A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen hundred yards astern and was coming toward the Mare Nostrum, evidently fearing that the merchant-boat would try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop, its gun fired two shells which fell into the water.

The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself in a more favorable position and to maneuver with more sea room, with its arms at the stern.  At the first shot the submarine began to recede, keeping a more prudent distance, surprised to receive an answer to its aggression.

The combat lasted half an hour.  The shots repeated themselves on both sides with the speed of rapid fire artillery.  Ferragut was near the gun, admiring the calm coolness with which its servants manipulated it.  One always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to his companion who rapidly introduced it into the smoking chamber.  The gunner was concentrating all his life in his eyes, and bending over the cannon, moved it carefully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and prolonged body that was rising to the surface of the water as though it were a whale.

Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steamer’s prow.  An enemy’s projectile had just hit the edge of the roofs that covered the galley and mess rooms.  Caragol, who was standing in the door of his dominions, raised his hands to his hat.  When the yellowish and evil-smelling cloud dissolved, they saw him still standing there, scratching the top of his head, bare and red.

“It’s nothing!” he cried.  “Just a bit of wood that drew a little of my blood.  Fire away!...  Fire!”

He was yelling directions, inflamed by the shooting.  The drug-like smell of the smokeless powder, the dull thud of the detonations appeared to intoxicate him.  He was leaping and wringing his hands with the ardor of a war-dancer.

The gunners redoubled their activity; the shots became continuous.

“There it is!” yelled Caragol.  “They have hit it....  They have hit it!”

Of all those aboard, he was the one who could least appreciate the effects of the shots for he could scarcely discern the silhouette of the submersible.  But in spite of that he continued bellowing with all the force of his faith.

“Now you’ve hit it!...  Hurrah!  Hurrah!”

And the strange thing was that the enemy instantly disappeared from the blue surface.  The gunners still sent some shots against their periscope.  Then there was left in the place which they had occupied only a white and glistening expanse.

The steamer went toward this enormous spot of oil whose undulations were twinkling with sunflower-like reflections.

The marines uttered shouts of enthusiasm.  They were sure of having sent the submersible to the bottom.  The officers were less optimistic.  They had never seen one raise itself up vertically, tilting its stern high in the air before sinking.  Perhaps it simply had been damaged and obliged to hide.