A pouch containing letters and money had been taken from a gentleman of aristocratic appearance—­probably Antony’s messenger—­who had received a severe wound, died, and had been flung into the sea.  The former had been used to light the fire, and only the one addressed to the architect remained.

The captured sailors had said that the fleet of Octavianus had defeated Cleopatra’s, and the Queen had fled, but that the land forces were still untouched, and might yet decide the conflict in Antony’s favour.  The pirate protested that he did not know the position of the army—­it might be at Taenarum, whence the captured ship came.  It was a sin and a shame, but his own crew had set it on fire, and it sank before his eyes.

This report seemed to be true, yet the Acharnanian coast, where the battle was said to have been fought, was so far from the southern point of the Peloponnesus, whence Antony’s letter came, that it must have been written during the flight.  One thing appeared to be certain—­the fleet had been vanquished and dispersed on the 2d or 3d of September.

Where would the Queen go now?  What had become of the magnificent galleys which had accompanied her to the battle?

Even the contrary winds would not have detained them so long, for they were abundantly supplied with rowers.

Had Octavianus taken possession of them?  Were they burned or sunk?

But in that case how had Antony reached Taenarum?

The pirate could give no answer to these questions, which stirred both heart and brain.  Why should he conceal what had reached his ears?

At last Archibius ordered the property stolen from Antony’s ship, and the liberated sailor to be brought on board the Epicurus, but the pirate was obliged to swear not to remain in the waters between Crete and Alexandria.  Then he was suffered to pursue his way unmolested.

This adventure had occupied many hours, and the return against the wind was slow; for, during the chase the Epicurus had been carried by the strong breeze far out to sea.  Yet, when still several miles from the mouth of the harbour at the Pharos, it was evident that the Rhodian helmsman in the island tavern had predicted truly; for the weather changed with unusual speed, and the wind now blew from the north.  The sea fairly swarmed with ships, some belonging to the royal fleet, some to curious Alexandrians, who had sailed out to take a survey.  Archibius and Dion had spent a sleepless night and day.  The heavy air, pervaded by a fine mist, had grown cool.  After refreshing themselves by a repast, they paced up and down the deck of the Epicurus.

Few words were exchanged, and they wrapped their cloaks closer around them.  Both had quaffed large draughts of the fiery wine with which the Epicurus was well supplied, but it would not warm them.  Even the fire, blazing brightly in the richly furnished cabin, could scarcely do so.