“Yes, it’s high time,” responded Toni who, during the entire month, had only gone ashore twice.

The Mare Nostrum left the repair dock coming to anchor opposite the commercial wharf, shining and rejuvenated, with no imperfections recalling her recent injuries.

One morning when the captain and his second were in the saloon under the poop undecided whether to start that night—­or wait four days longer, as the owners of the cargo were requesting,—­the third officer, a young Andalusian, presented himself greatly excited by the piece of news of which he was the bearer.  A most beautiful and elegant lady (the young man emphasized his admiration with these details) had just arrived in a launch and, without asking permission, had climbed the ladder, entering the vessel as though it were her own dwelling.

Toni felt his heart thump.  His swarthy countenance became ashy pale. “Cristo!...  The woman from Naples!” He did not really know whether she was from Naples; he had never seen her, but he was certain that she was coming as a fatal impediment, as an unexpected calamity....  Just when things were going so well, too!...

The captain whirled around in his arm chair, jumped up from the table, and in two bounds was out on deck.

Something extraordinary was perturbing the crew.  They, too, were all on deck as though some powerful attraction had drawn them from the orlop, from the depths of the hold, from the metallic corridors of the engine rooms.  Even Uncle Caragol was sticking his episcopal face out through the door of the kitchen, holding a hand closed in the form of a telescope to one of his eyes, without being able to distinguish clearly the announced marvel.

Freya was a few steps away in a blue suit somewhat like a sailor’s, as though this visit to the ship necessitated the imitative elegance and bearing of the multi-millionaires who live on their yachts.  The seamen, cleaning brass or polishing wood, were pretending extraordinary occupations in order to get near her.  They felt the necessity of being in her atmosphere, of living in the perfumed air that enveloped her, following her steps.

Upon seeing the captain, she simply extended her hand, as though she might have seen him the day before.

“Do not object, Ferragut!...  As I did not find you in the hotel, I felt obliged to visit you on your ship.  I have always wanted to see your floating home.  Everything about you interests me.”

She appeared an entirely different woman.  Ulysses noted the great change that had taken place in her person during the last days.  Her eyes were bold, challenging, of a calm seductiveness.  She appeared to be surrendering herself entirely.  Her smiles, her words, her manner of crossing the deck toward the staterooms of the vessel proclaimed her determination to end her long resistance as quickly as possible, yielding to the sailor’s desires.

In spite of former failures, he felt anew the joy of triumph.  “Now it is going to be!  My absence has conquered her....”  And at the same time that he was foretasting the sweet satisfaction of love and triumphant pride, there arose in him a vague instinct of suspicion of this woman so suddenly transformed, perhaps loving her less than in former days when she resisted and advised him to be gone.