Ferragut felt alarmed at such words.  What kind of sacrifice was this woman about to propose to him?...  But he grew calmer as he listened to her.  It was all a fancy of her disordered imagination.  “She is crazy,” again affirmed the hidden counselor in his brain.

“I have dreamed many times,” she continued, “of a man who would rob for me, who would kill if it was necessary and might have to pass the rest of his years in prison....  My poor thief!...  I would live only for him, spending night and day near the walls of his prison, looking through the bars, working like a woman of the village in order to send a good dinner to my outlaw....  That is genuine love and not the cold lies, the theatrical vows of our world.”

Ulysses repeated his mental comment, “She certainly is crazy”—­and his thought was so clearly reflected in his eyes that she guessed it.

“Don’t be afraid, Ferragut,” she said, smiling.  “I have no thought of exacting such a sacrifice of you.  All this that I am talking about is merely fancy, a whimsy invented to fill the vacancy of my soul.  ’Tis the fault of the wine, of our exaggerated libations,—­that to-day have been without water,—­to the gods....  Just look!”

And she pointed with comical gravity to the two empty bottles that were occupying the center of the table.

Night had fallen.  In the dark sky twinkled infinite eyes of starry light.  The immense bowl of the gulf was reflecting their sparkles like thousands of will o’ the wisps.  The candle shades in the restaurant were throwing purplish spots upon the table covers, casting upon the faces of those who were eating around them violent contrasts of light and shade.  From the locked rooms were escaping sounds of kisses, pursuit and falling furniture.

“Let us go!” ordered Freya.

The noise of this vulgar orgy was annoying her as though it were dishonoring the majesty of the night.  She needed to move about, to walk in the darkness, to breathe in the freshness of the mysterious shade.

At the garden gate they hesitated before the appeals of various coachmen.  Freya was the one who refused their offers.  She wished to return to Naples on foot, following the easy descent of the road of Posilipo after their long inaction in the restaurant.  Her face was warm and flushed because of the excess of wine.

Ulysses gave her his arm and they began to move through the shadows, insensibly impelled in their march by the ease of the downward slope.  Freya knew just what this trip would mean.  At the very first step the sailor advised her with a kiss on the neck.  He was going to take advantage of all the windings of the road, of the hills and terraces cut through in certain places to show the phosphorescent gulf across the foliage, and of the long shadowy stretch broken only now and then by the public echoes or the lanterns of carriages and tramways....

But these liberties were already an accepted thing.  She had taken the first step in the Aquarium:  besides, she was sure of her ability to keep her lover at whatever distance she might choose to fix....  And convinced of her power of checking herself in time, she gave herself up like a lost woman.