Ulysses concentrated his attention on the Phantasm’s pallid brow touched by the silky caress of her curls.  There he had placed his best kisses, kisses of tenderness and gratitude....  But the smooth skin that had appeared made of petals of the camellia was growing dark before his eyes.  It became a dark green and was oozing with blood....  Thus he had seen her that other time....  And he recalled with remorse his blow in Barcelona....  Then it opened, forming a deep hole, angular in shape like a star.  Now it was the mark of the gunshot wound, the coup de grace that brought the death-agony of the executed girl to its end.

Poor Freya, implacable warrior, unnerved by the battle of the sexes!...  She had passed her existence hating men yet needing them in order to live,—­doing them all the harm possible and receiving it from them in sad reciprocity until finally she had perished at their hands.

It could not end in any other way.  A masculine hand had opened the orifice through which was escaping the last bubble of her existence....  And the horrified captain, poring over her sad profile with its purpling temple, thought that he never would be able to blot that ghastly vision from his memory.  The phantasm would diminish, becoming invisible in order to deceive him, but would surely come forth again in all his hours of pensive solitude; it was going to embitter his nights on watch, to follow him through the years like remorse.

Fortunately the exactions of real life kept repelling these sad memories.

“It was a good thing she was shot!” affirmed authoritatively within him the energetic official accustomed to command men.  “What would you have done in forming a part of the tribunal that condemned her?...  Just what the others did.  Think of those who have died through her deviltry!...  Remember what Toni said!”

A letter from his former mate, received in the same mail with the one from Freya’s defender, spoke of the abominations that submarine aggression was committing in the Mediterranean.

News of some of the crimes was beginning to be received from shipwrecked sailors who had succeeded in reaching the coast after long hours of struggle, or when picked up by other boats.  The most of the victims, however, would remain forever unknown in the mystery of the waves.  Torpedoed boats had gone to the bottom with their crews and passengers, “without leaving any trace,” and only months afterwards a part of the tragedy had become evident when the surge flung up on the coast numberless bodies impossible of identification, without even a recognizable human face.

Almost every week Toni contemplated some of these funereal gifts of the sea.  At daybreak the fishermen used to find corpses tossed on the beach where the water swept the sand, resting there a few moments on the moist ground, only to be snatched back again by another and stronger wave.  Finally their backs had become imbedded on land, holding them motionless—­while, from their clothing and their flesh, swarms of little fishes came forth fleeing back to the sea in search of new pastures.  The revenue guards had discovered among the rocks mutilated bodies in tragic positions, with glassy eyes protruding from their sockets.