The skipper was then summoned.

"You have done well, my friend," said the master. "Spare not sail or oar
now, but make Byzantium without looking into any wayside port. I will
increase your pay in proportion as you shorten the time we are out. Look
to it--go--and speed you."

Afterward the slaves in turn kept watch while he slept. And though the
coming and going of sailors was frequent, not one of them noticed the
oil-stained water-skin cast carelessly near the master's pillow, or the
negro's shaggy half-cloak, serving as a wrap for the roll, the emerald,
and the sword once Solomon's.

The run of the galley from the nameless bay near Sidon was without stop
or so much as a headwind. Always the blue sky above the deck, and the
blue sea below. In daytime the master passenger would occasionally pause
in his walk along the white planks, and, his hand on the gunwale, give a
look at some of the landmarks studding the ancient Cycladean Sea, an
island here, or a tall promontory of the continent yonder, possibly an
Olympian height faintly gray in the vaster distance. His manner at such
moments did not indicate a traveller new to the highway. A glance at the
points such as business men closely pressed give the hands on the face
of a clock to determine the minute of the hour, and he would resume
walking. At night he slept right soundly.

From the Dardanelles into the Hellespont; then the Marmora. The captain
would have coasted, but the passenger bade him keep in the open. "There
is nothing to fear from the weather," he said, "but there is time to be
saved."