He smiled upon learning that Ulysses wished to go immediately to Naples.  “You do well....  The train leaves in two hours.”  And putting him in a vacant hack, he disappeared with precipitation.

Finding himself alone, the captain almost believed that he had dreamed of those two preceding days.

He was again seeing Palermo after an absence of long years:  and he experienced the joy of an exiled Sicilian on meeting the various carts of the countryside, drawn by broken-down horses with plumes, whose badly-painted wagon bodies represented scenes from “Jerusalem Delivered.”  He recalled the names of the principal roads,—­the roads of the old Spanish viceroys.  In one square he saw the statue of four kings of Spain....  But all these souvenirs only inspired in him a fleeting interest.  What he particularly noticed was the extraordinary movement in the streets, the people grouping themselves together in order to listen to the reading of the daily papers.  Many windows displayed the national flag, interlaced with those of France, England, and Belgium.

Upon arriving at the station he learned the truth,—­was informed of the event to which the merchant had alluded while they were in the skiff.  It was war!...  Italy had broken her relations the day before with the Central Powers.

Ulysses felt very uneasy on remembering what he had done out on the Mediterranean.  He feared that the popular groups, thronging past him and giving cheers behind their flags, were going to guess his exploit and fall upon him.  It was necessary to get away from this patriotic enthusiasm, and he breathed more freely when he found himself in one of the coaches of a train....  Besides, he was going to see Freya.  And it was enough for him merely to evoke her image to make all his remorse vanish.

The short journey proved long and difficult.  The necessities of war had made themselves felt from the very first moment, absorbing all means of communication.  The train would remain immovable for hours together in order to give the right of way to other trains loaded with men and military materials....  In all the stations were soldiers in campaign uniform, banners and cheering crowds.

When Ferragut arrived at Naples, fatigued by a journey of forty-eight hours, it seemed to him that the coachman was going too slowly toward the old palace of Chiaja.

Upon crossing the vestibule with his little suit-case, the portress,—­a fat old crone with dusty, frizzled hair whom he had sometimes caught a glimpse of in the depths of her hall cavern,—­stopped his passage.

“The ladies are no longer living in the house....  The ladies have suddenly left with Karl, their employee.”  And she explained the rest of their flight with a hostile and malignant smile.

Ferragut saw that he must not insist.  The slovenly old wife was furious over the flight of the German ladies, and was examining the sailor as a probable spy fit for patriotic denunciation.  Nevertheless, through professional honor, she told him that the blonde signora, the younger and more attractive one, had thought of him on going away, leaving his baggage in the porter’s room.