She has been informed that no foreigner can come aboard.

She told me that she had tried to come to see you." The cook began a search through his pockets, extricating a bit of wrinkled paper, a white sheet snatched from an old letter.
"She also gave me this paper, written right there in the street with a lead pencil.

You will know what it says.

I did not wish to look at it." Ferragut, on taking the paper, recognized immediately her handwriting, although uneven, nervous and scribbled with great precipitation.

Six words, no more:--"Farewell, I am going to die." "Lies! Always lies!" said the voice of prudence in his brain.
He tore up the paper and passed the rest of the morning very much preoccupied....