e Adherbal and Lars the
Etruscan. It's a good ten furlongs to that cursed galley still, but we
must have those prisoners ready on deck. Over they go if the chase gets a
bit closer."

The giant Libyan hastened to comply, while all the crew joined in the
captain's howl, "Wind, Baal, wind!" and cried reckless vows, while they
scanned the fateful stretch of gray-green water behind the stern, whereon
liberty if not life depended.

The trireme, pulling only one of her banks, was dropping behind, her
navarch leaving the tiring chase to the penteconter, but the latter hung
on doggedly.

"Curse those war-ships with their long oars and heavy crews," growled Hib,
reappearing above the hatch with the prisoners. "The penteconter's only
nine furlongs off."

He had been obliged to release the captives from the stocks, but Hib had
taken the precaution to place on the formidable athlete a pair of leg
irons joined by a shackle. Not merely were Glaucon's arms pinioned by a
stout cord, but the great Libyan was gripping them tightly. Lars and
Adherbal conducted the other prisoners, whose feet, however, were not
bound. For a moment the three captives stood blinking at the unfamiliar
light, unconscious of the situation and their extremity, whilst Hasdrubal
for the fortieth time measured the distance. The wind had strengthened a
little. Let it strengthen a trifle more and the _Bozra_ would hold her
own. Still her people were nearly spent with their toiling, and the keen
beak and large complement of the man-of-war made resistance madness if she
once came alongside.

"Have ready sand-bags," ordered Hasdrubal, "to tie to these wretches'
feet. Set them by the boat mast, so the sail can hide our pretty deed from
the penteconter. Have ready an axe. We'll bide a little longer, though,
before we say 'farewell' to our passengers. The gods may help yet."

Hib and his fellows were marching the prisoners to the poop, when the
sight of the war-ship told Phormio all the story. No gag now hindered his
tongue.

"Oh, dragons from Carthage, are you going to murder us?" he began in tones
more indignant than terrified.

"No, save as Heaven enjoins it!" quoth the master, clapping his hands to
urge on the rowing stroke. "Pray, then, your AEolus, Hellene, to stiffen
the breeze."

"Pray, then, to Pluto, whelps," bawled the undaunted fishmonger, "to give
you a snug berth in Orcus. Ha! but it's a merry thought of you and all
your pretty lads stretched on cr