Many of them were recognized as soldiers by the tatters that revealed an old uniform, or the metal identification tags on their wrists.  The shore folks were always talking of a transport that had been torpedoed coming from Algiers....  And mixed with the men, they were constantly finding bodies of women so disfigured that it was almost impossible to judge of their age:  mothers who had their arms arched as though putting forth their utmost efforts to guard the babe that had disappeared.  Many whose virginal modesty had been violated by the sea, showed naked limbs swollen and greenish, with deep bites from flesh-eating fishes.  The tide had even tossed ashore the headless body of a child a few years old.

It was more horrible, according to Toni, to contemplate this spectacle from land than when in a boat.  Those on ships are not able to see the ultimate consequences of the torpedoings as vividly as do those who live on the shore, receiving as a gift of the waves this continual consignment of victims.

The pilot had ended his letter with his usual supplications:—­“Why do you persist in following the sea?...  You want a vengeance that is impossible.  You are one man, and your enemies are millions....  You are going to die if you persist in disregarding them.  You already know that they have been hunting you for a long time.  And you will not always succeed in eluding their clutches.  Remember what the people say, ’He who courts danger—!’ Give up the sea; return to your wife or come to us.  Such a rich life as you might lead ashore!...”

For a few hours Ferragut was of Toni’s opinion.  His reckless undertaking was bound to come to a bad end.  His enemies knew him, were lying in wait for him, and were many arrayed against one who was living alone on his ship with a crew of men of a different nationality.  Aside from the few who had always loved him, nobody would lament his death.  He did not belong to any of the nations at war; he was a species of privateer bound not to begin an attack.  He was even less,—­an officer carrying supplies under the protection of a neutral flag.  This flag was not deceiving anybody.  His enemies knew the ship, seeking for it with more determination than if he were with the Allied fleets.  Even in his own country, there were many people in sympathy with the German Empire who would celebrate joyously the disappearance of the Mare Nostrum and its captain.

Freya’s death had depressed his spirits more than he had imagined possible.  He had gloomy presentiments; perhaps his next journey might be his last.

“You are going to die!” cried an anguished voice in his brain.  “You’ll die very soon if you do not retire from the sea.”

And to Ferragut the queerest thing about the warning was that this counselor had the voice of the one who had always egged him on to foolish adventures,—­the one that had hurled him into danger for the mere pleasure of discounting it, the one that had made him follow Freya even after knowing her vile profession.