Because the black sail made it Theseus' ship. And legend said Theseus left Crete with Ariadne. Burke ran for the point closest to the water; stared tight-lipped at the long, slim vessel. Scarlet caught his eye--the scarlet of a woman's bright-striped cloak. The same cloak Ariadne had swirled for him so prettily, perhaps--? Burke dived from his point, straight down into the river. With all his strength, he swam to intercept the slowly-drifting long ship. Now those aboard had glimpsed him. Men pointed. Women's voices rose, thin on the morning breeze. Burke plowed the water closer ... closer.... And now a brawny, familiar figure came striding to the bow: Theseus, Hero of Athens. Burke swam the harder. Just a dozen strokes more-- Almost, it seemed as if he could reach out and touch Theseus. The Athenian leaned forward--face stiff, teeth bared, eyes bright with malice. Then his arm came up and back, and Burke saw he gripped a spear. Theseus hurled the weapon in the same instant. Desperately, Burke tried to throw himself aside. But the waves, the water, slowed his movements. The spear struck home, deep in his shoulder. In spite of himself, Burke cried out. And now Theseus caught up another spear and poised to throw it. Burke drove the air from his lungs in a gust. He sank like a rock, turning over and over, as the rush of the Amnissus into the sea carried him along. But at least there were no more spears; and after a long moment when it seemed his lungs must surely burst, he fought his way back to the surface, and drank in air, and then floated till he could grit his teeth and tear Theseus' javelin from his shoulder. After that, there was the long swim back to shore--a swim against the current, this time. By the time Burke made it, Theseus' ship was toy-size in the distance. For his own part, and what with fatigue and pain and loss of blood, Burke wasn't at all sure that he cared whether he lived or died. Stumbling up from the water onto a narrow strip of beach, he crumpled face-down before he'd gone ten steps. Half in delirium, thinking of Ariadne, he almost sobbed aloud. The delirium grew. He knew it did, because now he could even hear her calling to him dimly, as from afar. Only then the voice came closer: "Dion, Dion! Please, my lord Dion, speak to me!" Hands lifted his head; cradled it in soft arms. Tender fingers smoothed his hair and brushed the sand from his face. With a tremendous effort, Burke opened his eyes. And there was Ariadne. It took him a full minute to know he wasn't dreaming, or in that dark half-world between reality and hallucination. Then, at last, incredibly, it was true, and she was with him, her salt tears spattering his face faster than she could wipe them away. "Oh, my lord Dion ..." she whispered, again and again, "My Dion, my Dion!" Burke said hoarsely, "Ariadne, what happened? I thought--How'd you get here?"