In his bulky right hand he imprisoned her two, and, passing his other arm around her waist, he was guiding her little by little toward the exit from the salon.

“Trust in God,” he added.  “Why do you seek the captain who has his own wife ashore?...  Other men who are free are still in existence, and you could make some arrangement with them without falling into mortal sin.”

Freya was not listening to him.  Near the door she again turned her head, beginning her return toward the captain’s stateroom.

“Ulysses!...  Ulysses!” she cried.

“Trust in God, Senora,” said Caragol again, while he was pushing her along with his flabby abdomen and shaggy breast.

A charitable idea was taking possession of his thoughts.  He had the remedy for the grief of this handsome woman whose desperation but made her more interesting.

“Come along, Senora....  Leave it to me, my child.”

Upon reaching the deck he continued driving her towards his dominions.  Freya found herself seated in the galley, without knowing just exactly where she was.  Through her tears she saw this obese old man of sacerdotal benevolence, going from side to side gathering bottles together and mixing liquids, stirring the spoon around in a glass with a joyous tinkling.

“Drink without fear....  There is no trouble that resists this medicine.”

The cook offered her a glass and she, vanquished, drank and drank, making a wry face because of the alcoholic intensity of the liquid.  She continued weeping at the same time that her mouth was relishing the heavy sweetness.  Her tears were mingled with the beverage that was slipping between her lips.

A comfortable warmth began making itself felt in her stomach, drying up the moisture in her eyes and giving new color to her cheeks.  Caragol was keeping up his chat, satisfied with the outcome of his handiwork, making signs to the glowering Toni,—­who was passing and repassing before the door, with the vehement desire of seeing the intruder march away, and disappear forever.

“Don’t cry any more, my daughter.... Cristo del Grao! The very idea!  A lady as pretty as you, who can find sweethearts by the dozen, crying!...  Believe me; find somebody else.  This world is just full of men with nothing to do....  And always for every disappointment that you suffer, have recourse to my cordial....  I am going to give you the recipe.”

He was about to note down on a bit of paper the proportions of brandy and sugar, when she arose, suddenly invigorated, looking around her in wonder....  But where was she?  What had she to do with this good, kind, half-dressed man, who was talking to her as though he were her father?...

“Thanks!  Many thanks!” she said on leaving the kitchen.

Then on deck she stopped, opening her gold-mesh bag, in order to take out the little glass and powder box.  In the beveled edge of the oval glass she saw the faun-like countenance of Toni hovering behind her with glances of impatience.