Freya was the counterpart of that august Byzantian queen. Perhaps she
was the very same, perpetuated across the centuries, through
extraordinary incarnations. In that moment Ulysses would have believed
anything possible.

Besides he was very little concerned with the reasonableness of things
just now; the important thing to him was that they should exist; and
Freya was at his side; Freya and that other one, welded into one and
the same woman, clad like the Grecian sovereign.

Again he repeated the sweet name that had illuminated his infancy with
romantic splendor. "Dona Constanza! Oh, Dona Constanza!..." And night
overwhelmed him, cuddling his pillow as when he was a child, and
falling asleep enraptured with thoughts of the young widow of "Vatacio
the Heretic."

When he met Freya again the next day, he felt attracted by a new
force,--the redoubled interest that people in dreams inspire. She might
really be the empress resuscitated in a new form as in the books of
chivalry, or she might simply be the wandering widow of a learned
sage,--for the sailor it was all the same thing. He desired her, and to
his carnal desire was added others less material,--the necessity of
seeing her for the mere pleasure of seeing her, of hearing her, of
suffering her negatives, of being repelled in all his advances.

She had pleasant memories of the expedition to the heights of S.
Martino.

"You must have thought me ridiculous because of my sensitiveness and my
tears. You, on the other hand, were as you always are, impetuous and
daring.... The next time we shall drink less."

The "next time" was an invitation that Ferragut repeated daily. He
wanted to take her to dine at one of the _trattorias_ on the road to
Posilipo where they could see spread at their feet the entire gulf,
colored with rose by the setting sun.

Freya had accepted his invitation with the enthusiasm of a school girl.
These strolls represented for her hours of joy and liberty, as though
her long sojourns with the doctor were filled with monotonous service.

One evening Ulysses was waiting for her far from the hotel so as to
avoid the porter's curious stares. As soon as they met and glanced
toward the neighboring cab-stand, four vehicles advanced at the same
time--like a row of Roman chariots anxious to win the prize in the
circus--with a noisy clattering of hoofs, cracking of whips, wrathful
gesticulations and threatening appeals to the Madonna. Listening to
their N