The stranger caught Drusus by both hands.

“Are you indeed the son of Sextus Drusus of Praeneste?” he questioned with eagerness.

“Assuredly, my good sir,” replied the young Roman, a bit confused at the other’s impetuosity.

“And did your father never tell you of a certain Demetrius, a Greek, who was his friend?”

“He did; this Demetrius was cast into prison and condemned by Pompeius; my father secured his escape;” and Drusus hesitated.  His mind had worked rapidly, and he could jump at a conclusion.

“Say it out, your excellency,” pressed the seaman.

“He became a pirate, though my father did not blame him overmuch.”

“Eu!” interrupted Caesar, as if to prevent a moment of awkwardness.  “Before King Minos’s days nothing was more honourable.  I have known some excellent men who were pirates.”

But Demetrius had, in true Eastern fashion, fallen on his knees and kissed the feet of Drusus.

“The son of my preserver!  I have saved him!  Praises to Mithras!”

After this, there was no longer any constraint on the part of rescuers or rescued.  And that evening, when all were safe behind the palace walls, Caesar called the pirate chief into the hall where he had been banqueting with Cleopatra, Fabia, and Cornelia, and his favourite officers, and asked for an account of his life.  A strange enough story it was Demetrius had to tell, though Cornelia had heard it before; of two voyages to wealthy Taprobane,[186] one as far as the Golden Chersonesos,[187] almost to the Silk Land, Serica, of voyages out beyond the Pillars of Hercules into the Sea of Darkness,—­everywhere that keel of ship had ploughed within the memory of man.

  [186] Ceylon.

  [187] Malay Peninsula.

“And the men that drove you to freebooting?” asked Caesar, when the company had ceased applauding this recital, which the sailor set forth with a spontaneous elegance that made it charming.

“I have said that they were Lucius Domitius, whom the gods have rewarded, and a certain Greek.”

“The Greek’s name was—­”

“Kyrios,” said Demetrius, his fine features contracting with pain and disgust, “I do not willingly mention his name.  He has done me so great a wrong, that I only breathe his name with a curse.  Must you know who it was that took my child, my Daphne,—­though proof I have not against him, but only the warnings of an angry heart?”

“But he was—­” pressed Caesar.

“Menon.”  And as he spoke he hissed the words between his teeth.  “He is one knave among ten thousand.  Why burden your excellency with remembering him?”

So the conversation went on, and Caesar told how he had been taken prisoner, when a young man, by pirates near Rhodes, and how he had been kept captive by them on a little isle while his ransom was coming.

“Ah!” interrupted Demetrius, “I have heard the whole tale from one of my men who was there.  You, kyrios, behaved like a prince.  You bade your captors take fifty talents instead of twenty, as they asked, and wrote verses and declaimed to your guards all the time you were awaiting the money, and joined in all their sports; howbeit, you kept telling them that you would crucify them all for the matter.”