“Ah! you carrion meat,” shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the helpless creature’s nose. “Honest men have their day at last. There’s a gay hour coming before Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus.”
“Peace,” commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio’s shouts, Lampaxo’s howls, and Hiram’s moans was at his wit’s end. “Has no one on this ship kept aboard his senses?”
“If you will be so good, sir captain,” the third Hellene at last broke his silence, “you will hearken to me.”
“Who are you?”
“The prōreus of the Alcyone of Melos. More of myself hereafter. But if you love the weal of Hellas, demand of this Hiram where he concealed the treasonable despatches he received at Trœzene and now has aboard.”
“Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always gliding around Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way to get them. Now, black-hearted Cyclops,”—Cimon’s tone was not gentle,—“where are your papers?”
Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.
“Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none.”
“Bah!” threw out Cimon, “I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still? Good, see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a miracle. A cord and belaying-pin, Naon.”
The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phœnician’s forehead with a fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull.