e mother upon whom the blow rebounded.

Toni went away. He could not endure the glances and the allusions made
by Dona Cinta. And as though this emotion were not enough, he received
the news a few hours later of his captain's wretched condition,--news
which obliged him to make the trip to Marseilles immediately.

On entering the quarters of the hotel frequented by the officials of
merchant vessels, he found Ferragut seated near a balcony from which
could be seen the entire harbor.

He was limp and flabby, with eyes sunken and faded, beard unkempt, and
a manifest disregard of his personal appearance.

"Toni!... Toni!"

He embraced his mate, moistening his neck with tears. For the first
time he began to weep and this appeared to give him a certain relief.
The presence of his faithful officer brought him back to life.
Forgotten memories of business journeys crowded in his mind. Toni
resuscitated all his past energies. It was as though the _Mare Nostrum_
had come in search of him.

He felt shame and remorse. This man knew his secret: he was the only
one to whom he had spoken of supplying the German submarines.

"My poor Esteban!... My son!"

He did not hesitate to admit the fatal relationship between the death
of his son and that illegal trip whose memory was weighing him down
like a monstrous crime. But Toni was discreet. He lamented the death of
Esteban like a misfortune in which the father had not had any part.

"I also have lost sons.... And I know that nothing is gained by giving
up to despair.... Cheer up!"

He never said a word of all that had happened before the tragic event.
Had not Ferragut known his mate so well, he might have believed that he
had entirely forgotten it. Not the slightest gesture, not a gleam in
his eyes, revealed the awakening of that malign recollection. His only
anxiety was that the captain should soon regain his health....

Reanimated by the presence and words of this prudent companion, Ulysses
recovered his strength and a few days after, abandoned the room in
which he had believed he was going to die, turning his steps toward
Barcelona.

He entered his home with a foreboding that almost made him tremble. The
sweet Cinta, considered until then with the protecting superiority of
the Orientals who do not recognize a soul in woman, now inspired him
with a certain fear. What would she say on seeing him?...

She said nothing of what he had feared. She permitted herself to be
embrace