Melas had not waited to be told. He had already seized the lamb, but it struggled hard to get away, and between the lamb and the eels there was a disturbance that threatened to upset the boat.
"Sit still," roared the captain. "Have you no sense? Do you all want to go to the bottom?"
"May Poseidon defend us!" cried the old woman with the bread. "I've no wish to be made into eel-bait."
"Nor I," said one of the farmers angrily. "You'd better kill your lambs before you take them to market," he said to Melas; "it will be safer for the rest of us."
"The lamb is not for market," Melas answered. "I would not dare kill it.
It bears a portent on its brow!"
"A portent?" gasped the old woman.
"May all the Gods defend us! What portent?" Melas pointed to the horn.
"It has but one horn," he said.
They all became still at once. They all looked at the lamb. They all felt of his horn. Their eyes grew big.
"There was never such a thing known," said the farmer.
"Whose is the lamb?" asked another. "Is it yours?"