een months
before when the captains knew all its secrets; he could no longer live
on it as confidently as in the house of a friend.

He stayed in his stateroom only to sleep. He and Toni spent long hours
on the bridge talking without seeing each other, with their eyes turned
on the sea, scanning the heaving blue surface. All the crew, excepting
those that were resting, felt the necessity of keeping the same watch.

In the daytime the slightest discovery would send the alarm from prow
to poop. All the refuse of the sea, that weeks before had splashed
unnoticed near the sides of the vessel, now provoked cries of
attention, and many arms were outstretched, pointing it out. Bits of
sticks, empty preserve cans sparkling in the sunlight, bunches of
seaweed, a sea gull with outspread wings letting itself rock on the
waves; everything made them think of the periscopes of the submarine
coming up to the water's level.

At night time the vigilance was even greater. To the danger of
submersibles must also be added that of collision. The warships and the
allied transports were traveling with few lights or completely dark.
The sentinels on the bridge were no longer scanning the surface of the
sea with its pale phosphorescence. Their gaze explored the horizon,
fearing that before the prow there might suddenly surge up an enormous,
swift, black form, vomited forth by the darkness.

If at any time the captain tarried in his stateroom, instantly that
fatal memory came to his mind.

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

And his eyes were full of tears.

Remorse and wrath made him plan tremendous vengeance. He was convinced
that it would be impossible to carry it through, but it was a momentary
consolation to his meridional character predisposed to the most bloody
revenge.

One day, running over some forgotten papers in a suit-case, he came
across Freya's portrait. Upon seeing her audacious smile and her calm
eyes fixed upon him, he felt within him a shameful reversion. He
admired the beauty of this apparition, a thrill passing over his body
as their past intercourse recurred to him.... And at the same time that
other Ferragut existing within him thrilled with the murderous violence
of the Oriental who considers death as the only means of vengeance. She
was to blame for it all. "Ah!... _Tal_"

He tore up the photograph, but then he put the fragments together again
and finally placed them among his papers.

His wrath was changing its objec