“If the sea were always like this!” exclaimed the captain, “what delight to be a sailor!”

The crew could see the people on land running together and forming groups, attracted by the novelty of a steamer that was passing within reach of their voice.  On each of the jutting points of the shore was a low and ruddy tower,—­last vestige of the thousand-year war of the Mediterranean.  Accustomed to the rugged shores of the ocean and its eternal surf, the Breton sailors were marveling at this easy navigation, almost touching the coast whose inhabitants looked like a swarm of bees.  Had the boat been directed by another captain, so close a journey would have resulted most disastrously:  but Ferragut was laughing, throwing out gloomy hints to the officers who were on the bridge, merely to accentuate his professional confidence.  He pointed out the rocks hidden in the deeps.  Here an Italian liner that was going to Buenos Ayres had been lost....  A little further on, a swift four-masted sailboat had run aground, losing its cargo....  He could tell by the fraction of an inch the amount of water permissible between the treacherous rocks and the keel of his boat.

He usually sought the roughest waters by preference, but they were in the danger-zone of the Mediterranean where the German submarines were lying in wait for the French and English convoys navigating in the shelter of the Spanish coast.  The obstacles of the submerged coast were for him now the best defense against invisible attacks.

Behind him, the Ferrarian promontory was growing more and more shadowy, becoming a mere blur on the horizon.  By nightfall the Mare Nostrum was in front of Cape Palos and he had to sail in the outer waters in order to double it, leaving Cartagena in the distance.  From there, he turned his course to the southwest, to the cape where the Mediterranean was beginning to grow narrow, forming the funnel of the strait.  Soon they would pass before Almeria and Malaga, reaching Gibraltar the following day.

“Here is where the enemy is oftentimes waiting,” said Ferragut to one of the officers.  “If we have no bad luck before night, we shall have safely concluded our voyage.”

The boat had withdrawn from the shore route, and it was no longer possible to distinguish the lower coast.  Only from the prow could be seen the jutting hump of the cape, rising up like an island.

Caragol appeared with a tray on which were smoking two cups of coffee.  He would not yield to any cabinboy the honor of serving the captain when on the bridge.

“Well, what do you think of the trip?” asked Ferragut gayly, before drinking.  “Shall we arrive in good condition?...”

The cook made as scornful a gesture as though the Germans could see him.

“Nothing will befall us; I am sure of that....  We have One who is watching over us, and ...”

He was suddenly interrupted in his affirmations.  The tray leaped from his hands and he went staggering about like a drunken man, even banging his abdomen against the balustrade of the bridge. “Cristo del Grao!...”