on the walls and a deep divan with
flowered cushions.

A woman arose from the soft depths of this couch, rushing towards
Ferragut with outstretched arms. Her impulse was so violent that it
made her collide with the captain. Before the feminine embrace could
close around him he saw a panting mouth, with avid teeth, eyes tearful
with emotion, a smile that was a mixture of love and painful
disquietude.

"You!... You!" he stuttered, springing back.

His legs trembled with a shudder of surprise. A cold wave ran down his
back.

"Ulysses!" sighed the woman, trying again to fold him in her arms.

"You!... _You_!" again repeated the sailor in a dull voice.

It was Freya.

He did not know positively what mysterious force dictated his action.
It was perhaps the voice of his good counselor, accustomed to speak in
his brain in critical instants, which now asserted itself.... He saw
instantaneously a ship that was exploding and his son blown to pieces.

"Ah ... _tal_"

He raised his robust arm with his fist clenched like a mace. The voice
of prudence kept on giving him orders. "Hard!... No consideration!...
This female is shifty." And he struck as though his enemy were a man,
without hesitation, without pity, concentrating all his soul in his
fist.

The hatred that he was feeling and the recollection of the aggressive
resources of the German woman made him begin a second blow, fearing an
attack from her and wishing to repel it before it could be made.... But
he stopped with his arm raised.

"_Ay de mi_!..."

The woman had uttered a child-like wail, staggering, swaying upon her
feet, with arms drooping, without any attempt at defense whatever....
She reeled from side to side as though she were drunk. Her knees
doubled under her, and she fell with the limpness of a bundle of
clothes, her head first striking against the cushions of the divan. The
rest of her body remained like a rag on the rug.

There was a long silence, interrupted from time to time by groans of
pain. Freya was moaning with closed eyes, without coming out of her
inertia.

The sailor, scowling with a tragic ugliness, and transported with rage,
remained immovable, looking grimly at the fallen creature. He was
satisfied with his brutality; it had been an opportune relief; he could
breathe better. At the same time he was beginning to feel ashamed of
himself. "What have you done, you coward?..." For the first time in his
existence he had struck a woman.