“Oh, we know how their life is ruined!” interrupted the old lady.  “Was it Agne who introduced you to Mary’s Asylum?”

“No, noble lady.”

“But how then—­that prudent saint generally selects her guests, and those that are not baptized . . .”

“She certainly sheltered heathens on this occasion.”

“I am much surprised.  Tell me how it happened.”

“We were at Rome,” began Karnis, “and my patron there persuaded Marcus, Mary’s son, to take us on board his ship at Ostia.  We dropped anchor at Cyrene, where the young master wanted to pick up his brother and bring him also to Alexandria.”

“Then is Demetrius here?” asked Porphyrius.

“Yes, sir.  He came on board at Cyrene.  Hardly had we got fairly to sea again when we saw two pirate ships.  Our trireme was at once turned round, but in our hurry to regain the harbor we stuck fast on a sand bank; the boats were at once put out to save the passengers and Cynegius, the consul. . .”

“Cynegius—­on his way here!” exclaimed Porphyrius, much excited.

“He landed yesterday with us in the harbor of Eunostus.  The secretaries and officers of his suite filled one boat and Marcus and his brother were getting into the other with their men.  We, and others of the free passengers, should have been left behind if Dada . . .”

“That pretty little blonde?” asked Damia.

“The very same.  Marcus had taken a great fancy to her prattle and her songs during the voyage—­no nightingale can sing more clearly—­and when she begged and prayed him he gave way at once, and said:  he would take her in his boat.  But the brave child declared that she would jump into the sea before she would leave without us.”

“Well done!” cried the old lady, and Porphyrius added: 

“That speaks well for her and for you.”

“So after all Marcus found room for us in the boat—­for all of us, and we got safely to land.  A few days after we all came on in a troop-ship:  Cynegius, the two brothers and the rest, all safe and sound; and, as we had lost everything we possessed, Marcus gave us a certificate which procured our admission into his mother’s Xenodochium.  And then the gods brought me and mine under the notice of your noble daughter.”

“Then Cynegius is here, positively here?” asked Porphyrius once more.  Karnis assured him that he was, and the merchant, turning to his mother, went on: 

“And Olympius has not yet come home.  It is always the same thing; he is as rash as a boy.  If they should take him!  The roads are swarming with monks.  There is something astir.  Bring out the chariot, Syrus, at once; and tell Atlas to be ready to accompany me.  Cynegius here!—­Ha, ha!  I thank the gods!”

The last exclamation was addressed to a man who at this instant came into the room, muffled up to the eyes.  He threw off the hood of his cloak and the wrapper that went round his throat, concealing his long white beard, and as he did so he exclaimed with a gasp for breath: