way or other they all got up on the waiting ship. It always
seemed to Ariston as though a wave had thrown him there. Or had Poseidon
carried him? At any rate, the great oars of the galley were flying. He
could hear every rower groan as he pulled at his oar. The sails, too,
were spread. The master himself stood at the helm. His face was one
great frown. The boat was flung up and down like a ball. Then fell
darkness blacker than night.

"Who can steer without sun or stars?" thought the boy.

Then he remembered the look on his master's face as he stood at the
tiller. Such a look Ariston had painted on Herakles' face as he
strangled the lion.

"He will get us out," thought the slave.

For an hour the swift ship fought with the waves. The oarsmen were
rowing for their lives. The master's arm was strong, and his heart was
not for a minute afraid. The wind was helping. At last they reached calm
waters.

"Thanks be to the gods!" cried Tetreius. "We are out of that boiling
pot."

At his words fire shot out of the mountain. It glowed red in the dusty
air. It flung great red arms across the sky after the ship. Every man
and spar and oar on the vessel seemed burning in its light. Then the
fire died, and thick darkness swallowed everything. Ariston's heart
seemed smothered in his breast. He heard the slaves on the rowers'
benches scream with fear. Then he heard their leader crying to them. He
heard a whip whiz through the air and strike on bare shoulders. Then
there was a crash as though the mountain had clapped its hands. A
thicker shower of ashes filled the air. But the rowers were at their
oars again. The ship was flying.

So for two hours or more Tetreius and his men fought for safety. Then
they came out into fresher air and calmer water. Tetreius left the
rudder. "Let the men rest and thank the gods," he said to his overseer.
"We have come up out of the grave."

When Ariston heard that, he remembered the Death he had left painted
on his master's wall. By that time the picture was surely buried under
stones and ashes. The boy covered his face with his ragged chiton and
wept. He hardly knew what he was crying for--the slavery, the picture,
the buried city, the fear of that horrid night, the sorrows of the
people left back there, his father, his dear home in Athens. At last
he fell asleep. The night was horrible with dreams--fire, earthquake,
strangling ashes, cries, thunder, lightning. But his tired body held
him asle