sent him beside them, and, to his unutterable astonishment, he beheld in the person who was battling with Agias for possession of the float none other than Pratinas.  There are times when nothing has opportunity to appear wonderful.  This moment was one of these.  Actions, not words, were wanted.  The elder Greek had made shift to draw a dagger, and was making a vicious effort to stab the other, who had gripped him round the neck with a tenacity that would end only with life.  One stroke of Drusus’s fist as he surged alongside the wreckage sent the dagger flying; and in a twinkling he had borne Pratinas down and had him pinioned fast on the planking of the rude raft.  There was a great shout rising from the enemy on the mole.  A few darts spat in the water beside the fugitives; but at the sight of the approaching galley the Alexandrians gave way, for on her decks were swarming archers and slingers, and her powerful ballistae were already working havoc.  The pulsations of her banks of oars grew slower as she swept up to the fugitives, the great column of white spray curling around her prow sank, and while she drifted past them a boat shot forth.  In a minute Drusus was standing on her deck, and the sailors were passing up Pratinas, still feebly resisting, and Agias, who was weak and helpless with his wounds.  On the poop Caesar was conversing with a seaman of magnificent presence, who was in the act of assuring the Imperator that his vessel and crew were at the general’s service.

III

The boats of the rescuer were pulling about, taking up such few Romans as had been able to keep afloat; but Drusus was too exhausted to give them further heed.  He realized that the vessel he was aboard was no member of the Roman squadron, that its crew were neither Caesarians nor Alexandrians.  Deft hands aided him off with his water-soaked clothing, and placed bandages on his bruises and cuts.  A beaker of spiced wine, the like of which he had never drunk before, sent a thrill of reinvigorated life through his veins.  When he came back upon the deck he found Caesar—­pale, yet, as ever, active and untiring—­still conversing with the captain of the vessel.  The Imperator had a bandage drawn across his forehead, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for his recent danger.  The galley, under a swinging oar, was pulling back across the “Great Harbour” to the palace quay.  The battle was over; four hundred good Roman lives had been lost, but the disaster had not entailed any serious compromise of Caesar’s position.  There was no need of continuing at the Pharos, and it was well to assure the anxious garrison at the palace-fortress that their general was safe and sound.

Drusus, as the one thing natural under the circumstances, went to the captain of his rescuers to express his obligation and gratitude.

“This is Quintus Livius Drusus,” said Caesar, good-naturedly, already at his ease, to the strange commander, “who serves on my staff.  In saving him I owe you a debt, O Demetrius, in addition to my own rescue.”