The friends took leave of Artemisia; the slave-women kissed her; Pisander, presuming on his age, kissed her, albeit very sheepishly, as though he feared the ghosts of all the Stoics would see him.  Iasus cast an angry jealous glance at the philosopher; he contented himself with a mere shake of the hand.

Agias swung Artemisia into the gig and touched the lash to the swift mules.

“Good-by, dear friends!” she cried, her merry Greek smile shining out through her bronze disguise.

The gig rolled down the street, Agias glancing to right and left to see that no inquisitive eye followed them.

“Oh!  Agias,” cried the girl, “am I at last going away with you?  Going away all alone, with only you to take care of me?  I feel—­I feel queerly!”

Agias only touched the mules again, and laughed and squeezed Artemisia’s hand, then more gravely said:—­

“Now, makaira, you must do everything as I say, or we shall never get away from Pratinas.  Remember, if I tell you to do anything you must do it instantly; and, above everything else, no matter what happens, speak not a word; don’t scream or cry or utter a sound.  If anybody questions us I shall say that I am a gentleman driving out to the suburbs to enjoy a late party at a friend’s villa, and you are my valet, who is a mute, whom it is useless to question because he cannot answer.  Do you understand?”

Artemisia nodded her little head, and bit her pretty lips very hard to keep from speaking.  The fear of Pratinas made her all obedience.

It was after sundown, and driving was permitted in the city, though nearly all the teams that blocked Agias’s way, as he drove down the crowded streets to turn on to the Via Appia, were heavy wagons loaded with timber and builders’ stone.

So far, all was safe enough; but Agias knew perfectly well that Pratinas was an awkward man to have for an enemy.  The critical moment, however, was close at hand, and Agias called up all his wits to meet it.  Under the damp arch of the ancient Porta Capena were pacing several men, whose lanterns and clinking sword-scabbards proclaimed them to be members of the city constabulary.  There was no possibility of evading their scrutiny.  No doubt any other gate was equally well watched.  Agias drove straight ahead, as though he had seen nothing.

“Hold!” and one of the constables was at the heads of the mules, and another was waving a lantern up into the face of the occupants of the gig.

“Rascals,” roared Agias, menacing with his whip, “are you highwaymen grown so impudent!”

“We have an order from the triumviri,” began one officer.

“Eho!” replied Agias, settling back, as though relieved not to have to fight for his purse, “I can’t see what for; I owe nothing.  I have no suit pending.”

“We are to search all carriages and pedestrians,” recommenced the constable, “to find if we may a certain Artemisia, a runaway slave-girl of the most noble Greek gentleman, Pratinas.”