"You here, Pyrrhus?" cried the wounded man kindly.

"Yes, master, it is I," replied the stalwart fellow, twirling his sailor
hat still faster. "Listening isn't exactly my trade, and I don't usually
enter your presence uninvited; but I couldn't help hearing what came
through the door, and the croaking of the old raven drew me in."

"I wish you had heard more cheerful things," replied Dion; "but the
brown-skinned bird of ill omen usually sings pleasant songs, and they all
come from a faithful heart. But when my silent Pyrrhus opens his mouth
so far, something important must surely follow, and you can speak freely
in her presence."

The sailor cleared his throat, gripped his coarse felt hat in his sinewy
hands, and said, in such a tremulous, embarrassed tone that his heavy
chin quivered and his voice sometimes faltered: "If the woman is to be
trusted, you must leave here, master, and seek some safe hiding-place.
I came to offer one. On my way I heard your name. It was said that you
had wounded the Queen's son, and it might cost you your life. Then I
thought: 'No, no, not that, so long as Pyrrhus lives, who taught his
young master Dion to use the oars and to set his first sail--Pyrrhus and
his family.' Why repeat what we both know well enough? From my first
boat and the land on our island to the liberty you bestowed upon us, we
owe everything to your father and to you, and a blessing has rested upon
your gift and our labour, and what is mine is yours. No more words are
needed. You know our cliff beyond the Alveus Steganus, north of the
great harbour--the Isle of Serpents. It is quickly gained by any one who
knows the course through the water, but is as inaccessible to others as
the moon and stars. People are afraid of the mere name, though we rid