She was silent a moment, as though calculating all the crimes of her former life.

"The doctor," she continued, "depends upon her consuming patriotic enthusiasm as the impetus to her work. I lack her faith. I am not a German woman, and being a spy is very repugnant to me.... I feel ashamed when I think of my actual life; every night I think over the result of my abominable work; I calculate the use to which they will put my warnings and my information; I can see the torpedoed boats.... I wonder how many human beings have perished through my fault!... I have visions; my conscience torments me. Save me!... I can do no more. I feel a horrible fear. I have so much to expiate!..."

Little by little she had raised herself from the divan, and, while begging Ferragut's protection, was going toward him with outstretched arms; abject, and yet at the same time caressing, through that desire of seduction that always predominated over all her acts.

"Leave me!" shouted the sailor. "Do not come near me.... Do not touch me!"

He felt that same wrath that had made him so brutal in their interview in Barcelona. He was greatly exasperated at the tenacity of this adventuress who, in addition to the tragic influence she had already exercised upon his life, was now trying to compromise him still further.

But a sentiment of cold compa.s.sion made him check his anger and speak with a certain kindness.

If she needed money in order to make her escape, he would give it to her without any haggling whatever. She could name the sum. The captain was disposed to satisfy all her desires except that of living with her.

He would give her a substantial amount in order to make her fortune a.s.sured and never see her again.

Freya made a gesture of protest at the same time that the sailor began repenting of his generosity.... Why should he do such a favor to a woman who reminded him of the death of his son?... What was there in common between the two?... Their vile love-affair in Naples had been sufficiently paid for with his bereavement.... Let each one follow his own destiny; they belonged to different worlds.... Was he going to have to defend himself all his life long from this insistent charmer?...

Moreover, he was not at all sure that even now she was telling the truth.... Everything about her was false. He did not even know with certainty her true name and her past existence....

"Clear out!" he roared in a threatening tone. "Leave me in peace."

He raised his powerful hand against her, seeing that she was going to refuse to obey. He was going to pick her up roughly, carry her like a light bundle outside the room, outside the boat, flinging her away as though she were remorse.

But her physique, so opulent in its seductions, now inspired him with an unconquerable repugnance; he was afraid of its contact and wished to avoid its electric surprises.... Besides, he wasn't going to maltreat her at every meeting like a professional Apache who mixes love and blows. He recalled with disgust his violence in Barcelona.

And as Freya instead of going away sank back on the divan, with a faintness that seemed to challenge his wrath, it was he who fled in order to bring the interview to an end.

He rushed into his stateroom, locking the door with a bang. This flight brought her out of her inertia. She wished to follow him with the leap of a young panther, but her hands collided with an obstacle that became impa.s.sable, while from within sounded the noise of keys and bolts.

She pounded the door desperately, injuring her fists with her fruitless efforts.

"Ulysses, open it!... Listen to me."

In vain she shrieked as though she were giving an order, exasperated at finding that she was not obeyed. Her fury spent itself unavailingly against the solid immovability of the wood. Suddenly she began to cry, modifying her purpose upon finding herself as weak and defenseless as an abandoned creature. All her life appeared concentrated in her tears and in her pleading voice.

She pa.s.sed her fingers over the door, groping over the moldings, slipping them over the varnished surface as though seeking at random a crevice, a hole, something that would permit her to get to the man that was on the other side.

Instinctively she fell upon her knees, putting her mouth to the keyhole.

"My lord, my master!" she murmured in the voice of a beggar. "Open the door.... Do not abandon me. Remember that I am going to my death if you do not save me."

Ferragut heard her, and, in order to evade her moaning, was getting as near as possible to the end of his stateroom. Then he unfastened the round window that opened on the deck, ordering a seaman to go after the mate.

"_Don Antoni! Don Antoni!_" various voices cried the whole length of the ship.

Toni appeared, putting his face in the circular opening only to receive the furious vituperation of his captain.

Why had they left him alone with that woman?... They must take her off the boat at once, even if it had to be done by main force.... He commanded it.

The mate went off with a confounded air, scratching his beard as though he had received an order very difficult to execute.

"Save me, my love!" the imploring whisper kept moaning. "Forget who I am.... Think only of the one of Naples.... Of the one whom you knew at Pompeii.... Remember our happiness alone together in the days when you swore never to abandon me.... You are a gentleman!..."

Her voice ceased for a moment. Ferragut heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Toni was carrying out his orders.

But in a few seconds the pleading again burst forth, reconcentrated, tenacious, bent only upon carrying its point, scorning the new obstacles about to interpose between her and the captain.

"Do you hate me so?... Remember the bliss that I gave you. You yourself swore to me that you had never been so happy. I can revive that past.

You do not know of what things I am capable in order to make your existence sweet.... And you wish to lose and to ruin me!..."

A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of bodies that were pushing each other, the friction of a scuffle against the wood.

Toni had entered followed by Caragol.

"Enough of that now, Senora," said the mate in a grim voice in order to hide his emotion. "Can't you see that the captain doesn't want to see you?... Don't you understand that you are disturbing him?... Come, now.... Get up!"

He tried to help her to stand up, separating her mouth from the keyhole. But Freya repelled the vigorous sailor with facility. He appeared to be lacking in force, without the courage to repeat his rough action. The beauty of this woman made him afraid. He was still thrilled by the contact of her firm body which he had just torched during their short struggle. His drowsing virtue had suffered the torments of a fruitless resurrection. "Ah, no!... Let somebody else take charge of putting her off."

"Ulysses, they're taking me away!" she cried, again putting her mouth to the keyhole. "And you, my love, will you permit it?... You who used to love me so?..."

After this desperate call, she remained silent for a few instants. The door maintained its immobility; behind it there seemed to be no living being.

"Farewell!" she continued in a low voice, her throat choked with sobs, "you will see me no more.... I am soon going to die; my heart tells me so.... To die because of you!... Perhaps some day you will weep on recalling that you might have saved me."

Some one had intervened to force Freya from her rebellious standstill.

It was Caragol, solicited by the mate's imploring eyes.

His great hairy hands helped her to arise, without making her repeat the protest that had repelled Toni. Conquered and bursting into tears, she appeared to yield to the paternal aid and counsel of the cook.

"Up now, my good lady!" said Caragol. "A little more courage and don't cry any more.... There is some consolation for everything in this world."

In his bulky right hand he imprisoned her two, and, pa.s.sing his other arm around her waist, he was guiding her little by little toward the exit from the salon.

"Trust in G.o.d," he added. "Why do you seek the captain who has his own wife ash.o.r.e?... Other men who are free are still in existence, and you could make some arrangement with them without falling into mortal sin."

Freya was not listening to him. Near the door she again turned her head, beginning her return toward the captain's stateroom.

"Ulysses!... Ulysses!" she cried.

"Trust in G.o.d, Senora," said Caragol again, while he was pushing her along with his flabby abdomen and s.h.a.ggy breast.

A charitable idea was taking possession of his thoughts. He had the remedy for the grief of this handsome woman whose desperation but made her more interesting.

"Come along, Senora.... Leave it to me, my child."

Upon reaching the deck he continued driving her towards his dominions.

Freya found herself seated in the galley, without knowing just exactly where she was. Through her tears she saw this obese old man of sacerdotal benevolence, going from side to side gathering bottles together and mixing liquids, stirring the spoon around in a gla.s.s with a joyous tinkling.

"Drink without fear.... There is no trouble that resists this medicine."