Before Pisander could remonstrate further Alfidius had caught up Agias
as if he had been an infant, and carried him, while moaning and
pleading, out of the room. Iasus was still trembling. He was not a
knave--simply unheroic, and he knew that he had committed the basest
of actions. Semiramis and Arsinoë were both very pale, but spoke never
a word. Arsinoë looked pityingly after the poor boy, for she had grown
very fond of his bright words and obliging manners. For some minutes
there was, in fact, perfect silence in the boudoir.

Alfidius carried his victim out into the slaves' quarters in the rear
of the house; there he bound his hands and called in the aid of an
assistant to help him execute his mistress's stern mandate.

Agias had been born for far better things than to be a slave. His
father had been a cultured Alexandrine Greek, a banker, and had given
his young son the beginnings of a good education. But the rascality of
a business partner had sent the father to the grave bankrupt, the son
to the slave-market to satisfy the creditors. And now Alfidius and his
myrmidon bound their captive to a furca, a wooden yoke passing down
the back of the neck and down each arm. The rude thongs cut the flesh
cruelly, and the wretches laughed to see how the delicate boy writhed
and faltered under the pain and the load.

"Ah, ha! my fine _Furcifer_,"[45] cried Alfidius, when this work was
completed. "How do you find yourself?"

[45] Furca-bearer, a coarse epithet.

"Do you mock at me, you '_three letter man_'?" retorted Agias in grim