One morning on the high seas near Lisbon, when he had just fallen asleep after a night on the bridge, the shouts and runnings of the crew awakened him.
A submarine had broken the surface about fifteen hundred yards astern and was coming toward the _Mare Nostrum_, evidently fearing that the merchant-boat would try to escape; but in order to oblige it to stop, its gun fired two shells which fell into the water.
The steamer moderated its pace but only to place itself in a more favorable position and to maneuver with more sea room, with its arms at the stern.

At the first shot the submarine began to recede, keeping a more prudent distance, surprised to receive an answer to its aggression.
The combat lasted half an hour.

The shots repeated themselves on both sides with the speed of rapid fire artillery.

Ferragut was near the gun, admiring the calm coolness with which its servants manipulated it.
One always had a projectile in his arms ready to give it to his companion who rapidly introduced it into the smoking chamber.

The gunner was concentrating all his life in his eyes, and bending over the cannon, moved it carefully, seeking the sensitive part of that gray and prolonged body that was rising to the surface of the water as though it were a whale.
Suddenly a cloud of kindling wood flew near the steamer's prow.