Freya's peals of laughter made the Englishmen, interrupted in their conscientious work, turn their glances toward her.

The sailor felt himself overcome by a warm feeling of well-being, by a sensation of repose and confidence, as though this woman were unquestionably his already.
Seeing that the two lovers, terminating their luncheon hastily, were arising with blushing precipitation as though overpowered by some sudden desire, his glance became tender and fraternal....

Adieu, adieu, companions! The voice of the widow recalled him to reality.
"Ulysses, make love to me....

You haven't yet told me this whole day long that you love me." In spite of the smiling and mocking tone of this order, he obeyed her, repeating once more his promises and his desires.

Wine was giving to his words a thrill of emotion; the musical moaning of the orchestra was exciting his sensibilities and he was so touched with his own eloquence that his eyes slightly filled with tears.
The high voice of the tenor, as though it were an echo of Ferragut's thought, was singing a romance of the fiesta of Piedigrotta, a lamentation of melancholy love, a canticle of death, the final mother of hopeless lovers.
"All a lie!" said Freya, laughing.