The pillow continued drinking it in like a thirsty meadow.
An irresistible compassion like that which he might feel for any stranger abandoned in the midst of the street, made the sailor draw back, his eyes fixed on a tall crystal vase which stood upon the floor filled with flowers.

With a bang he scattered over the carpet all the springtime bouquet, arranged a little while before by feminine hands with the feverishness of one who counts the minutes and lives on hope.
He moistened his handkerchief in the water of the vase and knelt down beside Freya, raising her head upon the cushion.

She let the wound be washed with the abandon of a sick creature, fixing upon her aggressor a pair of imploring eyes, opening now for the first time.
When the blood ceased to flow, forming on the temple a red, coagulated spot, Ferragut tried to raise her up.
"No; leave me so," she murmured.

"I prefer to be at your feet.

I am your bondslave ...