“Would that—­would that they had murdered me as they wished!  It would be all over now,” she agonized.  “I have no wish again to see the light.  Whether they believe me innocent or guilty of the charge is little; I can never be happy again.”

“And why not, dear lady?” cried Agias.

“Don’t ask me!  I do not know.  I do not know anything!  Leave me!  It is not fit that you should see me crying like a child.  Leave me!  Leave me!”

And thus conjured, Agias went up to the poop once more.

The yacht was flying down the current under her powerful oarage.  Demetrius was still standing with his hands fixed on the steering paddle; his gaze was drifting along in the plashing water.  The shadowy outlines of the great city had vanished; the yacht was well on her way down the river to Ostia.  Save for the need to avoid a belated merchantman anchored in midstream for the night, there was little requiring the master’s skill.  Agias told his cousin how Fabia had sent him away.

“A! Poor lady!” replied the pirate, “perhaps she was the Vestal I saw a few days since, and envied her, to see the consuls’ lictors lowering their rods to her, and all the people making way before her; she, protected by the whole might of this terrible Roman people, and honoured by them all; and I, a poor outlaw, massing gold whereof I have no need, slaying men when I would be their friend, with only an open sea and a few planks for native land.  And now, see how the Fates bring her down so low, that at my hands she receives hospitality, nay, life!”

“You did not seem so very loath to shed blood to-night,” commented Agias, dryly.

“No, by Zeus!” was his frank answer.  “It is easy to send men over the Styx after having been Charon’s substitute for so many years.  But the trade was not pleasant to learn, and, bless the gods, you may not have to be apprenticed to it.”

“Then you will not take me with you in your rover’s life?” asked Agias, half-disappointedly.

“Apollo forbid!  I will take you and the lady to some place where she can be safe until she may return vindicated, and where you can earn an honest livelihood, marry a wife of station, in accordance with the means which I shall give you, dwell peaceably, and be happy.”

“But I cannot accept your present,” protested the younger Greek.

“Phui! What use have I of money?  To paraphrase AEschylus:  ’For more of money than I would is mine.’  I can’t eat it, or beat swords out of gold, or repair my ships therewith.”

“Then why amass it at all?”

“Why drink when you know it is better to keep sober?  I can no more stop plundering than a toper leave a wine-jar.  Besides, perhaps some day I may see a road to amnesty open,—­and, then, what will not money do for a man or woman?”

“Quintus Drusus, my patron, the Lady Cornelia, and the Lady Fabia all are rich.  But I would not take up their sorrows for all their wealth.”