Ulysses was greatly disconcerted by this theory.

“Then the doctor?...” he again questioned, guessing; what the imposing dame must be.

Freya responded with an expression of enthusiasm and respect.  Her friend was an illustrious patriot, a very learned woman, who was placing all her faculties at the service of her country.  She adored her.  She was her protector; she had rescued her in the most difficult moment of her existence.

“And the count?” Ferragut continued asking.

Here the woman made a gesture of reserve.

“He also is a great patriot, but do not let us talk about him.”

In her words there were both respect and fear.  He suspected that she did not wish to have anything to do with this haughty personage.

A long silence.  Freya, as if fearing the effects of the captain’s meditations, suddenly cut them short with her headlong chatter.

The doctor and she had come from Rome to take refuge in Naples, fleeing from the intrigues and mutterings of the capital.  The Italians were squabbling among themselves; some were partisans of the war, others of neutrality; none of them wished to aid Germany, their former ally.

“We, who have protected them so much!” she exclaimed.  “False and ungrateful race!...”

Her gestures and her words recalled to Ulysses’ mind the image of the doctor, execrating the Italian country from a little window of the coach, the first day that they had talked together.

The two women were in Naples, whiling away their tedious waiting with trips to neighboring places of interest, when they met the sailor.

“I have a very pleasant recollection of you,” continued Freya.  “I guessed from the very first instant that our friendship was going to terminate as it has terminated.”

She read a question in his glance.

“I know what you are going to say to me.  You wonder that I have made you wait so long, that I should have made you suffer so with my caprices....  It was because while I was loving you, at the same time I wished to separate myself from you.  You represented an attraction and a hindrance.  I feared to mix you up in my affairs....  Besides, I need to be free in order to dedicate myself wholly to the fulfillment of my mission.”

There was another long pause.  Freya’s eyes were fixed on those of her lover with scrutinizing tenacity.  She wished to sound the depths of his thoughts, to study the ripeness of her preparation—­before risking the decisive blow.  Her examination was satisfactory.

“And now that you know me,” she said with painful slowness, “begone!...  You cannot love me.  I am a spy, just as you say,—­a contemptible being....  I know that you will not he able to continue loving me after what I have revealed to you.  Take yourself away in your boat, like the heroes of the legends; we shall not see each other more.  All our intercourse will have been a beautiful dream....  Leave me alone.  I am ignorant of what my own fate may be, but what is more important to me is your tranquillity.”