Glaucus, who had watched the scene, pressed his wife’s hand.
“The envious wretches!” he exclaimed with suppressed fury. “It was my best and handsomest ship.”
Charicleia raised her eyes to heaven in mute accusation.
Soon after both were brought before Thyamis, who sat in all his splendor upon a sort of throne at the stern. As they approached he rose with a courtesy that boded ill.
“Do not imagine, Glaucus,” he said “that it is my intention to detain you and your wife captive to extort a ransom. We Barbarians, though inferior to you, are also men of honor. Athenian, depart in peace to your native city.”
The pirates now brought a ladder and fastened it outside of the ship, so that the end touched the water; then they formed two ranks, holding flaring torches to light the descent to the sea.
“I salute you, Glaucus!” added Thyamis, pointing to the ladder: “The way is open. You and your wife are free!”
Glaucus stood as though petrified by this grewsome jest. But the pirates pressed upon him with their torches and compelled him and his wife to approach the ladder. Charicleia was deadly pale, and trembled so that she could scarcely stand. Glaucus clasped her hand, whispering:
“Take courage! Your dearest wish will be fulfilled. Did you not say: ‘Let death come when and as it will, if it only snatches us away together.’ And did you not yourself accept the omen?”
The young wife’s eyes filled with tears.