earing
thither, and a merchantman, even from nominally neutral Carthage, caught
headed for the king's coasts in those days of blazing war was nothing if
not fair prize. The master's decision was prompt.

"They are far off. Put the ship before the wind."

The sea-mouse was fleet indeed for a trader, but unlike a trireme must
count on her canvas for her speed. With a piping breeze she could mock
pursuit. In a calm she was fearfully handicapped. However, for a moment
Hasdrubal congratulated himself he could slip away unnoticed. The distance
was very great. Then his dark lips cursed.

"Moloch consume me! If I see aright, we are chased."

Two vessels, in fact, seemed turning away from the rest. They were heading
straight after the _Bozra_. A long race it would be, but with the gale so
light the chances were against the sea-mouse. Hasdrubal had no need to
urge his crew to rig out the oars and tug furiously, if they wished to
escape a Greek prison and a slave market.

The whole crew, forty black-visaged, black-eyed creatures, were soon busy
over the dozen great sweeps in a frantic attempt to force the _Bozra_
beyond danger. Panting, yelling, blaspheming, for a while they seemed
holding their own, but the master watched with sinking heart the waning
breeze. At the end of an hour their pursuers could be distinguished,--a
tall trireme behind, but closer, pulling more rapidly, a penteconter, a
slim scouting galley working fifty oars in a single bank.

Hasdrubal began to shout desperately: "Wind, Baal, wind! Fill the sails,
and seven he-goats await thy altar in Carthage!"

Either the god found the bribe too small or lacked the power to accept it.
The breeze did not stiffen. The sailors strove like demons at the sweeps,
but almost imperceptibly the gap betwixt them and the war-ships was
narrowing.

Hiram, who had been rowing, now left his post to approach the master.

"What of the captives? Crucifixion waits us all if they are found on the
ship and tell their story. Kill them at once and fling the bodies
overboard."

Hasdrubal shook his head.

"Not yet. Still a good chance. I'll not cast five hundred bright shekels
to the fish till harder pressed. The breeze may strengthen." Then he
redoubled his shout. "Wind, Baal, wind!"

But a little later the gap betwixt the sea-mouse and the penteconter had
so dwindled that even the master's inborn thrift began to yield to
prudence.

"Hark you, Hib," he cried from the helm. "Tak