The smile which flickered upon the old patrician's keen features died
away suddenly, and his fingers closed upon his companion's wrist.
The other had set rigid, his head advanced, his hawk eyes upon the
northern skyline. Its straight, blue horizon was broken by two low
black dots.

"Galleys!" whispered Gisco.

The whole crew had seen them. They clustered along the starboard
bulwarks, pointing and chattering. For a moment the gloom of defeat was
lifted, and a buzz of joy ran from group to group at the thought that
they were not alone--that some one had escaped the great carnage as well
as themselves.

"By the spirit of Baal," said Black Magro, "I could not have believed
that any could have fought clear from such a welter. Could it be young
Hamilcar in the _Africa_, or is it Beneva in the blue Syrian ship?
We three with others may form a squadron and make head against them yet.
If we hold our course, they will join us ere we round the harbour mole."

Slowly the injured galley toiled on her way, and more swiftly the two
newcomers swept down from the north. Only a few miles off lay the green
point and the white houses which flanked the great African city.
Already, upon the headland, could be seen a dark group of waiting
townsmen. Gisco and Magro were still watching with puckered gaze the
approaching galleys, when the brown Libyan boatswain, with flashing
teeth and gleaming eyes, rushed upon the poop, his long thin arm
stabbing to the north.

"Romans!" he cried. "Romans!"