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."
CHAPTER XI
"FAREWELL, I AM GOING TO DIE"
When Ferragut left Barcelona the wound in his shoulder was already nearly healed. The rotund negative given by the captain and his pilot to the questions of the Carabineers freed them from further annoyance. They "knew nothing,—had seen nothing." The captain received with feigned indifference the news that the dead body of a man had been found that very night,—a man who appeared to be a German, but without papers, without anything that assured his identification,—on a dock some distance from the berth occupied by the Mare Nostrum. The authorities had not considered it worth while to investigate further, classifying it as a simple struggle among refugees.
Provisioning the troops of the Orient obliged Ferragut, in the months following, to sail as part of a convoy. A cipher dispatch would sometimes summon him to Marseilles, at others to an Atlantic port,—Saint-Nazaire, Quiberon, or Brest.
Every few days ships of different class and nationality were arriving. There were those that displayed their aristocratic origin by the fine line of the prow, the slenderness of the smokestacks and the still white color of their upper decks: they were like the high-priced steeds that war had transformed into simple beasts of battle. Former mail-packets, swift racers of the waves, had descended to the humble service of transport boats. Others, black and dirty, with the pitchy plaster of hasty reparation and a consumptive smokestack on an enormous hull, plowed along, coughing smoke, spitting ashes, panting with the jangle of old iron. The flags of the Allies and those of the neutral navies waved on the different ships. Reuniting, they formed a convoy in the broad bay. There were fifteen or twenty steamers, sometimes thirty, which had to navigate together, adjusting their different speeds to a common pace. The cargo boats, merchant steamers that made only a few knots an hour, exacted a desperate slowness of the rest of the convoy.
The Mare Nostrum had to sail at half speed, making its captain very impatient with these monotonous and dangerous peregrinations, extending over weeks and weeks.
Before setting out, Ferragut, like all the other captains, would receive sealed and stamped orders. These were from the Commodore of the convoy,—the commander of a torpedo destroyer, or a simple officer of the Naval Reserve in charge of a motor trawler armed with a quickfiring gun.
The steamers would begin belching smoke and hoisting anchors without knowing whither they were going. The official document was opened only at the moment of departure. Ulysses would break the seals and examine the paper, understanding with facility its formal language, written in a common cipher. The first thing that he would look out for was the port of destination, then, the order of formation. They were to sail in single file or in a double row, according to the number of vessels. The Mare Nostrum, represented by a certain number, was to navigate between two other numbers which were those of the nearest steamers. They were to keep between them a distance of about five hundred yards; it was important that they should not come any nearer in a moment of carelessness, nor prolong the line so that they would be out of sight of the watchful guardians.
At the end, the general instructions for all the voyages were repeated with a laconic brevity that would have made other men, not accustomed to look death in the face, turn pale. In case of a submarine attack, the transports that carried guns were to come out from the line and aid the patrol of armed vessels, attacking the enemy. The others were to continue their course tranquilly, without paying any attention to the attack. If the boat in front of them or the one following was torpedoed, they were not to stop to give it aid. The torpedo boats and "chaluteros" were charged with saving the wrecked ship if it were possible. The duty of the transport was always to go forward, blind and deaf, without getting out of line, without stopping, until it had delivered at the terminal port the fortune stowed in its holds.
This march in convoy imposed by the submarine war represented a leap backward in the life of the sea. It recalled to Ferragut's mind the sailing fleets of other centuries, escorted by navies in line, punctuating their course by incessant battles, and the remote voyages of the galleons of the Indies, setting forth from Seville in fleets when bound for the coast of the New World.
The double file of black hulks with plumes of smoke advanced very placidly in fair weather. When the day was gray, the sea choppy, the sky and the atmosphere foggy, they would scatter and leap about like a troop of dark and frightened lambs. The guardians of the convoy, three little boats that were going at full speed, were the vigilant mastiffs of this marine herd, preceding it in order to explore the horizon, remaining behind it, or marching beside it in order to keep the formation intact. Their lightness and their swiftness enabled them to make prodigious bounds over the waves. A girdle of smoke curled itself around their double smokestacks. Their prows when not hidden were expelling cascades of foam, sometimes even showing the dripping forefoot of the keel.
At night time they would all travel with few lights, simple lanterns at the prow, as warning to the one just ahead, and another one at the stern, to point out the route to the ship following. These faint lights could scarcely be seen. Oftentimes the helmsman would suddenly have to turn his course and demand slackened speed behind, seeing the silhouette of the boat ahead looming up in the darkness. A few moments of carelessness and it would come in on the prow with a deadly ram. Upon slowing down, the captain always looked behind uneasily, fearing in turn to collide with his following ship.
They were all thinking about the invisible submarines. From time to time would sound the report of the guns; the convoy's escort was shooting and shooting, going from one side to the other with agile evolutions. The enemy had fled like wolves before the barking of watch-dogs. On other occasions it would prove a false alarm, and the shells would wound the desert water with a lashing of steel.
There was an enemy more troublesome than the tempest, more terrible than the torpedoes, that disorganized the convoys. It was the fog, thick and pale as the white of an egg, enshrouding the vessels, making them navigate blindly in full daylight, filling space with the useless moaning of their sirens, not letting them see the water which sustained them nor the nearby boats that might emerge at any moment from the blank atmosphere, announcing their apparition with a collision and a tremendous, deadly crash. In this way the merchant fleets had to proceed entire days together and when, at the end, they found themselves free from this wet blanket, breathing with satisfaction as though awaking from a nightmare, another ashy and nebulous wall would come advancing over the waters enveloping them anew in its night. The most valorous and calm men would swear upon seeing the endless bar of mist closing off the horizon.
Such voyages were not at all to Ferragut's taste. Marching in line like a soldier, and having to conform to the speed of these miserable little boats irritated him greatly, and it made him still more wrathful to find himself obliged to obey the Commodore of a convoy who frequently was nobody but an old sailor of masterful character.
Because of all this he announced to the maritime authorities, on one of his arrivals at Marseilles, his firm intention of not sailing any more in this fashion. He had had enough with four such expeditions which were all well enough for timid captains incapable of leaving a port unless they always had in sight an escort of torpedo-boats, and whose crews at the slightest occurrence would try to lower the lifeboats and take refuge on the coast. He believed that he would be more secure going alone, trusting to his skill, with no other aid than his profound knowledge of the routes of the Mediterranean.
His petition was granted. He was the owner of a vessel and they were afraid of losing his coöperation when means of transportation were growing so very scarce. Besides, the Mare Nostrum, on account of its high speed, deserved individual employment in extraordinary and rapid service.
He remained in Marseilles some weeks waiting for a cargo of howitzers, and meandered as usual around the Mediterranean capital. He passed the evenings on the terrace of a cafe of the Cannebière. The recollection of von Kramer always loomed up in his mind at such times. "I wonder if they have shot him!…" He wished to know, but his investigations did not meet with much success. War Councils avoid publicity regarding their acts of justice. A Marseilles merchant, a friend of Ferragut, seemed to recall that some months before a German spy, surprised in the harbor, had been executed. Three lines, no more, in the newspapers, gave an account of his death. They said that he was an officer…. And his friend went on talking about the war news while Ulysses was thinking that the executed man could not have been any one else but von Kramer.
On that same afternoon he had an encounter. While passing through the street of Saint-Ferreol, looking at the show windows, the cries of several conductors of cabs and automobiles who could not manage to drive their vehicles through the narrow and crowded streets, attracted his attention. In one carriage he saw a blonde lady with her back to him, accompanied by two officers of the English navy. Immediately he thought of Freya…. Her hat, her gown, everything about her personality, was so very distinctive. And yet, when the coach had passed on without his being able to get a glimpse of the face of the stranger, the image of the adventuress persisted in his mind.
Finally he became very much irritated with himself, because of this absurd resemblance suspected without any reason whatever. How could that English-woman with the two officers be Freya?… How could a German refugee in Barcelona manage to slip into France where she was undoubtedly known by the military police?… And still more exasperating was his suspicion that this resemblance might have awakened a remnant of the old love which made him see Freya in every blonde woman.
At nine o'clock the following morning, while the captain was in his stateroom dressing to go ashore, Toni opened the door.
His face was scowling and timid at the same time, as though he had some bad news to give.
"That creature is here," he said laconically.
Ferragut looked at him with a questioning expression: "What creature?…"
"Who else could it be?… The one from Naples! That blonde devil that brought us all so much trouble!… We'll see now if this witch is going to keep us immovable for I don't know how many weeks just as she did the other time."
He excused himself as though he had just failed in discipline. The boat was fastened to the wharf by a bridgeway and anybody could come aboard. The pilot was opposed to these dockings which left the passage free to the curious and the importunate. By the time he had finished announcing her arrival, the lady was already on deck near the staterooms. She remembered well the way to the saloon. She had wished to go straight in, but it had been Caragol who had stopped her, while Toni went to advise the captain.
"Cristo!" murmured Ulysses. "Cristo!…"
And his astonishment, his surprise, did not permit him to utter any other exclamation.
Then he burst out furiously. "Throw her overboard!… Let two men lay hold of her and put her back on the wharf, by main force, if necessary."
But Toni hesitated, not daring to comply with such commands. And the impetuous Ferragut rushed outside of his cabin to do himself what had been ordered.
When he reached the saloon some one entered at the same time from the deck. It was Caragol, who was trying to block the passage of a woman; but she, laughing and taking advantage of his purblind eyes, was slipping little by little in between his body and the wooden partition.
On seeing the captain, Freya ran toward him, throwing out her arms.
"You!" she cried in a merry voice. "I knew well enough that you were here, in spite of the fact that these men were assuring me to the contrary…. My heart told me so…. How do you do, Ulysses!"
Caragol turned his eyes toward the place where he supposed the mate must be, as though imploring his pardon. With females he never could carry out any order…. Toni, on his part, appeared in an agony of shame before this woman who was looking at him defiantly.
The two disappeared. Ferragut was not able to say exactly how they got away, but he was glad of it. He feared that the recent arrival might allude in their presence to the things of the past.
He remained contemplating her a long time. He had believed the day before that he had recognized her back, and now he was sure that he might have passed on with indifference had he seen her face. Was this really the same woman that the two English officials were accompanying?… She appeared much taller than the other one, with a slenderness that made her skin appear more clear, giving it a delicate transparency. The nose was finer and more prominent. The eyes were sparkling, hidden in bluish black circles.
These eyes began to look at the captain, humbly and pleadingly.
"You!" exclaimed Ulysses in wonder. "You!… What are you coming here for?"…
Freya replied with the timidity of a bondslave. Yes, it was she who had recognized him the day before, long before he had seen her, and at once had formed the plan of coming in search of him. He could beat her just as at their last meeting: she was ready to suffer everything … but with him!
"Save me, Ulysses! Take me with you!… I implore you even more anxiously than in Barcelona."
"What are you doing here?…"
She understood the captain's amazement on meeting her in a belligerent country, the disquietude he must naturally feel upon finding a spy on his vessel. She looked around in order to make sure that they were entirely alone and spoke in a low voice. The doctor had sent her to France in order that she should "operate" in its ports. Only to him could she reveal the secret.
Ulysses was more indignant than ever at this confidence.
"Clear out!" he said in a wrathful voice. "I don't want to know anything about you…. Your affairs do not interest me at all. I do not wish to know them…. Get out of here! What are you plaguing me for?"
But she did not appear disposed to comply with his orders. Instead of departing, she dropped wearily down on one of the divans of the stateroom.
"I have come," she said, "to beg you to save me. I ask it for the last time…. I'm going to die; I suspect that my end is very near if you will not hold out a helping hand; I foresee the vengeance of my own people…. Guard me, Ulysses! Do not make me go back ashore; I am afraid…. So safe I shall feel here at your side!…"
Fear, sure enough, was reflected in her eyes as she recalled the last months of her life in Barcelona.
"The doctor is my enemy…. She who protected me so in other times abandons me now like an old shoe that it is necessary to get rid of. I am positive that her superior officers have condemned me…."
She shuddered on remembering the doctor's wrath when on her return from one of her trips she learned of the death of her faithful Karl. To her, Captain Ferragut was a species of invulnerable and victorious demon who was escaping all dangers and murdering the servants of a good cause. First von Kramer; now Karl…. As it was necessary for her to vent her wrath on somebody, she had made Freya responsible for all her misfortunes. Through her she had known the captain, and had mixed him up in the affairs of the "service."
Thirst for vengeance made the imposing dame smile with a ferocious expression. The Spanish sailor was doomed by the Highest Command. Precise orders had been given out against him. "As to his accomplices!…" Freya was figuring undoubtedly among these accomplices for having dared to defend Ferragut, for remembering the tragic event of his son, for having refused to join the chorus desiring his extermination.
Weeks afterwards the doctor again became as smiling and as amiable as in other times. "My dear girl, it is agreed that you should take a trip to France. We need there an agent who will keep us informed of the traffic of the ports, of the goings and comings of the vessels in order that our submersibles may know where to await them. The naval officials are very gallant, and a beautiful woman will be able to gain their affection."
She had tried to disobey. To go to France!… where her pre-war work was already known!… To go back to danger when she had already become accustomed to the safe life of a neutral country!… But her attempts at resistance were ineffectual. She lacked sufficient will-power; the "service" had converted her into an automaton.
"And here I am, suspecting that probably I am going to my death, but fulfilling the commissions given to me, struggling to be accommodating and retard in this way the fulfillment of their vengeance…. I am like a condemned criminal who knows that he is going to die, and tries to make himself so necessary that his sentence will be delayed for a few months."
"How did you get into France?" he demanded, paying no attention to her doleful tones.
"Freya shrugged her shoulders. In her business a change of nationality was easily accomplished. At present she was passing for a citizen of a South American republic. The doctor had arranged all the papers necessary to enable her to cross the frontier.