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.’  Why repeat what we both know well enough?  From my first boat and the land on our island to the liberty you bestowed upon us, we owe everything to your father and to you, and a blessing has rested upon your gift and our labour, and what is mine is yours.  No more words are needed.  You know our cliff beyond the Alveus Steganus, north of the great harbour—­the Isle of Serpents.  It is quickly gained by any one who knows the course through the water, but is as inaccessible to others as the moon and stars.  People are afraid of the mere name, though we rid the island of the vermin long ago.  My boys Dionysus, Dionichus, and Dionikus—­they all have ‘Dion’