"He will get us out," thought the slave.

For an hour the swift ship fought with the waves. The oarsmen were
rowing for their lives. The master's arm was strong, and his heart was
not for a minute afraid. The wind was helping. At last they reached calm
waters.

"Thanks be to the gods!" cried Tetreius. "We are out of that boiling
pot."

At his words fire shot out of the mountain. It glowed red in the dusty
air. It flung great red arms across the sky after the ship. Every man
and spar and oar on the vessel seemed burning in its light. Then the
fire died, and thick darkness swallowed everything. Ariston's heart
seemed smothered in his breast. He heard the slaves on the rowers'
benches scream with fear. Then he heard their leader crying to them. He
heard a whip whiz through the air and strike on bare shoulders. Then
there was a crash as though the mountain had clapped its hands. A
thicker shower of ashes filled the air. But the rowers were at their
oars again. The ship was flying.

So for two hours or more Tetreius and his men fought for safety. Then
they came out into fresher air and calmer water. Tetreius left the
rudder. "Let the men rest and thank the gods," he said to his overseer.
"We have come up out of the grave."

When Ariston heard that, he remembered the Death he had left painted
on his master's wall. By that time the picture was surely buried under
stones and ashes. The boy covered his face with his ragged chiton and