h treating of an ordinary
casualty.

"This Freya Talberg," he continued, "has had enough said about her
personality. It seems that she is a _chic_ woman,--a species of lady
from a novel. Many are protesting because she has not yet been
executed. It is sad to have to kill one of her sex,--to kill a woman
and especially a beautiful woman!... But nevertheless it is very
necessary.... I believe that she is to be shot at any moment."

CHAPTER XII

AMPHITRITE!... AMPHITRITE!

The _Mare Nostrum_ made another trip from Marseilles to Salonica.

Before sailing, Ferragut hunted vainly through the Paris periodicals
for fresh news of Freya. For some days past, the attention of the
public had been so distracted by various other events that for the time
being the spy was forgotten.

On arriving at Salonica, he made discreet inquiries among his military
and marine friends in the harbor cafes. Hardly any one had ever heard
the name of Freya Talberg. Those who had read it in the newspapers
merely replied with indifference.

"I know who she is: she is a spy who was an actress,--a woman with a
certain _chic_. I think that they've shot her.... I don't know
certainly, but they ought to have shot her."

They had more important things to think about. A spy!... On all sides
they were discovering the intrigues of German espionage. They had to
shoot a great many.... And immediately they forgot this affair in order
to speak of the difficulties of the war that were threatening them and
their comrades-at-arms.

When Ferragut returned to Marseilles two months afterwards, he was
still ignorant as to whether his former mistress was yet among the
living.

The first evening that he met his old comrade, the captain, in the cafe
of the _Cannebiere_, he skillfully guided the conversation around until
he could bring out naturally the question in the back of his mind:
"What was the fate of that Freya Talberg that there was so much talk
about in the newspapers before I went to Salonica?..."

The Marseillaise had to make an effort to recall her.

"Ah, yes!... The _boche_ spy," he said after a long pause. "They shot
her some weeks ago. The papers said little of her death,--just a few
lines. Such people don't deserve any more...."

Ferragut's friend had two sons in the army; a nephew had died in the
trenches, another, a mate aboard a transport, had just perished in a
torpedo attack. The old man was passing many nights without sleeping
thin