steps, this doubt vanished.  His senses, sharpened by danger, had the same perception as has the wild boar who scents the pack of hounds trying to cross his tracks.  At his right, was the water.  At his left, men were prowling behind the mountains of freight, wishing to cut him off; behind were coming still others to prevent his retreat.

He might run, advancing toward those who were trying to hem him in.  But ought a man to run with a revolver in his hand?...  Those who were coming behind would join in the pursuit.  A human hunt was going to take place in the night, and he, Ferragut, would be the deer pursued by the low crowds from the bar.  “Ah, no!...”  The captain recalled von Kramer galloping miserably in full daylight along the wharves of Marseilles....  If they must kill him, let it not be in flight.

He continued his advance with a rapid step, seeing through his enemies’ plans.  They did not wish to show themselves in that part of the harbor obstructed by mountains of cases, fearing that he might hide himself there.  They would await him near his ship in a safe, hidden spot by which he would undoubtedly have to pass.

“Forward!” he kept repeating to himself.  “If I have to die, let it be within sight of the Mare Nostrum!” The steamer was near.  He could recognize now its black silhouette fast to the wharf.  At that moment the dog on board began to bark furiously, announcing the captain’s presence and danger at the same time.

He abandoned the shelter of a hillock of coal, advancing over an open space.  He concentrated all his will power upon gaining his vessel as quickly as possible.

A swift flame flashed out, followed by a report.  They were already shooting at him.  Other little lights began to twinkle from different sides of the dock, followed by reports of a gun.  It was a sharp cross-fire; behind him, they were firing, too.  He felt various whistlings near his ears, and received a blow on the shoulder, a sensation like that from a hot stone.

They were going to kill him.  His enemies were too many for him.  And, without knowing exactly what he was doing, yielding to instinct, he threw himself on the ground like a dying person.

Some few shots were still sounding.  Then all was silent.  Only on the nearby ship the dog was continuing its howling.

He saw a shadow advancing slowly toward him.  It was a man, one of his enemies, coming out from the group in order to examine him at close range.  He let him come close up to him, with his right hand grasping his revolver still intact.

Suddenly he raised his arm, striking the head that was bending over him.  Two lightning streaks flashed from his hand, separated by a brief interval.  The first flitting blaze of fire made him see a familiar face....  Was it really Karl, the doctor’s factotum?...  The second explosion aided his memory.  Yes, it was Karl, with his features disfigured by a black gash in the temple....  The German pulled himself up with an agonizing shudder, then fell on his back, with his arms relaxed.

This vision was instantaneous.  The captain must think only of himself now, and springing up with a bound, he ran and ran, bending himself double, in order to offer the enemy the least possible mark.

He dreaded a general discharge, a hail of bullets; but his pursuers hesitated a few moments, confused in the darkness and not knowing surely whether it was the captain who had fallen a second time.

Only upon seeing a man running toward the ship did they recognize their error, and renew their shots.  Ferragut passed between the balls along the edge of the wharf, the whole length of the Mare Nostrum.  His salvation was now but a matter of seconds provided that the crew had not drawn in the gangplank between the steamer and the shore.

Suddenly he found himself on the gangplank, at the same time seeing a man advancing toward him with something gleaming in one hand.  It was the mate who had just come out with his knife drawn.

The captain feared that he might make a mistake.

“Toni, it is I,” he said in a voice almost breathless because of the effort of his running.

Upon treading the deck of his vessel, he instantly recovered his tranquillity.

Already the shots had ceased and the silence was ominous.  In the distance could be heard whistlings, cries of alarm, the noise of running.  The Carabineers and guards were called and grouped together in order to charge in the dark, marching toward the spot where the shooting had sounded.

“Haul in the gangplank!” ordered Ferragut.

The mate aided three of the hands who had just come up to retire the gangplank hastily.  Then he threatened the dog, to make it cease howling.

Ferragut, near the railing, scanned carefully the darkness of the quay.  It seemed to him that he could see some men carrying another in their arms.  A remnant of his wrath made him raise his right hand, still armed, aiming at the group.  Then he lowered it again....  He remembered that officers would be coming to investigate the occurrence.  It was better that they should find the boat absolutely silent.

Still panting, he entered the saloon under the poop and sat down.

As soon as he was within the circle of pale light that a hanging lamp spread upon the table Toni fixed his glance on his left shoulder.

“Blood!...”

“It’s nothing....  Merely a scratch.  The proof of it is that I can move my arm.”

And he moved it, although with a certain difficulty, feeling the weight of an increasing swelling.

“By-and-by I’ll tell you how it happened....  I don’t believe they’ll be anxious to repeat it.”

Then he remained thoughtful for an instant.

“At any rate, it’s best for us to get away from this port quickly....  Go and see our men.  Not one of them is to speak about it!...  Call Caragol.”

Before Toni could go out, the shining countenance of the cook surged up out of the obscurity.  He was on his way to the saloon, without being called, anxious to know what had occurred, and fearing to find Ferragut dying.  Seeing the blood, his consternation expressed itself with maternal vehemence.

“Cristo del Grao!...  My captain’s going to die!...”

He wanted to run to the galley in search of cotton and bandages.  He was something of a quack doctor and always kept things necessary for such cases.

Ulysses stopped him.  He would accept his services, but he wished something more.

“I want to eat, Uncle Caragol,” he said gayly.  “I shall be content with whatever you have....  Fright has given me an appetite.”