Agias, who was quite near, could hear their conversation.
"The yacht is not ready for us." "We cannot delay a moment." There was a large open boat moored to the quay, a fisher man's craft.
In a moment a few subalterns had taken possession of it and there was a call for rowers.

Agias, who, like all his race, never declined a chance "to see or hear some new thing," took his seat on one of the benches, and soon the craft shot away from the mole with the three officers in its stern.
It was a short pull to the Pompeian ships; Agias, as he glanced over his shoulder thought he could see a motion on board the vessels as if to sheer away from the boat; but in a moment the little craft was alongside, under the lee of the flagship.
"Where is Pompeius Magnus ?" cried Achillas, rising from his seat; "we are sent to carry him to the king." A martial, commanding figure was seen peering over the side,--a figure that every inhabitant of Rome knew right well.
"I am he; but why do you come thus meanly with only a fisher's boat?
Is this honourable, is this worthy of a great king's guest ?" "Assuredly, kyrios," began Achillas, "we are forced to come in this small craft, because the water is too shallow for larger ships to approach the shore." Agias knew that this was a lie; he was very certain that he was about to be witness to a deed of the darkest treachery.

A vague feeling of shrinking and horror froze his limbs, and made his tongue swell in his mouth.

Yet he was perfectly powerless to warn; a sign or a word would have meant his instant death.
"_Salve_, Imperator!" shouted Septimius in Latin, rising in turn.
"Don't you remember the campaign I had with you against the pirates ?" The fugitive general's care-worn face lighted up at the recognition of an old officer.
"_Eu!_" he answered, "I shall not want for good friends, I see! How glad I shall be to grasp your hands! But is not this a very small boat?
I see men going on board the galleys by the shore." "You shall be satisfied in a moment, kyrios," repeated Achillas, with suave assurance, "that the quicksands by the mole are very dangerous to large vessels.

Will you do us the honour to come aboard ?" Agias felt as though he must howl, scream, spring into the sea--do anything to break the horrible suspense that oppressed him.
A woman was taking leave of Pompeius on the deck, a tall, stately, patrician lady, with a sweet, trouble-worn face; Agias knew that she was Cornelia Scipionis.