Toni entered just at that moment.

“His father!” she cried in desperation.  “His father!...”

And she fastened her eyes on the mate as though trying to speak to him with them.  Toni knew better than anyone what that father was, and for what reason he had remained in Naples.  It was his fault that the boy had undertaken the crazy journey at whose end death was awaiting him.....  The devout Cinta looked upon this misfortune as a chastisement from God, always complicated and mysterious in His designs.  Divinity, in order to make the father expiate his crimes, had killed the son without thinking of the mother upon whom the blow rebounded.

Toni went away.  He could not endure the glances and the allusions made by Dona Cinta.  And as though this emotion were not enough, he received the news a few hours later of his captain’s wretched condition,—­news which obliged him to make the trip to Marseilles immediately.

On entering the quarters of the hotel frequented by the officials of merchant vessels, he found Ferragut seated near a balcony from which could be seen the entire harbor.

He was limp and flabby, with eyes sunken and faded, beard unkempt, and a manifest disregard of his personal appearance.

“Toni!...  Toni!”

He embraced his mate, moistening his neck with tears.  For the first time he began to weep and this appeared to give him a certain relief.  The presence of his faithful officer brought him back to life.  Forgotten memories of business journeys crowded in his mind.  Toni resuscitated all his past energies.  It was as though the Mare Nostrum had come in search of him.

He felt shame and remorse.  This man knew his secret:  he was the only one to whom he had spoken of supplying the German submarines.

“My poor Esteban!...  My son!”

He did not hesitate to admit the fatal relationship between the death of his son and that illegal trip whose memory was weighing him down like a monstrous crime.  But Toni was discreet.  He lamented the death of Esteban like a misfortune in which the father had not had any part.

“I also have lost sons....  And I know that nothing is gained by giving up to despair....  Cheer up!”

He never said a word of all that had happened before the tragic event.  Had not Ferragut known his mate so well, he might have believed that he had entirely forgotten it.  Not the slightest gesture, not a gleam in his eyes, revealed the awakening of that malign recollection.  His only anxiety was that the captain should soon regain his health....

Reanimated by the presence and words of this prudent companion, Ulysses recovered his strength and a few days after, abandoned the room in which he had believed he was going to die, turning his steps toward Barcelona.

He entered his home with a foreboding that almost made him tremble.  The sweet Cinta, considered until then with the protecting superiority of the Orientals who do not recognize a soul in woman, now inspired him with a certain fear.  What would she say on seeing him?...