And smiling upon Ferragut as though he were a celestial apparition, he again began the story of his misfortunes.
He was a commercial traveler from Barcelona, and in Naples he had taken the sea route because it had seemed to him the more rapid one, avoiding the railroads congested by Italian mobilization.
"Were there other Spaniards traveling on your boat ?" Ulysses continued inquiring.
"Only one: my friend, that boy of whom I was just speaking.

The explosion of the torpedo blew him into bits.

I saw him...." The captain felt his remorse constantly increasing.

A compatriot, a poor young fellow, had perished through his fault!...
The salesman also seemed to be suffering a twinge of conscience.

He was holding himself responsible for his companion's death.