He was not afraid of the submarines.  He trusted in the speed of the Mare Nostrum and in his lucky star.

“And if any of them should cross our path,” he said to his second, “just let them go before the prow!”

He wished this so that he could send his vessel upon the submersible at full speed, daring it to come on.

The Mediterranean was no longer the same sea that it had been months before when the captains knew all its secrets; he could no longer live on it as confidently as in the house of a friend.

He stayed in his stateroom only to sleep.  He and Toni spent long hours on the bridge talking without seeing each other, with their eyes turned on the sea, scanning the heaving blue surface.  All the crew, excepting those that were resting, felt the necessity of keeping the same watch.

In the daytime the slightest discovery would send the alarm from prow to poop.  All the refuse of the sea, that weeks before had splashed unnoticed near the sides of the vessel, now provoked cries of attention, and many arms were outstretched, pointing it out.  Bits of sticks, empty preserve cans sparkling in the sunlight, bunches of seaweed, a sea gull with outspread wings letting itself rock on the waves; everything made them think of the periscopes of the submarine coming up to the water’s level.

At night time the vigilance was even greater.  To the danger of submersibles must also be added that of collision.  The warships and the allied transports were traveling with few lights or completely dark.  The sentinels on the bridge were no longer scanning the surface of the sea with its pale phosphorescence.  Their gaze explored the horizon, fearing that before the prow there might suddenly surge up an enormous, swift, black form, vomited forth by the darkness.

If at any time the captain tarried in his stateroom, instantly that fatal memory came to his mind.

“Esteban!...  My son!...”

And his eyes were full of tears.

Remorse and wrath made him plan tremendous vengeance.  He was convinced that it would be impossible to carry it through, but it was a momentary consolation to his meridional character predisposed to the most bloody revenge.

One day, running over some forgotten papers in a suit-case, he came across Freya’s portrait.  Upon seeing her audacious smile and her calm eyes fixed upon him, he felt within him a shameful reversion.  He admired the beauty of this apparition, a thrill passing over his body as their past intercourse recurred to him....  And at the same time that other Ferragut existing within him thrilled with the murderous violence of the Oriental who considers death as the only means of vengeance.  She was to blame for it all.  “Ah!... Tal”

He tore up the photograph, but then he put the fragments together again and finally placed them among his papers.

His wrath was changing its objective.  Freya really was not the principal person guilty of Esteban’s death.  He was thinking of that other one, of the pretended diplomat, of that von Kramer who perhaps had directed the torpedo which had blown his son to atoms....  Would he not raise the devil if he could meet him sometime?...  What happiness if these two should find themselves face to face!