“Come here, Egyptian!” said Glaucus, beckoning to the oldest of the sailors, a bald, grey-bearded man of very singular aspect.
He had been dubbed “Egyptian” because for many years he had sailed to Busiris, Bubastis, and other cities on the Nile. No one had ever seen him wear anything except a garment of braided mats, through which his lean arms and legs looked like a little child’s first rude drawings of the human figure. His skin seemed tanned by the Libyan sun and never appeared clean, and his mouth was a tightly closed straight line as if he had no lips. It might be supposed that few words escaped them.
“What do you think, Egyptian?” said Glaucus, raising his voice—the man was somewhat deaf.
“The rustling of a fig-leaf,”[N] replied the Egyptian curtly, shrugging his shoulders.
[N] A false alarm.
“What kind of craft do you think she is?” asked Glaucus.
“A Myoparian,” was the reply.
Myoparian (nimble as a mouse) was the name given to small swift-sailing ships belonging to the Cyclades. In earlier times they had often been used to plunder trading-vessels, but at this date were employed only for peaceful purposes and had the best reputation.
The Egyptian’s statement was therefore eagerly welcomed.
“The man is right,” said one of the Phoenician merchants, stroking his braided beard. “How often small ships are seen following large ones! It is partly because their captains think the steersmen of large vessels have more experience and partly because they hope for a refuge in case of need.”