with a quickfirer, which had come into the
Mediterranean to pursue the submersible. They wore oilskins and
tarpaulins, just like the North Sea fishermen, smacking of fuel and
tempestuous water. They would pass weeks and weeks on the sea whatever
the weather, sleeping in the bottom of the hold that smelled
offensively of rancid fish, keeping on patrol no matter how the tempest
might roar, bounding from wave to wave like a cork from a bottle, in
order to repeat the exploits of the ancient corsairs.

Ferragut had a relative in the army which was assembling at Salonica
making ready for the inland march. As he did not wish to go away
without seeing the lad he passed several mornings making investigations
in the offices of the general staff.

This relative was his nephew, a son of Blanes, the manufacturer of knit
goods, who had fled from Barcelona at the outbreak of the war with
other boys devoted to singing _Los Segadores_ and perturbing the
tranquillity of the "Consul of Spain" sent by Madrid. The son of the
pacific Catalan citizen had enlisted in the battalion of the Foreign
Legion made up to a great extent of Spaniards and Spanish-Americans.

Blanes had asked the captain to see his son. He was sad yet at the same
time proud of this romantic adventure blossoming out so unexpectedly in
the utilitarian and monotonous existence of the family. A boy that had
such a great future in his father's factory!... And then he had related
to Ulysses with shaking voice and moist eyes the achievements of his
son,--wounded in Champagne, two citations and the _Croix de Guerre_.
Who would ever have imagined that he could be such a hero!... Now his
battalion was in Salonica after having fought in the Dardanelles.

"See if you can't bring him back with you," repeated Blanes. "Tell him
that his mother is going to die of grief.... You can do so much!"

But all that Captain Ferragut could do was to obtain a permit and an
old automobile with which to visit the encampment of the legionaries.

The arid plain around Salonica was crossed by numerous roads. The
trains of artillery, the rosaries of automobiles, were rolling over
recently opened roads that the rain had converted into mire. The mud
was the worst calamity that could befall this plain, so extremely dusty
in dry weather.

Ferragut passed two long hours, going from encampment to encampment,
before reaching his destination. His vehicle frequently had to stop in
order to make way for in