The letter-Dion could scarcely believe his own eyes-was addressed to his friend, the architect Gorgias.  The pirate, being ignorant of writing, had not opened it, but Dion tore the wax from the cord without delay.  Aristocrates, the Greek rhetorician, who had accompanied Antony to the war, had written from Taenarum, in the south of the Peloponnesus, requesting the architect, in the general’s name, to set the little palace at the end of the Choma in order, and surround it on the land side with a high wall.

No door would be necessary.  Communication with the dwelling could be had by water.  He must do his utmost to complete the work speedily.

The friends gazed at each other in astonishment, as they read this commission.

What could induce Antony to give so strange an order?  How did it fall into the hands of the pirates?

This must be understood.

When Archibius, whose gentle nature, so well adapted to inspire confidence, quickly won friends, burst into passionate excitement, the unexpected transition rarely failed to produce its effect, especially as his tall, strong figure and marked features made a still more threatening impression.

Even the captain gazed at him with fear, when the Alexandrian threatened to recall all his promises of consideration and mercy if the pirate withheld even the smallest trifle connected with this letter.  The man speedily perceived that it would be useless to make false statements; for the captive from Pontus, though unable to speak Greek, understood the language, and either confirmed every remark of the other with vehement gestures, or branded it in the same manner as false.

Thus it was discovered that the pirate craft, in company with a much larger vessel, owned by a companion, had lurked behind the promontory of Crete for a prize.  They had neither seen nor heard aught concerning the two fleets, when a dainty galley, “the finest and fleetest that ever sailed in the sea”—­it was probably the “Swallow,” Antony’s despatch-boat-had run into the snare.  To capture her was an easy task.  The pirates had divided their booty, but the lion’s share of goods and men had fallen to the larger ship.

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.