A javelin singing from the hand of Adherbal flew at him. An imperceptible bending of the body, a red streak on Glaucon’s naked side, and it dug into the deck. Yet whilst it quivered, was out again and hurled through the Cartha[pg 383]ginian’s breast and shoulders. He fell in a heap beside the Libyan.
Another howl from the sailors.
“Not Melkarth, but Baal the Dragon-Slayer. We are lost. Who can contend with him?”
“Cowards!” thundered Hasdrubal, whipping the sword from his thigh, “do you not know these three sniff our true business? If they live when the penteconter comes, it’s not prison but Sheol that’s waiting. Their lives or ours. One rush and we have this madman down!”
But their terrible adversary gave the master no time to gather his myrmidons. One stroke of the axe had already released Phormio, who clutched the arms of his wife.
“The cabin!” the ready-witted fishmonger commanded, and Lampaxo, scarce knowing what she did, released her ungentle hold on Lars and suffered her husband to drag her down the ladder. Glaucon went last; no man loving death enough to come within reach of the axe. Hasdrubal saw his victims escaping under his eyes and groaned.
“There is only one hatchway. We must force it. Darts, belaying-pins, ballast stones—fling anything down. It’s for life or death!”
“The penteconter is four furlongs away!” shrieked a sailor, growing gray under his dark skin.
“And Democrates’s despatches are hid in the cabin,” added Hiram, chattering. “If they do not go overboard, our deaths will be terrible.”
“Hear, King Moloch!” called Hasdrubal, lifting his swarthy arms to heaven, then striking them with his sword till the blood gushed down, “suffer us to escape this calamity and I vow thee even my daughter Tibaït,—a child in her tenth year,—she shall die in thy holy furnace a sacrifice.”