p, without looking around, without noticing whether Ferragut
was following her or abandoning her.

During the long wait and the descent to the city Freya appeared as
ironical and frivolous as though she had no recollection of her recent
indignation. The sailor, under the weight of his failure and the
unusual libations, relapsed into sulky silence.

In the district of Chiaja they separated. Ferragut, finding himself
alone, felt more strongly than ever the effects of the intoxication
that was dominating him, the intoxication of a temperate man overcome
by the intense surprise of novelty.

For a moment he had a forlorn idea of going to his boat. He needed to
give orders, to contend with somebody; but the weakness of his knees
pushed him toward his hotel and he flung himself face downward on the
bed,--whilst his hat rolled on the floor,--content with the sobriety
with which he had reached his room without attracting the attention of
the servants.

He fell asleep immediately, but scarcely had night fallen before his
eyes opened again, or at least he believed that they opened, seeing
everything under a light which was not that of the sun.

Some one had entered the room, and was coming on tiptoe towards his
bed. Ulysses, who was not able to move, saw out of the tail of one eye
that what was approaching was a woman and that this woman appeared to
be Freya. Was it really she?...

She had the same countenance, the blonde hair, the black and oriental
eyes, the same oval face. It was Freya and it was not, just as twins
exactly alike physically, nevertheless have an indefinable something
which differentiates them.

The vague thoughts which for some time past had been slowly undermining
his subconsciousness with dull, subterranean labor, now cleared the air
with explosive force. Whenever he had seen the widow this
subconsciousness had asserted itself, forewarning him that he had known
her long before that transatlantic voyage. Now, under a light of
fantastic splendor, these vague thoughts assumed definite shape.

The sleeper thought he was looking at Freya clad in a bodice with
flowing sleeves adjusted to the arms with filagree buttons of gold;
some rather barbarous gems were adorning her bosom and ears, and a
flowered skirt was covering the rest of her person. It was the classic
costume of a farmer's wife or daughter of other centuries that he had
seen somewhere in a painting. Where?... Where?...

"Dona Constanza!..."