The captain, a regular savage of the sea, taciturn and superstitious, shook his fist at the promontory, cursing it as an infernal divinity.

He was convinced that they would never succeed in doubling it until it should be propitiated with a human offering.

This Englishman appeared to Ulysses like one of those Argonauts who used to placate the wrath of the marine deities with sacrifices.
One night one of the crew was washed overboard and lost; the following day a man fell from the topmast, that no one might think salvation impossible.

And as though the Southern Demon had only been awaiting this tribute, the gale from the west ceased, the bark no longer had the impassable barrier of a hostile sea before its prow, and was able to enter the Pacific, anchoring twelve days later in Valparaiso.
Ulysses appreciated now the agreeable memory that this port always leaves in the memory of sailors.

It was a resting-place after the struggle of doubling the cape; it was the joy of existence, after having felt the blast of death; it was life again in the cafes and in the pleasure houses, eating and drinking until surfeited, with the stomach still suffering from the salty food and the skin still smarting from boils due to the sea-life.
His admiring gaze followed the graceful step of the women veiled in black who reminded him of his uncle, the doctor.