“And as I was not carrying any arms, I ran.  Fortunately, I was near the ship, almost to the prow.  I had only to take a few leaps to put myself aboard the vessel....  And they did not shoot any more.”

Ferragut remained silent.  He, too, had grown pale, but with surprise and anger.  Then they were true, those reports of Freya’s!...  He could not pretend incredulity, nor show himself bold and indifferent to danger while Toni continued talking.

“Take care, Ulysses!...  I have been thinking a great deal about this thing.  Those shots were not meant for me.  What enemies have I?  Who would want to harm a poor mate who never sees anybody?...  Look out for yourself!  You know perhaps where they came from; you have dealings with many people.”

The captain suspected that he was recalling the adventure of Naples and that disgraceful proposition guarded as a secret, relating it to this nocturnal attack.  But neither his voice nor his eyes justified such suspicions.  And Ferragut preferred not to seem to suspect what he was thinking about.

“Does any one else know what occurred?...”

Toni shrugged his shoulders.  “Nobody....”  He had leaped on the steamer, pacifying the dog on board, that was howling furiously.  The man on guard had heard the shots, imagining that it was some sailors’ fight.

“You have not reported this to the authorities?”

The mate became indignant on hearing this question, with the independence of the Mediterranean who never remembers authority in moments of danger and whose only defense is his manual dexterity.—­“You take me, perhaps, for a police-informer?...”

He had wanted to do the manly thing, but henceforth he would always go armed while he happened to be in Barcelona. Ay, with this he might shoot if he were not wounded!...  And winking an eye, he showed his captain what he called his “instrument.”

The mate disliked firearms, crazy and noisy toys of doubtful result.  With an ancestral affection which appeared to evoke the flashing battle-axes used by his ancestors, he loved the blow in silence, the gleaming weapon which was a prolongation of the hand.

With gentle stealthiness he drew from his belt an English knife, acquired at the time that he was skipper of a small boat,—­a shining blade which reproduced the faces of those looking at it, with the sharp point of a stiletto and the edge of a razor.

Perhaps he would not be long in making use of his “instrument.”  He recalled various individuals who a few days ago were strolling slowly along the wharf examining the vessel, and spying upon those going on and off.  If he could manage to see them again he would go off the steamer just to say a couple of words to them.

“You are to do nothing at all,” ordered Ferragut.  “I’ll take charge of this little matter.”

All day long he was troubled over this news.  Strolling about Barcelona, he looked with challenging eyes at all passersby who appeared to be Germans.  To the aggressiveness of his character was now added the indignation of a proprietor who finds himself assaulted within his home.  Those three shots were for him; and he was a Spaniard:  and the boches were daring to attack him on his own ground!  What audacity!...