ome in this
small craft, because the water is too shallow for larger ships to
approach the shore."

Agias knew that this was a lie; he was very certain that he was about
to be witness to a deed of the darkest treachery. A vague feeling of
shrinking and horror froze his limbs, and made his tongue swell in his
mouth. Yet he was perfectly powerless to warn; a sign or a word would
have meant his instant death.

"_Salve_, Imperator!" shouted Septimius in Latin, rising in turn.
"Don't you remember the campaign I had with you against the pirates?"

The fugitive general's care-worn face lighted up at the recognition of
an old officer.

"_Eu!_" he answered, "I shall not want for good friends, I see! How
glad I shall be to grasp your hands! But is not this a very small
boat? I see men going on board the galleys by the shore."

"You shall be satisfied in a moment, kyrios," repeated Achillas, with
suave assurance, "that the quicksands by the mole are very dangerous
to large vessels. Will you do us the honour to come aboard?"

Agias felt as though he must howl, scream, spring into the sea--do
anything to break the horrible suspense that oppressed him.

A woman was taking leave of Pompeius on the deck, a tall, stately,
patrician lady, with a sweet, trouble-worn face; Agias knew that she
was Cornelia Scipionis. She was adjuring her husband not to go ashore,
and he was replying that it was impossible to refuse; that if the
Egyptians meant evil, they could easily master all the fugitives with
their armament. Several of the Magnus's servants came down into the
boat--couple of trusted centurions, a valued freedman called Philip, a
slave named Scythes. Finally Pompeius tore himself from his wife's
arms.

"Do not grieve, all will be well!" were his words, while the boat's
crew put out their hands to receive him; and he added, "We must make
the best choice of evils. I am no longer my own master. Remember
Sophocles's iambics,

"He that once enters at a tyrant's door
Becomes a slave, though he were free before.'"

The general seated himself on the stern seat between the Egyptian
officers. Agias bent to his oar in sheer relief at finding some way in
which to vent his feelings; and tugged at the heavy paddle until its
tough blade bent almost to cracking. The silence on the part of the
officers was ominous. Not a word, not a hint of recognition, came from
Achillas or his Italian associates, from the instant that Pompeius set
foo