“Do you dare to ride farther?” the artist shouted in a tone of warning inquiry to the man on the dripping bay, and the latter, without pausing, answered:  “Duty!  On business for the King!”

Then Hermon turned his steed back toward the road, beat the water from his soaked beard with the edge of his hand, and with a curt “Forward!” announced his decision to his companion.  Duty summoned him also, and what another risked for the King he would not fail to do for his friend.

The Midianite, shaking his head, rode angrily after him; but, though the violence of the rain was lessening, the wind began to blow with redoubled force, beating and lashing the boundless expanse of the quickly formed lake with such savage fury that it rolled in surges like the sea, and sweeping over it dense clouds of foam like the sand waves tossed by the desert tempests.

Sometimes moaning, sometimes whistling, the gusts of the hurricane drove the water and the travellers before it, while the rain poured from the sky to the earth, and wherever it struck splashed upward, making little whirlpools and swiftly breaking bubbles.

What might not Myrtilus suffer in this storm!  This thought strengthened Hermon’s courage to twice ride past other farmhouses which offered shelter.  At the third the horse refused to wade farther in such a tempest, so there was nothing to be done except spring off and lead it to the higher ground which the water had not yet reached.

The interior of the peasant hut was filled with people who had sought shelter there, and the stifling atmosphere which the artist felt at the door induced him to remain outside.

He had stood there dripping barely fifteen minutes when loud shouts and yells were heard on the road from Pelusium by which he had come, and upon the flooded dike appeared a body of men rushing forward with marvellous speed.

The nearer they came the fiercer and more bewildering sounded the loud, shrill medley of their frantic cries, mingled with hoarse laughter, and the spectacle presented to the eyes was no less rough and bold.

The majority seemed to be powerful men.  Their complexions were as light as the Macedonians; their fair, red, and brown locks were thick, unkempt, and bristling.  Most of the reckless, defiantly bold faces were smooth-shaven, with only a mustache on the upper lip, and sometimes a short imperial.  All carried weapons, and a fleece covered the shoulders of many, while chains, ornamented with the teeth of animals, hung on their white muscular chests.

“Galatians,” Hermon heard one man near him call to another.  “They came to the fortress as auxiliary troops.  Philippus forbade them to plunder on pain of death, and showed them—­the gods be thanked!—­that he was in earnest.  Otherwise it would soon look here as though the plagues of locusts, flood, and fire had visited us at once.  Red-haired men are not the only sons of Typhon!”