The council had convened early in the day; the herald went through the squares of Pelusium announcing that Ptolemaeus, “Son of Ra,” would receive as his guest the Roman suppliant.  The shore fronting the anchorage was covered with the files of the royal army in full array.  Several Egyptian men-of-war had been drawn down into the water and their crews were hastening on board.  Out in the haven rode the little fleet of the Pompeians.  Agias had heard the proclamation, and hurried down to the mole to bear the earliest definite information to his mistress.  Presently, out of the throng of officers and court magnates on the quay, stepped Achillas in a splendid panoply of gilded armour, with a purple chiton flowing down from beneath.  Beside him, with the firm swinging step of the Roman legionary, strode two other officers in magnificent armour, whom Agias at once recognized as Lucius Septimius, a Roman tribune now in Egyptian service, and a certain Salvius, who had once been a centurion of the Republic.  The three advanced on to the quay and stood for a moment at a loss.  Agias, who was quite near, could hear their conversation.

“The yacht is not ready for us.”

“We cannot delay a moment.”

There was a large open boat moored to the quay, a fisher man’s craft.  In a moment a few subalterns had taken possession of it and there was a call for rowers.  Agias, who, like all his race, never declined a chance “to see or hear some new thing,” took his seat on one of the benches, and soon the craft shot away from the mole with the three officers in its stern.

It was a short pull to the Pompeian ships; Agias, as he glanced over his shoulder thought he could see a motion on board the vessels as if to sheer away from the boat; but in a moment the little craft was alongside, under the lee of the flagship.

“Where is Pompeius Magnus?” cried Achillas, rising from his seat; “we are sent to carry him to the king.”

A martial, commanding figure was seen peering over the side,—­a figure that every inhabitant of Rome knew right well.

“I am he; but why do you come thus meanly with only a fisher’s boat?  Is this honourable, is this worthy of a great king’s guest?”

“Assuredly, kyrios,” began Achillas, “we are forced to come in this small craft, because the water is too shallow for larger ships to approach the shore.”

Agias knew that this was a lie; he was very certain that he was about to be witness to a deed of the darkest treachery.  A vague feeling of shrinking and horror froze his limbs, and made his tongue swell in his mouth.  Yet he was perfectly powerless to warn; a sign or a word would have meant his instant death.

“Salve, Imperator!” shouted Septimius in Latin, rising in turn.  “Don’t you remember the campaign I had with you against the pirates?”

The fugitive general’s care-worn face lighted up at the recognition of an old officer.