Scarcely had Dion heard Anukis’s name, when an eager “Let her come in” reached her ears through the half-open door.

The Nubian waited to be summoned, but her dark face must have showed distinctly that something important and urgent had brought her here, for the wounded man added to his first words of greeting the expression of a fear that she had no good news.

Her reply was an eager nod of assent, accompanied by a doubtful glance at Gorgias; and Dion now curtly told the architect the name of the newcomer, and assured her that his friend might hear everything, even the greatest secret.

Anukis uttered a sigh of relief and then, in a tone of the most earnest warning, poured forth the story of the impending danger.  She would not be satisfied when he spoke of the Ephebi, who were ready to defend him, and the council, which would make the cause of one of its members its own, but entreated him to seek some safe place of refuge, no matter where; for powers against whom no resistance would avail were stretching their hands towards him.  Even this statement, however, proved useless, for Dion was convinced that the influence of his uncle, the Keeper of the Seal, would guard him from any serious danger.  Then Anukis resolved to confess what she had overheard; but she told the story without mentioning Barine, and the peril threatening her also.  Finally, with all the warmth of a really anxious heart, she entreated him to heed her warning.

Even while she was still speaking, the friends exchanged significant glances; but scarcely had the last words fallen from her lips when the giant figure of the freedman passed through the door, which had remained open.

“You here, Pyrrhus?” cried the wounded man kindly.

“Yes, master, it is I,” replied the stalwart fellow, twirling his sailor hat still faster.  “Listening isn’t exactly my trade, and I don’t usually enter your presence uninvited; but I couldn’t help hearing what came through the door, and the croaking of the old raven drew me in.”

“I wish you had heard more cheerful things,” replied Dion; “but the brown-skinned bird of ill omen usually sings pleasant songs, and they all come from a faithful heart.  But when my silent Pyrrhus opens his mouth so far, something important must surely follow, and you can speak freely in her presence.”

The sailor cleared his throat, gripped his coarse felt hat in his sinewy hands, and said, in such a tremulous, embarrassed tone that his heavy chin quivered and his voice sometimes faltered:  “If the woman is to be trusted, you must leave here, master, and seek some safe hiding-place.  I came to offer one.  On my way I heard your name.  It was said that you had wounded the Queen’s son, and it might cost you your life.  Then I thought:  ’No, no, not that, so long as Pyrrhus lives, who taught his young master Dion to use the oars and to set his first sail—­Pyrrhus and his family.’