The hatred that he was feeling and the recollection of the aggressive resources of the German woman made him begin a second blow, fearing an attack from her and wishing to repel it before it could be made....  But he stopped with his arm raised.

“Ay de mi!...”

The woman had uttered a child-like wail, staggering, swaying upon her feet, with arms drooping, without any attempt at defense whatever....  She reeled from side to side as though she were drunk.  Her knees doubled under her, and she fell with the limpness of a bundle of clothes, her head first striking against the cushions of the divan.  The rest of her body remained like a rag on the rug.

There was a long silence, interrupted from time to time by groans of pain.  Freya was moaning with closed eyes, without coming out of her inertia.

The sailor, scowling with a tragic ugliness, and transported with rage, remained immovable, looking grimly at the fallen creature.  He was satisfied with his brutality; it had been an opportune relief; he could breathe better.  At the same time he was beginning to feel ashamed of himself.  “What have you done, you coward?...”  For the first time in his existence he had struck a woman.

He raised his aching right hand to his eyes.  One of his fingers was bleeding.  Perhaps it had become hooked in her earrings, perhaps a pin at her breast had scratched it.  He sucked the blood from the deep scratch, and then forgot the wound in order to gaze again at the body outstretched at his feet.

Little by little he was becoming accustomed to the diffused light of the room.  He was already beginning to see objects clearly.  His glance rested upon Freya with a look of mingled hatred and remorse.

Her head, sunk in the cushions, presented a pitiful profile.  She appeared much older, as though her age had been doubled by her tears.  The brutal blow had made her freshness and her marvelous youth flit away with doleful suddenness.  Her half-opened eyes were encircled with temporary wrinkles.  Her nose had taken on the livid sharpness of the dead; her great mass of hair, reddening under the blow, was disheveled in golden, undulating tangles.  Something black was winding through it making streaks upon the silk of the cushion.  It was the blood that was dribbling between the heraldic flowers of the embroidery,—­blood flowing from the hidden forehead, being absorbed by the dryness of the soft material.

Upon making this discovery, Ferragut felt his shame increasing.  He took one step over the extended body, seeking the door.  Why was he staying there?...  All that he had to do was already done; all that he could say was already said.

“Do not go, Ulysses,” sighed a plaintive voice.  “Listen to me!...  It concerns your life.”

The fear that he might get away made her pull herself together with dolorous groans and this movement accelerated the flow of blood....  The pillow continued drinking it in like a thirsty meadow.