Caragol, meanwhile, was going on talking.  His nephews would not remember the poor old cook and he had no reason to trouble himself about their fate, making them rich.  He would prefer to remain just where he was, without money but happy.

“Let the others go!” he said with childish selfishness.  “Let Toni go!...  I’m going to stay....  I’ve got to stay.  When the captain goes, then Uncle Caragol will go.”

Ulysses enumerated the great dangers that the boat was about to face.  The German submarines were lying in wait for it with deadly determination; there would be combats ... they would be torpedoed....

The old man’s smile showed contempt of all such dangers.  He was certain that nothing bad could possibly happen to the Mare Nostrum.  The furies of the sea were unavailing against it and still less could the wickedness of man injure it.

“I know what I’m talking about, Captain....  I am sure that we shall come out safe and sound from all dangers.”

He thought of his miracle-working amulets, of his sacred pictures, of the supernatural protection that his pious prayers were bringing him.  Furthermore, he was taking into consideration the Latin name of the ship which had always inspired him with religious respect.  It belonged to the language used by the Church, to the idiom which brought about miracles and expelled the devil, making him run away aghast.

“The Mare Nostrum will not suffer any misfortune.  If it should change its title ... perhaps.  But while it is called Mare Nostrum,—­how could anything happen to it?...”

Smiling before this faith, Ferragut brought forth his last argument.  The entire crew was going to be made up of Frenchmen; how could they ever understand each other if he were ignorant of their language?...

“I know it all,” affirmed the old man superbly.

He had made himself understood with men in all the different ports of the world.  He was counting on something more than mere language,—­on his eyes, his hands, the expressive cunning of an exuberant and gesticulating meridional.

“I am just like San Vicente Ferrer,” he added with pride.

His saint had spoken only the Valencian dialect, and yet had traveled throughout half Europe preaching to throngs of different tongues, making them weep with mystic emotion and repent of their sins.

While Ferragut retained the command, he was going to stay.  If he didn’t want him for a cook, he would be the cabin boy, washing up the pots and pans.  The important thing for him was to continue treading the deck of the vessel.

The captain had to give in.  This old fellow represented a remnant of his past.  He could betake himself from time to time to the galley to talk over the far-away days in which they first met.

And Caragol retired, content with his success.

“As for those Frenchmen,” he said before departing, “just leave them to me.  They must be good people....  We’ll just see what they say about my rice dishes.”