There was a strange jargon of voices calling in some Oriental tongue; and Demetrius, as he ran, answered them in a like language.

Then over Agias's head and into the thick press of the mob behind, something--arrows no doubt--flew whistling; and there were groans and cries of pain.

And Agias found uncouth, bearded men helping or rather casting him over the side of the vessel.
The yacht was alive with men: some were bounding ashore to loose the hawsers, others were lifting ponderous oars, still more were shooting fast and cruelly in the direction of the mob, while its luckless leaders struggled to turn in flight, and the multitude behind, ignorant of the slaughter, was forcing them on to death.

Above the clamour, the howls of the mob, the shouts of the sailors, the grating of oars, and the creaking of cables, rang the voice of Demetrius; and at his word a dozen ready hands put each command into action.

The narrow, easy-moving yacht caught the current; a long tier of white oars glinted in the torchlight, smote the water, and the yacht bounded away, while a parting flight of arrows left misery and death upon the quay.
Agias, sorely bewildered, clambered on to the little poop.