" shrieked a sailor, growing gray
under his dark skin.

"And Democrates's despatches are hid in the cabin," added Hiram,
chattering. "If they do not go overboard, our deaths will be terrible."

"Hear, King Moloch!" called Hasdrubal, lifting his swarthy arms to heaven,
then striking them with his sword till the blood gushed down, "suffer us
to escape this calamity and I vow thee even my daughter Tibait,--a child in
her tenth year,--she shall die in thy holy furnace a sacrifice."

"Hear, Baal! Hear, Moloch!" chorussed the crew; and gathering courage from
necessity seized boat-hooks, oars, dirks, and all other handy weapons for
their attack.

But below the released prisoners had not been idle. Never--Glaucon knew
it--had his brain been clearer, his invention more fertile than now, and
Phormio was not too old to cease to be a valiant helper. The cabin was
small. A few spears and swords stood in the rack about the mast. The
athlete bolted the sliding hatch-cover, and tore down the weapons.

"Release your wife," he ordered Phormio; "yonder sea chest is strong. Drag
it over to bar the hatch-ladder. Work as Titans if you hope for another
sun."

"_Ai, ai, ai!_" screeched Lampaxo, who had released Lars's fingers only to
resume her din, "we all perish. They are hewing the hatch-cover with their
axes. Hera preserve us! The wood splinters. We die."

"We have no time to die," called the athlete, "but only to save Hellas."

A dozen blows beat the frail hatch-cover to splinters. A dark face with
grinning teeth showed itself. A heavy ballast stone grazed the athlete's
shoulder, but the intruder fell back with a gurgling in his throat, his
hands clutching the empty air. Glaucon had sent a heavy spear clean
through him.

More ballast stones, but the Titanic Alcmaeonid had torn a mattress from a
bunk, and held it as effective shield. By main force the others dragged
the chest across to the hatchway, making the entrance doubly narrow.
Vainly Hasdrubal stormed at his men to rush down boldly. They barely dared
to fling stones and darts, so fast their adversary sped them back, and to
the mark.

"A god! a god! We fight against Heaven!" bleated the seamen.

Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the
port-hole and the taunts of Phormio.

"Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoe, sweetest of the sirens," tossed the
fishmonger, playing his part at Glaucon's side; "lure that dear
penteconter a little nearer. And you, brave