ladies and about as many more sadly bedraggled fine gentlemen were haled before his tribunal for judgment.  The pirate prince stood on the raised roof of a cabin, a step higher than the rest of the poop.  He was again in his splendid armour, his naked sword was in his hand, at his side was stationed Eurybiades and half a score more stalwart seamen, all swinging their bare cutlasses.  Demetrius nevertheless conducted his interrogations with perhaps superfluous demonstrations of courtesy, and a general distribution of polite “domini” “dominae,” “clarissimi,” and “illustres.”  He spoke in perfectly good Latin, with only the slightest foreign accent; and Cornelia, who—­unregenerate pagan that she was—­was taking thorough delight in the dilemma of persons whom she knew had made her the butt of their scandalous gibes, could only admire the skilful manner in which he brought home to the several captives the necessity of finding a very large sum of money at their bankers’ in a very short time, or enduring an indefinite captivity.  After more or less of surly threats and resistance on the part of the men, and screaming on the part of the women, the prisoners one and all capitulated, and put their names to the papyri they were commanded to sign; and away went a boat dancing over the waves to Puteoli to cash the money orders, after which the captives would be set ashore at Baiae.

Last of the wretches brought before Demetrius came Phaon.  The freedman had been roughly handled; across his brow a great welt had risen where a pirate had struck him with a rope’s end.  His arms were pinioned behind his back.  He was perfectly pale, and his eyes wandered from one person to another as if vainly seeking some intercessor.

“Euge!  Kyrios[170]” cried the pirate chief, “you indeed seem to enjoy our hospitality but ill.”

  [170] Your Highness.

Phaon fell on his knees.

“I am a poor man,” he began to whimper.  “I have no means of paying a ransom.  My patron is not here to protect or rescue me.  I have nothing to plunder. Mu! mu! set me free, most noble pirate!  Oh! most excellent prince, what have I done, that you should bear a grudge against me?”

“Get up, fellow,” snapped Demetrius; “I’m not one of those crocodile-headed Egyptian gods that they grovel before in the Nile country.  My cousin Agias here says he knows you.  Now answer—­are you a Greek?”

“I am an Athenian born.”

“Don’t you think I can smell your Doric accent by that broad alpha?  You are a Sicilian, I’ll be bound!”

Phaon made a motion of sorrowful assent.

“Phui!” continued Demetrius, “tell me, Agias, is this the creature that tried to murder Quintus Drusus?”

Agias nodded.

“A fit minister for such a man as I imagine the son of Lucius Domitius to be.  Eurybiades, take off that fellow’s bands; he is not worth one stroke of the sword.”

“The captain will not spare the knave!” remonstrated the sanguinary lieutenant.