The mate went off with a confounded air, scratching his beard as though he had received an order very difficult to execute.

“Save me, my love!” the imploring whisper kept moaning.  “Forget who I am....  Think only of the one of Naples....  Of the one whom you knew at Pompeii....  Remember our happiness alone together in the days when you swore never to abandon me....  You are a gentleman!...”

Her voice ceased for a moment.  Ferragut heard footsteps on the other side of the door.  Toni was carrying out his orders.

But in a few seconds the pleading again burst forth, reconcentrated, tenacious, bent only upon carrying its point, scorning the new obstacles about to interpose between her and the captain.

“Do you hate me so?...  Remember the bliss that I gave you.  You yourself swore to me that you had never been so happy.  I can revive that past.  You do not know of what things I am capable in order to make your existence sweet....  And you wish to lose and to ruin me!...”

A clash against the door was heard, a struggle of bodies that were pushing each other, the friction of a scuffle against the wood.

Toni had entered followed by Caragol.

“Enough of that now, Senora,” said the mate in a grim voice in order to hide his emotion.  “Can’t you see that the captain doesn’t want to see you?...  Don’t you understand that you are disturbing him?...  Come, now....  Get up!”

He tried to help her to stand up, separating her mouth from the keyhole.  But Freya repelled the vigorous sailor with facility.  He appeared to be lacking in force, without the courage to repeat his rough action.  The beauty of this woman made him afraid.  He was still thrilled by the contact of her firm body which he had just torched during their short struggle.  His drowsing virtue had suffered the torments of a fruitless resurrection.  “Ah, no!...  Let somebody else take charge of putting her off.”

“Ulysses, they’re taking me away!” she cried, again putting her mouth to the keyhole.  “And you, my love, will you permit it?...  You who used to love me so?...”

After this desperate call, she remained silent for a few instants.  The door maintained its immobility; behind it there seemed to be no living being.

“Farewell!” she continued in a low voice, her throat choked with sobs, “you will see me no more....  I am soon going to die; my heart tells me so....  To die because of you!...  Perhaps some day you will weep on recalling that you might have saved me.”

Some one had intervened to force Freya from her rebellious standstill.  It was Caragol, solicited by the mate’s imploring eyes.

His great hairy hands helped her to arise, without making her repeat the protest that had repelled Toni.  Conquered and bursting into tears, she appeared to yield to the paternal aid and counsel of the cook.

“Up now, my good lady!” said Caragol.  “A little more courage and don’t cry any more....  There is some consolation for everything in this world.”