Part 58 (1/2)

Slowly, slowly the moments crept for the three in the cabin. Even Lampaxo grew still. They heard Hiram pleading frantically, vainly, for another attempt, and raving strange things about Democrates, Lycon, and the Persian. Then behind the _Bozra_ sounded the rus.h.i.+ng of foam around a ram, the b.u.mping of fifty oars plying on the thole-pins. Into their sight shot the penteconter, the bra.s.s glistening on her prow, the white blades leaping in rhythm. Marines in armour stood on the forecastle. A few arrows pattered on the plankings of the _Bozra_. Her abject crew obeyed the demand to surrender. Their helmsman pushed over the steering-paddle, and flung himself upon the deck. The sea-mouse went up into the wind. The grappling-irons rattled over the bulwark. Glaucon heard the Phnicians whining, ”Mercy! mercy!” as they embraced the boarders' feet, then the _proreus_, in hearty Attic, calling, ”Secure the prisoners and rummage the prize!”

Glaucon had suffered many things of late. He had faced intolerable captivity, immediate death. Now around his eyes swam hot mist. He fell upon a sea chest, and for a little cared not for anything around, whilst down his cheeks would flow the tears.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

THE READING OF THE RIDDLE

A hard chase. The rowers of the penteconter were well winded before they caught the _Bozra_. A merchantman making for Asia was, however, undoubted prize; the luckless crew could be sold in the Agora, the cargo of oil, fish, and pottery was likewise of value. Cimon was standing on his p.o.o.p, listening to the report of his _proreus_.

”We're all a mina richer for the race, captain, and they've some jars of their good Numidian wine in the forecastle.”

But here a seaman interrupted, staring blankly.

”_Kyrie_, here's a strange prize. Five men lie dead on the deck. The planks are b.l.o.o.d.y. In the cabin are two men and a woman. All three seem mad. They are Greeks. They keep us out, and bawl, 'The navarch! show us the navarch, or h.e.l.las is lost.' And one of them-as true as that I sucked my mother's milk-is Phormio-”

”Phormio the fishmonger,”-Cimon dropped his steering oar,-”on a Carthaginian s.h.i.+p? You're mad yourself, man.”

”See with your own eyes, captain. They'll yield to none save you. The prisoners are howling that one of these men is a giant.”

For the active son of Miltiades to leap from bulwark to bulwark took an instant. Only when he showed himself did the three in the cabin scramble up the ladder, covered with blood, the red lines of the fetters marked into wrist and ankle. Lampaxo had thrown her dress over her head and was screaming still, despite a.s.surances. The third h.e.l.lene's face was hid under a tangle of hair. But Cimon knew the fishmonger. Many a morning had he haggled with him merrily for a fine mackerel or tunny, and the navarch recoiled in horror at his fellow-citizen's plight.

”Infernal G.o.ds! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?”

”From Trzene,” gasped the refugee; ”if you love Athens and h.e.l.las-”

He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who-carelessly guarded-was gliding down the hatchway.

”Seize that viper, bind, torture; he knows all. Make him tell or h.e.l.las is lost!”

”Control yourself, friend,” adjured Cimon, sorely perplexed, while Hiram struggled and began tugging out a crooked knife, before two brawny seamen nipped him fast and disarmed.

”Ah! you carrion meat,” shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the helpless creature's nose. ”Honest men have their day at last. There's a gay hour coming before Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus.”

”Peace,” commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio's shouts, Lampaxo's howls, and Hiram's moans was at his wit's end. ”Has no one on this s.h.i.+p kept aboard his senses?”

”If you will be so good, sir captain,” the third h.e.l.lene at last broke his silence, ”you will hearken to me.”

”Who are you?”

”The _proreus_ of the _Alcyone_ of Melos. More of myself hereafter. But if you love the weal of h.e.l.las, demand of this Hiram where he concealed the treasonable despatches he received at Trzene and now has aboard.”

”Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always gliding around Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way to get them. Now, black-hearted Cyclops,”-Cimon's tone was not gentle,-”where are your papers?”

Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.

”Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none.”

”Bah!” threw out Cimon, ”I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still?