No one ever knew how the other ship sailed, but suddenly, in the deep night, the look-out man at the stern cried out in a terrible voice—
“She is close upon us!”
“And we,” said Pheles, “are close to the harbour.” He was silent a moment, then suddenly he altered the ship’s course, and then he stood up and spoke.
“Good friends and gentlemen,” he said, “who are bound with me in this brave venture by our King’s command, the false, foreign ship is close on our heels. If we land, they land, and only the gods know whether they might not beat us in fight, and themselves survive to carry back the tale of Tyre’s secret island to enrich their own miserable land. Shall this be?”
“Never!” cried the half-dozen men near him. The slaves were rowing hard below and could not hear his words.
The Egyptian leaped upon him; suddenly, fiercely, as a wild beast leaps. “Give me back my Amulet,” he cried, and caught at the charm. The chain that held it snapped, and it lay in the Priest’s hand.
Pheles laughed, standing balanced to the leap of the ship that answered the oarstroke.
“This is no time for charms and mummeries,” he said. “We’ve lived like men, and we’ll die like gentlemen for the honour and glory of Tyre, our splendid city. ‘Tyre, Tyre for ever! It’s Tyre that rules the waves.’ I steer her straight for the Dragon rocks, and we go down for our city, as brave men should. The creeping cowards who follow shall go down as slaves—and slaves they shall be to us—when we live again. Tyre, Tyre for ever!”
A great shout went up, and the slaves below joined in it.
“Quick, the Amulet,” cried Anthea, and held it up. Rekh-marā held up the one he had snatched from Pheles. The word was spoken, and the two great arches grew on the plunging ship in the shrieking wind under the dark sky. From each Amulet a great and beautiful green light streamed and shone far out over the waves. It illuminated, too, the black faces and jagged teeth of the great rocks that lay not two ships’ lengths from the boat’s peaked nose.