“The guardian images have gone and the sacred fire is quenched!”
“Aye,” I answered, “they are gone where you shall go, every one of you, if you dare to touch me. Know that I do not fear for my own life which cannot be taken from me, but for your lives I fear, and for Sidon, which presently shall lack a king—if you dare to touch me. Be silent now and though you deserve it not, I will pray Isis to save you.”
Then gaping on me standing there like one inspired, as indeed I think I was, they were struck to silence and through the roaring gale and flying foam I prayed to Heaven to preserve that ship and those she bore from the grinding rocks on which the surf beat not a mile away.
A marvel happened, whether because the tempest had grown weary of its raging, or because That which hears the prayers of men had accepted my prayer for its own purposes, to this hour I know not. At least the marvel happened, for although the sea still beat and rushed, wave following wave, like white-maned, countless charging steeds, of a sudden the gale died down and there was calm between sky and sea.
“It has pleased the great goddess to hearken to me and to save your lives, yes, even the lives of you who would have murdered her priestess,” I said in a quiet voice. “Now get you to your oars and row as never you rowed before, if you would hold the ship off yonder rocks.”
They gasped. They stared with open mouths! One said,
“Thou art the goddess; thou art the very goddess! Pardon us, pardon us, thy slaves, O Queen of Heaven!”
Then they rushed to their oars and with toil and danger drew the Hapi past the promontory of Carmel where the water boiled upon the rocks, and out into the deep sea beyond.
“What did I say to you, Philo?” I said, as he led me back to the cabin.
He made no answer, only lifting the hem of my garment, he pressed it to his brow.