The loss of the submarine was a sure thing in Caragol’s estimation, and he considered it entirely unnecessary to ask the name of the one who had blown it to smithereens.

“It must have been that lad from Vannes....  He’s the only one who could have done it.”

For him the other gunners simply did not exist.  And, inflamed by his enthusiasm, he wriggled out of the hands of the two seamen who had begun to bandage his head with a deftness learned in land combats.

Ferragut was entirely satisfied with this encounter.  Although he could not be absolutely certain of the destruction of the enemy, the fact that his boat had saved itself would spread abroad the fact that the Mare Nostrum was entirely capable of self-defense.

His joy took him to Caragol’s domains.

“Well done, old man!  We’re going to write to the Ministry of Marine to give you the Croix de Guerre.”

The cook, taking his words in all seriousness, declined the honor.  If such recompense were to be given to any one, let it be handed to “that lad from Vannes.”  Then he added as though reflecting the captain’s thoughts: 

“I like to sail in this fashion....  Our steamer has gotten its teeth, and now it will not have to run like a frightened rabbit....  They’ll have to let it go on its way in peace because now it can bite.”

The rest of the journey toward Salonica was without incident.  Telegraphy kept it in contact with the instructions arriving from the shore.  Gibraltar advised it to sail close to the African coast; Malta and Bizerta pointed out that it could continue forward since the passage between Tunis and Sicily was clear of enemies.  From distant Egypt tranquillizing messages came to meet them while they were sailing among the Grecian Islands with the prow toward Salonica.

On their return, they were to take freight to the harbor of Marseilles.

Ferragut did not have to bother about the boat while it was at anchor.  The French officials were the ones who made arrangements with the harbor authorities.  He merely had to be the justification for the flag, a captain of a neutral country, whose presence certified to the nationality of the vessel.  Only on the sea did he recover command, every one becoming obedient to those on the bridge.

He wandered through Marseilles as at other times, passing the first hours of the evening on the terraces of the Cannebiere.

An old Marseillaise, captain of a merchant steamer, used to chat with him before returning to his office.  One afternoon, while Ferragut was absent-mindedly glancing at a certain Paris daily that his friend was carrying, his attention was suddenly attracted by a name printed at the head of a short article.  Surprise made him turn pale while at the same time something contracted within his breast.  Again he spelled out the name, fearing that he had been under an hallucination.  Doubt was impossible:  it was very clear,—­Freya Talberg.  He took the paper from his comrade’s hand, disguising his impatience by an assumption of curiosity.