The port-captain was roving his eye over the group of us who stood on the after-deck. “I fear me, captain, that you’ll have but a dangerous reception. I do not see my Lord Deucalion. Or does he come with some other navy? Gods, captain, if you have let him get killed whilst under your charge, the Empress will have the skin torn slowly off you living.”
“What with Phorenice and Tatho both so curious for his welfare,” said Tob, “my Lord Deucalion seems but a dangerous passenger. But I shall save my hide this voyage.” He jerked at me with his thumb. “He’s there to put in a word for me himself.”
The port-captain stared for a moment, as if unbelieving, and then, as though satisfied, made obeisance like a fellow well used to ceremonial. “I trust my lord, in his infinite strength, will pardon my sin in not knowing him by his nobleness before. But truth to tell, I had looked to see my lord more suitably apparelled.”
“Pish,” I said; “if I choose to dress simply, I cannot object to being mistaken for a simple man. It is not my pleasure to advertise my quality by the gauds on my garb. If you think amends are due to me, I pray of your charity that this inquisition may end.”
The fellow was all bows and obsequiousness. “I am the humblest of my lord’s servants,” he said. “It will be my exceeding honour to pilot my lord’s galley into the berth appointed in harbour.”
The boat shot ahead, and our galley-slaves swung into stroke again. Tob watched me with a dry smile as he stood directing the men at the helms.
“Well,” I said, humouring his whim, “what is it?”
“I’m thinking,” said Tob, “that my Lord Deucalion will remember me only as a very rude fellow when he steps ashore amongst all this fine gentility.”
“You don’t think,” said I, “anything of the kind.”
“Then I must prove my refinement,” said Tob, “and not contradict.” He picked up my hand in his huge, hard fist, and pressed it. “By the Gods, Deucalion, you may be a great prince, but I’ve only known you as a man. You’re the finest fighter of beasts and men that walks this world to-day, and I love you for it. That spear-stroke of yours on the lizard is a thing the singers in the taverns shall make chaunts about.”