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
wept. He hardly knew what he was crying for--the slavery, the picture,
the buried city, the fear of that horrid night, the sorrows of the
people left back there, his father, his dear home in Athens. At last
he fell asleep. The night was horrible with dreams--fire, earthquake,
strangling ashes, cries, thunder, lightning.
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