Ulysses examined curiously his two companions in this improvised float.  Were these the famous submarines?...  He saw on their steel decks round and protruding hatchways like chimneys through which groups of heads were sticking out.  The officers and crews were dressed like fishermen from the northern coast with waterproof suits of one piece and oilskin hats.  Many of them were swinging their tarpaulins over their heads, and the count replied to them by waving his cap.  The blonde sailors of the schooner shouted in reply to the acclamations of their comrades on the submersibles, “Deutchsland ueber alles!...”

But this enthusiasm, equivalent to a song of triumph in the midst of the solitude of the sea, lasted but a very short time.  Whistles sounded, men ran over the steel decks and Ferragut saw his vessel invaded by two files of seamen.  In a moment the hatchways were opened; there sounded the crash of breaking pieces of wood, and the cases of petrol began to be carried off on both sides.  The water all around the sailboat was filled with broken cases that were gently floating away.

The count on the poop deck was listening to an officer dressed in waterproof garments.

He was recounting their passage through the Strait of Gibraltar, completely submerged, seeing through the periscope the English torpedo-chasers on patrol.

“Nothing, Commandant,” continued the officer.  “Not even the slightest incident....  A magnificent voyage!”

“May God punish England!” said the count now called Commandant.

“May God punish her!” replied the official as though he were saying “Amen.”

Ferragut saw himself forgotten, ignored, by all the men aboard the schooner.  Some of the sailors even pushed him to one side in the haste of their work.  He was the mere master of a sailing vessel who counted for nothing in this hierarchy of warlike men.

He now began to understand why they had given him the command of the little vessel.  The count was in possession of the situation.  Ferragut saw him approaching as though he had suddenly recollected him, stretching out his right hand with the affability of a comrade.

“Many thanks, Captain.  This service is of the kind that is not easily forgotten.  Perhaps we shall never see each other again....  But if at any time you need me, you may know who I am.”

And, as though presenting him to another person, he gave his name and titles ceremoniously:—­Archibald von Kramer, Naval Lieutenant of the Imperial Navy....  His diplomatic role had not been entirely false....  He had served as Naval Attache in various embassies.

He then gave instructions for the return trip.  Ferragut was to wait opposite Palermo where a boat would come out after him and take him ashore.  Everything had been foreseen....  He must deliver the command to the true owner of the schooner, a timorous man who had made them pay very high for the hire of the boat without venturing to jeopardize his own person.  In the cabin were the customary papers for clearing the vessel.