An irresistible compassion like that which he might feel for any stranger abandoned in the midst of the street, made the sailor draw back, his eyes fixed on a tall crystal vase which stood upon the floor filled with flowers.  With a bang he scattered over the carpet all the springtime bouquet, arranged a little while before by feminine hands with the feverishness of one who counts the minutes and lives on hope.

He moistened his handkerchief in the water of the vase and knelt down beside Freya, raising her head upon the cushion.  She let the wound be washed with the abandon of a sick creature, fixing upon her aggressor a pair of imploring eyes, opening now for the first time.

When the blood ceased to flow, forming on the temple a red, coagulated spot, Ferragut tried to raise her up.

“No; leave me so,” she murmured.  “I prefer to be at your feet.  I am your bondslave ... your plaything.  Beat me more if it will appease your wrath.”

She wished to insist upon her humility, offering her lips with the timid kiss of a grateful slave.

“Ah, no!...  No!”

To avoid this caress Ulysses stood up suddenly.  He again felt intense hatred toward this woman, who little by little was appealing to his senses.  Upon stopping the flow of blood his compassion had become extinguished.

She, guessing his thoughts, felt obliged to speak.

“Do with me what you will....  I shall not complain.  You are the first man who has ever struck me....  And I have not defended myself!  I shall not defend myself though you strike me again....  Had it been any one else, I would have replied blow for blow; but you!...  I have done you so much wrong!...”

She was silent for a few moments, kneeling before him in a supplicating attitude with her body resting upon her heels.  She reached out her arms while speaking with a monotonous and sorrowful voice, like the specters in the apparitions of the theater.

“I have hesitated a long time before seeing you,” she continued.  “I feared your wrath; I was sure that in the first moment you would let yourself be overpowered by your anger and I was terrified at the thought of the interview....  I have spied upon you ever since I knew that you were in Barcelona; I have waited near your home; many times I have seen you through the doorway of a cafe, and I have taken my pen to write to you.  But I feared that you would not come, upon recognizing my handwriting, or that you would pay no attention to a letter in another hand....  This morning in the Rambla I could no longer contain myself.  And so I sent that woman to you and I have passed some cruel hours fearing that you would not come....  At last I see you and your violence makes no difference to me.  Thank you, thank you many times for having come!”

Ferragut remained motionless with distracted glance, as though he did not hear her voice.