He was again in his splendid armour, his naked sword was in his hand, at his side was stationed Eurybiades and half a score more stalwart seamen, all swinging their bare cutlasses.
Demetrius nevertheless conducted his interrogations with perhaps superfluous demonstrations of courtesy, and a general distribution of polite "domini" "dominae," "clarissimi," and "illustres." He spoke in perfectly good Latin, with only the slightest foreign accent; and Cornelia, who--unregenerate pagan that she was--was taking thorough delight in the dilemma of persons whom she knew had made her the butt of their scandalous gibes, could only admire the skilful manner in which he brought home to the several captives the necessity of finding a very large sum of money at their bankers' in a very short time, or enduring an indefinite captivity.

After more or less of surly threats and resistance on the part of the men, and screaming on the part of the women, the prisoners one and all capitulated, and put their names to the papyri they were commanded to sign; and away went a boat dancing over the waves to Puteoli to cash the money orders, after which the captives would be set ashore at Baiae.
Last of the wretches brought before Demetrius came Phaon.

The freedman had been roughly handled; across his brow a great welt had risen where a pirate had struck him with a rope's end.

His arms were pinioned behind his back.

He was perfectly pale, and his eyes wandered from one person to another as if vainly seeking some intercessor.
"_Euge! Kyrios_[170]" cried the pirate chief, "you indeed seem to enjoy our hospitality but ill." [170] Your Highness.
Phaon fell on his knees.
"I am a poor man," he began to whimper.