he cried, "have I not always been true to you? I am no
pirate, and you will not blame my cousin, when you have heard his
story. But do not fear us. Come down to the ship--Fabia is there,
waiting for you."

"Fabia!" and again Cornelia was startled. Then, fixing her deep gaze
full on Agias, "I believe you speak the truth. If not you--whom?
Take--take me!"

And she fell forward in a swoon, and Demetrius caught her in his
powerful arms.

"This is the affianced wife of Quintus Drusus?" he cried to Agias.

"None other."

"She is worthy of Sextus's son. A right brave lady!" cried the pirate.
"But this is no place for her, poor thing. Here, Eurybiades," and he
addressed a lieutenant,--an athletic, handsome Hellene like
himself,--"carry the lady down to the landing, put her on the trireme,
and give her to Madam Fabia. Mind you lift her gently."

"Never fear," replied the other, picking up his burden carefully. "Who
would not delight to bear Aphrodite to the arms of Artemis!"

And so for a while sight, sound, and feeling were at an end for
Cornelia, but for Agias the adventures of the evening were but just
begun. The pirates had broken loose in the villa, and Demetrius made
not the slightest effort to restrain them. On into the deserted
bedroom, ahead of the others, for reasons of his own, rushed Agias. As
he came in, some one cried out his name, and a second vision in white
confronted him.

"_Ai! ai!_ Agias, I knew you would come!" and then and there, with the
sword-blades glinting, and the armed men all around, Artemisia tossed
her plump arms around his neck.

"The nymph, attendant on Aphrodite!" cried Demetrius, laughing. And
then, when Artemisia saw the strange throng and the torches, and heard
the din over the villa, she hung down her head in mingled fear and
mortification. But Agias whispered something in her ear, that made her
lift her face, laughing, and then he in turn caught her up in his arms
to hasten down to the landing--for the scene was becoming one of
little profit for a maid. Groans and entreaties checked him. Two
powerful Phoenician seamen were dragging forward Phaon, half clothed,
trembling at every joint. "Mercy! Mercy! Oh! Master Agias, oh! Your
excellency, _clarissime_,[165] _despotes!_[166]" whined the wretched
man, now in Latin, now in Greek, "ask them to spare me; don't let them
murder me in cold blood!"

[165] Very distinguished sir.

[166] Master.

"_Ai!_" cried Demetrius. "What foo