"Not at this season of the year," said Sigurd. "But what are those? Look yonder! The Romans wear no turbans. O jarl."
"Bid them on board!" shouted Ulric. "I would question them. Throw them a rope!"
It was a long thong of twisted hide that was cast out toward Ben Ezra and his companions, but it came too late. In a moment their escape had been seen by the legionaries. They were true to their soldier discipline. They themselves must die, but it was their duty to prevent the departure from the quinquereme of any prisoners. Such as attempted it must be slain. So the pila flew fast and even arrows were sent.
"Ben Ezra, I am smitten!" gasped one of the younger swimmers.
"Thou?" groaned Ben Ezra; but in an instant more, he added: "O God of Hosts! My son also! My only son! My Benjamin!"
"Father!" cried out the second youth, in agony, "the spear of the heathen! I die! I die!"
"My son!" again mourned Ben Ezra. "I care not to live! Let me perish with thee!"
Nevertheless, he had grasped the thong of twisted hide and the instinct of self-preservation was strong enough to make him cling to it. Moreover, he had taken three of the short oars, instead of only two, and on these he was buoying up what seemed a small casket of wood. He was doing so with difficulty, and now he exclaimed:
"The jewels! The gold! I must not lose them. They are priceless. The centurion knoweth not that I have them. Not only mine are here, but the prætor's also. O Jehovah of Hosts! Thou hast smitten the heathen! That spear fell short. Ha!"
A pilum struck the oars and Ben Ezra struggled hard for his treasure, but he succeeded in retaining it.