“He wants to sell the boat,” said Toni to himself.

And the mate began to repent of his counsels.  Abandon the Mare Nostrum, the best of all the ships on which he had ever sailed!...  He accused himself of cowardice, believing that it was he who had impelled the captain to reach this decision.  What were the two going to do on land when the steamer was the property of others?...  Would he not have to sail on an inferior boat, running the same risks?...  He decided to undo his work, and was about to counsel Ferragut again, declaring that his ideas were mere conjecture and that he must continue living as he was at present, when the captain gave the order for departure.  The repairs were not yet entirely completed.

“We are going to Brest,” said Ferragut laconically, “It’s the last trip.”

And the steamer put to sea without cargo as though going to fulfill a special mission.

“The last trip!” Toni admired his ship as though seeing it under a new light, discovering beauties hitherto unsuspected, lamenting like a lover the days that were running by so swiftly and the sad moment of separation that was approaching.

Never had the mate been so active in his vigilance.  His seaman’s superstition filled him with a certain terror.  Just because it was the last voyage something horrible might occur to them.  He paced the bridge for entire days, examining the sea, fearing the apparition of a periscope, varying the course in agreement with the captain, who was seeking less-frequented waters where the submarines could not expect to find any prey.

He breathed more freely upon entering one of the three semi-circular sea-ledges which enclose the roadstead of Brest.  When they were anchored in this bit of sea, foggy and insecure, surrounded with black mountains, Toni awaited with anxiety the result of the captain’s excursions ashore.

During the entire course of the trip Ferragut had not been inclined to be confidential.  The mate only knew that this voyage to Brest was the last.  Who was going to be the new owner of the Mare Nostrum?...

One rainy evening, upon returning to the boat, Ulysses gave orders that they should hunt up the mate while he was shaking out his waterproof in the entry to the stateroom.

The roadstead was dark with its foamy waves, choppy and thick, leaping like sheep.  The men-of-war were sending out smoke from their triple chimneys ready to confront the bad weather with their steam engines.

The ship, anchored in the commercial port, was dancing restlessly, tugging at its hawsers, with a mournful croaking.  All the nearby boats were tossing in the same way, just as though they were out on the high seas.

Toni entered the saloon, and one look at the captain’s face made him suspect that the moment for knowing the truth had arrived.  Avoiding his glance, Ulysses told him curtly, trying to evade by the conciseness of his language all signs of emotion.