realized. One morning on the high
seas near Lisbon, when he had just fallen asleep after a night on the
bridge, the shouts and runnings of the crew awakened him.

A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen hundred yards astern
and was coming toward the _Mare Nostrum_, evidently fearing that the
merchant-boat would try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop,
its gun fired two shells which fell into the water.

The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself in a more
favorable position and to maneuver with more sea room, with its arms at
the stern. At the first shot the submarine began to recede, keeping a
more prudent distance, surprised to receive an answer to its
aggression.

The combat lasted half an hour. The shots repeated themselves on both
sides with the speed of rapid fire artillery. Ferragut was near the
gun, admiring the calm coolness with which its servants manipulated it.
One always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to his
companion who rapidly introduced it into the smoking chamber. The
gunner was concentrating all his life in his eyes, and bending over the
cannon, moved it carefully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and
prolonged body that was rising to the surface of the water as though it
were a whale.

Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steamer's prow. An
enemy's projectile had just hit the edge of the roofs that covered the
galley and mess rooms. Caragol, who was standing in the door of his
dominions, raised his hands to his hat. When the yellowish and
evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there,
scratching the top of his head, bare and red.

"It's nothing!" he cried. "Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my
blood. Fire away!... Fire!"

He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting. The drug-like
smell of the smokeless powder, the dull thud of the detonations
appeared to intoxicate him. He was leaping and wringing his hands with
the ardor of a war-dancer.

The gunners redoubled their activity; the shots became continuous.

"There it is!" yelled Caragol. "They have hit it.... They have hit it!"

Of all those aboard, he was the one who could least appreciate the
effects of the shots for he could scarcely discern the silhouette of
the submersible. But in spite of that he continued bellowing with all
the force of his faith.

"Now you've hit it!... Hurrah! Hurrah!"

And the strange thing was that the enemy inst