He wished to watch her for himself, and in the evening he went ashore.  He detested Brest as one of the dullest cities of the Atlantic.  It was always raining there, and there was no diversion except the eternal promenade through the rue de Siam, or a bored stay in the cafes full of seamen and English and Portuguese land-officers.

He went through the public establishments night and day; he made investigations in the hotels; he hired carriages in order to visit the more picturesque suburbs.  For four days he persisted in his inquiries without any result.

He began to doubt Uncle Caragol’s veracity.  Perhaps he had been drunk on returning to the ship, and had made up such an encounter.  But the recollection of that paper written by her discounted such a supposition....  Freya was in Brest.

The cook explained it all simply enough when the captain besieged him with fresh questions.

“The lady-bird must just be passing through.  Perhaps she flitted away that same evening....  That meeting was just a chance encounter.”

Ferragut had to give up his investigations.  The defensive work on the ship was about terminated and the holds contained their cargo of projectiles for the army of the Orient and various unmounted guns.  He received his sailing orders, and one gray and rainy morning they lifted anchor and steamed out of the bay of Brest.  The fog made even more difficult the passage between the reefs that obstruct this port.  They passed before the lugubrious Bay of the Dead, ancient cemetery of sailboats, and continued their navigation toward the south in search of the strait in order to enter the Mediterranean.

Ferragut felt increased pride in examining the new aspect of the Mare Nostrum.  The wireless telegraph was going to keep him in contact with the world.  He was no longer a merchant captain, slave of destiny, trusting to good luck, and incapable of repelling an attack.  The radiographic stations were watching for him the entire length of the coast, advising him of changes in his course that he might avoid the ambushed enemy.  The apparatus was constantly hissing and sustaining invisible dialogues.  Besides, mounted on the stern was a cannon covered with a canvas hood, ready to begin work.

The dreams of his childhood when he used to devour stories of corsairs and novels of maritime adventures seemed about to be realized.  He was now entitled to call himself “Captain of Sea and War” like the ancient navigators.  If a submarine should pass before him, he would attack it from the prow; if it should try to pursue him, he would respond with the cannon.

His adventurous humor actually made him anxious for one of these encounters.  A maritime combat had not yet occurred in his life, and he wished to see how these modest and silent men who had made war on land and contemplated death at close range, would demean themselves.

It was not long before his desire was realized.  One morning on the high seas near Lisbon, when he had just fallen asleep after a night on the bridge, the shouts and runnings of the crew awakened him.