Ferragut.

Toni experienced the same desire. Would to God they might never again
see this blonde who always brought them misfortune!...

In the days following, the captain rarely left his ship. He did not
wish to run the risk of meeting her in the city streets for he was a
little doubtful of the hardness of his character. He feared that upon
seeing her again, weeping and pleading, he might yield to her
beseeching.

Ulysses' uneasiness vanished as soon as the loading of the vessel was
finished. This trip was going to be shorter than the others. The _Mare
Nostrum_ went to Corfu with war material for the Serbs who were
reorganizing their battalions destined for Salonica.

On the return trip Ferragut was attacked by the enemy. One day at dawn
just as he mounted the bridge to relieve Toni, the two spied at the
same time the tangible form that they were always seeing in
imagination. Within the circle of their glasses there framed itself the
end of a stick, black and upright, that was cutting the waters rosy in
the sunrise, leaving a wake of foam.

"Submarine!" shouted the captain.

Toni said nothing, but shoving aside the helmsman with a stroke of his
paw, he grasped the wheel, making the boat swerve in another direction.
The movement was opportune. Only a few seconds had passed by when there
began to be seen upon the water a black back of dizzying speed headed
directly for the steamer.

"Torpedo!" shouted the captain.

The anxious waiting lasted but a few seconds. The projectile, hidden in
the water, passed some six yards from the stern, losing itself in
space. Had it not been for Toni's rapid tacking, the boat would have
been hit squarely in the side.

Through the speaking tube connecting with the engine-room the captain
shouted energetic orders to put on full speed. Meanwhile the mate,
clamped to the wheel, ready to die rather than leave it, was directing
the boat in zigzags so as not to offer a fixed point to the submarine.

All the crew were watching from the rail the distant and insignificant
upright periscope. The third officer had rushed out of his stateroom,
almost naked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Caragol was in the stern, his
loose shirt-tail flapping away as he held one hand to his eyebrows like
a visor.

"I see it!... I see it perfectly.... Ah, the bandit, the heretic!"

And he extended his threatening fist toward a point in the horizon
exactly opposite to the one upon which the periscope was appeari