ountry of hierarchies. The captain of a romantic,
adventurous life would be converted into a real estate proprietor,
knowing no other struggles than those which he might sustain with his
tenants. Perhaps, in order to avoid a commonplace existence, he might
invest his capital in navigation, the only business that he knew well.
He might become a ship-owner acquiring new vessels and, little by
little, because of the necessity of keeping a sharp watch over them,
would eventually renew his voyages.... Well, then, why should he
abandon the _Mare Nostrum?_

Upon asking himself anxiously what his life had so far amounted to, he
underwent a profound moral revolution.

All his former existence appeared to him like a desert. He had lived
without knowing why nor wherefore, challenging countless dangers and
adventures for the mere pleasure of coming out victorious. Neither did
he know with certainty what he had wanted until then. If it was money,
it had flowed into his hands in the last months with overwhelming
abundance.... He had it to-spare and it had not made him happy. As to
professional glory, he could not desire anything greater than he
already had. His name was celebrated all over the Spanish
Mediterranean. Even the rudest and most ungovernable of sailors would
admit his exceptional ability.

"Love remained!..." But Ferragut made a wry face when thinking of that.
He had known it and did not wish to meet it again. The gentle love of a
good companion, capable of surrounding the latter part of his existence
with congenial comfort, he had just lost forever. The other,
impassioned, fantastic, voluptuous, giving to life the crude interest
of conflicts and contrasts, had left him with no desire of recommencing
it.

Paternity, stronger and more enduring than love, might have filled the
rest of his days had his son not died.... There only remained
vengeance, the savage task of returning evil to those who had done him
so much evil. But he was so powerless to struggle against all of
them!... This final act appeared to be turning out so small and selfish
in comparison with that other patriotic enthusiasm which was now
dragging to sacrifice such great masses of men!...

While he was thinking it all over, a phrase which he had somewhere
heard--formed perhaps from the residuum of old readings--began to chant
in his brain: "A life without ideals is not worth the trouble of
living."

Ferragut mutely assented. It was true: in order to