against his burden.  There was—­Agias could hear—­a low moan; but at the same instant the fleeing pirate uttered a whistle so loud, so piercing, that the foremost pursuers came to a momentary stand, in half-defined fright, In an instant there came an answering whistle from the wharf just ahead.  In a twinkling half a dozen torches had flashed out all over a small vessel, now barely visible in the night, at one of the mooring rings.  There was a strange jargon of voices calling in some Oriental tongue; and Demetrius, as he ran, answered them in a like language.  Then over Agias’s head and into the thick press of the mob behind, something—­arrows no doubt—­flew whistling; and there were groans and cries of pain.  And Agias found uncouth, bearded men helping or rather casting him over the side of the vessel.  The yacht was alive with men:  some were bounding ashore to loose the hawsers, others were lifting ponderous oars, still more were shooting fast and cruelly in the direction of the mob, while its luckless leaders struggled to turn in flight, and the multitude behind, ignorant of the slaughter, was forcing them on to death.  Above the clamour, the howls of the mob, the shouts of the sailors, the grating of oars, and the creaking of cables, rang the voice of Demetrius; and at his word a dozen ready hands put each command into action.  The narrow, easy-moving yacht caught the current; a long tier of white oars glinted in the torchlight, smote the water, and the yacht bounded away, while a parting flight of arrows left misery and death upon the quay.

Agias, sorely bewildered, clambered on to the little poop.  His cousin stood grasping one of the steering paddles; the ruddy lantern light gleamed on the pirate’s frame and face, and made him the perfect personification of a sea-king; he was some grandly stern Poseidon, the “Storm-gatherer” and the “Earth-shaker.”  When he spoke to Agias, it was in the tone of a despot to a subject.

“The lady is below.  Go to her.  You are to care for her until I rejoin my fleet.  Tell her my sister shall not be more honoured than she, nor otherwise treated.  When I am aboard my flag-ship, she shall have proper maids and attendance.  Go!”

Agias obeyed, saying nothing.  He found Fabia lying on a rude pallet, with a small bale of purple silk thrust under her head for a pillow.  She stared at him with wild, frightened eyes, then round the little cabin, which, while bereft of all but the most necessary comforts, was decorated with bejeweled armour, golden lamps, costly Indian tapestries and ivory—­the trophies of half a score of voyages.

“Agias,” she faintly whispered, “tell me what has happened since I awoke from my sleep and found Gabinius’s ruffians about me.  By whatsoever god you reverence most, speak truly!”

Agias fell on his knees, kissed the hem of her robe, kissed her hands.  Then he told her all,—­as well as his own sorely confused wits would admit.  Fabia heard him through to the end, then laid her face between her hands.