Hasdrubal redoubled his vows to Moloch. In place of his daughter he substituted his son, though the lad was fourteen years old and the darling of his parents. But the god was not tempted even now. The attack on the cabin had called the sailors from the oars. The penteconter consequently had gained fast upon them. The trireme behind was manning her other banks and drawing down apace. Hiram cast a hopeless glance toward her.
“I know those ‘eyes’—those red hawse-holes—the Nausicaä. Come what may, Themistocles must not read the packet in the cabin. There is one chance.”
He approached the splintered hatchway and outstretched his hands—weaponless.
“Ah, good and gracious Master Glaucon, and your honest friends, your gods of Hellas are very great and have delivered us, your poor slaves, into your hands. Your friends approach. We will resist no longer. Come on deck; and when the ship is taken, entreat the navarch to be merciful and generous.”
“Bah!” spat Phormio, “you write your promises in water, or better in oil, black-scaled viper. We know what time of day it is with us, and what for you.”
Hiram saw Glaucon’s hand rise with a javelin, and shrank shivering.
“They won’t hearken. All’s lost,” he whimpered, his smile becoming ghastly.
“Another rush, men!” pleaded Hasdrubal.
“Lead the charge yourself, master!” retorted the seamen, sullenly.
The captain, swinging a cutlass, leaped down the bloodstained hatch. One moment the desperate fury of his attack carried Glaucon backward. The two fought—sword against axe—in doubtful combat.