wharf examining the vessel, and spying upon those going on
and off. If he could manage to see them again he would go off the
steamer just to say a couple of words to them.

"You are to do nothing at all," ordered Ferragut. "I'll take charge of
this little matter."

All day long he was troubled over this news. Strolling about Barcelona,
he looked with challenging eyes at all passersby who appeared to be
Germans. To the aggressiveness of his character was now added the
indignation of a proprietor who finds himself assaulted within his
home. Those three shots were for him; and he was a Spaniard: and the
_boches_ were daring to attack him on his own ground! What audacity!...

Several times he put his hand in the back part of his trousers,
touching a long, metallic bulk. He was only awaiting the nightfall to
carry out a certain idea that had clamped itself between his two
eyebrows like a painful nail. Whilst he was not carrying it forward he
could not be tranquil.

The voice of his good counselor protested: "Don't do anything idiotic,
Ferragut; don't hunt the enemy, don't provoke him. Simply defend
yourself, nothing more."

But that reckless courage which in times gone by had made him embark on
vessels destined to shipwreck, and had pushed him toward danger for the
mere pleasure of conquering it, was now crying louder than prudence.

"In my own country!" he kept saying continually. "To try to assassinate
me when I am on my own land!... I'll just show them that I am a
Spaniard...."

He knew well that waterfront saloon mentioned by Freya. Two men in his
crew had given him some fresh information. The customers of the bar
were poor Germans accustomed to endless drinking. Some one was paying
for them, and on certain days even permitted them to invite the
skippers of the fishing boats and tramp vessels. A gramophone was
continually playing there, grinding out shrill songs to which the
guests responded in roaring chorus. When war news favorable to the
German Empire was received, the songs and drinking would redouble until
midnight and the shrill music-box would never stop for an instant. On
the walls were portraits of William II and various chromos of his
generals. The proprietor of the bar, a fat-legged German with square
head, stiff hair and drooping mustache, used to answer to the nickname
of _Hindenburg_.

The sailor grinned at the mere thought of putting that _Hindenburg_
underneath his own counter.... He'd just like