ing had
he haggled with him merrily for a fine mackerel or tunny, and the navarch
recoiled in horror at his fellow-citizen's plight.

"Infernal gods! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?"

"From Troezene," gasped the refugee; "if you love Athens and Hellas--"

He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who--carelessly
guarded--was gliding down the hatchway.

"Seize that viper, bind, torture; he knows all. Make him tell or Hellas is
lost!"

"Control yourself, friend," adjured Cimon, sorely perplexed, while Hiram
struggled and began tugging out a crooked knife, before two brawny seamen
nipped him fast and disarmed.

"Ah! you carrion meat," shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the
helpless creature's nose. "Honest men have their day at last. There's a
gay hour coming before Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus."

"Peace," commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio's shouts, Lampaxo's
howls, and Hiram's moans was at his wit's end. "Has no one on this ship
kept aboard his senses?"

"If you will be so good, sir captain," the third Hellene at last broke his
silence, "you will hearken to me."

"Who are you?"

"The _proreus_ of the _Alcyone_ of Melos. More of myself hereafter. But if
you love the weal of Hellas, demand of this Hiram where he concealed the
treasonable despatches he received at Troezene and now has aboard."

"Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always
gliding around Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way
to get them. Now, black-hearted Cyclops,"--Cimon's tone was not
gentle,--"where are your papers?"

Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.

"Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none."

"Bah!" threw out Cimon, "I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still?
Good, see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a
miracle. A cord and belaying-pin, Naon."

The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phoenician's forehead with a
fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull.

"Twist!" commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim's arms. Naon
pressed the cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips
of the Phoenician. His beady eyes started from his head, but he did not
speak.

"Again," thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal
agony escaped the prisoner.

"Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!"

"Tell quic