Before going to bed, the captain entered a room on the upper deck where was installed the wireless telegraph outfit.  The hissing as of frying oil that the apparatus was sending out attracted him.  The operator, a young Englishman, took off his nickel band with two earphones.  Greatly bored by his isolation, he was trying to distract himself by conversing with the operators on the other vessels that came within the radius of his apparatus.  They kept in constant communication like a group of comrades making the same trip and conversing placidly together.

From time to time the operator, advised by the sparking of his induction coils, would put on the diadem with ear pieces in order to listen to his far-away comrades.

“It is the man on the Californian bidding me goodnight,” he said after one of these calls.  “He is going to bed.  There’s no news.”

And the young man eulogized Mediterranean navigation.  At the outbreak of the war, he had been on another vessel going from London to New York and he recalled the unquiet nights, the days of anxious vigilance, searching the sea and the atmosphere, fearing from one moment to another the appearance of a periscope upon the waters, or the electric warning of a steamer torpedoed by the submarine.  On this sea, one could live as tranquilly as in times of peace.

Ferragut suspected that the poor operator was very anxious to enjoy the delights of such tranquillity.  His companion in service was snoring in a nearby cabin and he was anxious to imitate him, putting his head down on the table of the apparatus....  “Until to-morrow!”

The captain also fell asleep as soon as he had stretched himself out on the narrow ledge in his stateroom.  His sleep was all in one piece, gloomy and complete, without sudden surprises or visions.  Just as he was feeling that only a few moments had passed by, he was violently awakened as though some one had given him a shove.  In the dim light he could make out only the round glass of the port hole, tenuously blue and veiled by the humidity of the maritime dew, like a tearful eye.

Day was breaking and something extraordinary had just occurred on the boat.  Ferragut was accustomed to sleep with the lightness of a captain who needs to awaken opportunely.  A mysterious perception of danger had cut short his repose.  He distinguished over his head the patter of quick runnings the whole length of the deck; he heard voices.  While dressing as quickly as possible he realized that the rudder was working violently, and that the vessel was changing its course.

Coming up on deck, one glance was sufficient to convince him that the ship was not running any danger.  Everything about it presented a normal aspect.  The sea, still dark, was gently lapping the sides of the vessel which continued going forward with regular motion.  The decks were cleared of passengers.  They were all sleeping in their staterooms.  Only on the bridge he saw a group of persons:—­the captain and all the officers, some of them dressed very lightly as though they had been roused from slumber.