mself in one of
the coaches of a train.... Besides, he was going to see Freya. And it
was enough for him merely to evoke her image to make all his remorse
vanish.

The short journey proved long and difficult. The necessities of war had
made themselves felt from the very first moment, absorbing all means of
communication. The train would remain immovable for hours together in
order to give the right of way to other trains loaded with men and
military materials.... In all the stations were soldiers in campaign
uniform, banners and cheering crowds.

When Ferragut arrived at Naples, fatigued by a journey of forty-eight
hours, it seemed to him that the coachman was going too slowly toward
the old palace of Chiaja.

Upon crossing the vestibule with his little suit-case, the portress,--a
fat old crone with dusty, frizzled hair whom he had sometimes caught a
glimpse of in the depths of her hall cavern,--stopped his passage.

"The ladies are no longer living in the house.... The ladies have
suddenly left with Karl, their employee." And she explained the rest of
their flight with a hostile and malignant smile.

Ferragut saw that he must not insist. The slovenly old wife was furious
over the flight of the German ladies, and was examining the sailor as a
probable spy fit for patriotic denunciation. Nevertheless, through
professional honor, she told him that the blonde _signora_, the younger
and more attractive one, had thought of him on going away, leaving his
baggage in the porter's room.

Ulysses hastened to disappear. He would soon send some one to collect
those valises. And taking another carriage, he betook himself to the
_albergo_ of S. Lucia.... What an unexpected blow!

The porter made a gesture of surprise and astonishment upon seeing him
enter. Before Ferragut could inquire for Freya, with the vague hope
that she might have taken refuge in the hotel, this man gave him some
news.

"Captain, your son has been here waiting for you."

The captain stuttered in dismay, "What son?..."

The man with the embroidered keys brought the register, showing him one
line, "Esteban Ferragut, Barcelona." Ulysses recognized his son's
handwriting, and at the same time his heart was oppressed with
indefinable anguish.

Surprise made him speechless, and the porter took advantage of his
silence to continue speaking. He was such a charming and intelligent
lad!... Some mornings he had accompanied him in order to point out to
him the