opportunely with a great deal of publicity.
Now the fad of the moment was the black art, and collectors were
hunting horrible wooden idols carved by tribes in the interior of
Africa.

But what had really impressed Ferragut was the plural which she had
employed in speaking of such industries. Who had fabricated these
Peruvian antiquities?... Was it her husband, the sage?...

"No," replied Freya tranquilly. "It was another one--an artist from
Munich. He had hardly any talent for painting, but great intelligence
in business matters. We returned from Peru with the mummy of an Inca
which we exhibited in almost all the museums of Europe without finding
a purchaser. Bad business! We had to keep the Inca in our room in the
hotel, and ..."

Ferragut was not interested in the wanderings of the poor Indian
monarch, snatched from the repose of his tomb.... One more! Each of
Freya's confidences evoked a new predecessor from the haze of her past.

Coming out of the beer-garden, the captain stalked along with a gloomy
aspect. She, on the other hand, was laughing at her memories surveying
across the years, with a flattering optimism, this far-away adventure
of her Bohemian days, and growing very merry on recalling the remains
of the Inca on his passage from hotel to hotel.

Suddenly Ulysses' wrath blazed forth.... The Dutch, officer, the
natural history sage, the singer who killed himself in one shot and now
the fabricator of antiquities.... How many more men had there been in
her existence? How many were there still to be told of? Why had she not
brought them all out at once?...

Freya was astounded at his abrupt violence. The sailor's wrath was
terrifying. Then she laughed, leaning heavily on his arm, and putting
her face close to his.

"You are jealous!... My shark is jealous! Go on talking. You don't know
how much I like to hear you. Complain away!... Beat me!... It's the
first time that I've seen a jealous man. Ah, you Southerners!...
Meridionals!... With good reason the women adore you."

And she was telling the truth. She was experiencing a new sensation
before this manly wrath, provoked by amorous indignation. Ulysses
appeared to her a very different man from all the others she had known
in her former life,--cold, compliant and selfish.

"My Ferragut!... My Mediterranean hero! How I love you! Come ...
come.... I must reward you!"

They were in a central street, near the corner of a sloping little
alley with stairs.