“That’s part of Tyre, too,” said the Captain; “it’s where the great merchants have their pleasure-houses and gardens and farms.” “Look, look!” Cyril cried suddenly; “what a lovely little ship!” A ship in full sail was passing swiftly through the fishing fleet. The Captain’s face changed. He frowned, and his eyes blazed with fury. “Insolent young barbarian!” he cried. “Do you call the ships of Tyre _little?_ None greater sail the seas. That ship has been on a three years’ voyage. She is known in all the great trading ports from here to the Tin Islands. She comes back rich and glorious. Her very anchor is of silver.” “I’m sure we beg your pardon,” said Anthea hastily. “In our country we say ‘little’ for a pet name. Your wife might call you her dear little husband, you know.” “I should like to catch her at it,” growled the Captain, but he stopped scowling. “It’s a rich trade,” he went on. “For cloth _once_ dipped, second-best glass, and the rough images our young artists carve for practice, the barbarian King in Tessos lets us work the silver mines. We get so much silver there that we leave them our iron anchors and come back with silver ones.” “How splendid!” said Robert. “Do go on. What’s cloth once dipped?” “You _must_ be barbarians from the outer darkness,” said the Captain scornfully. “All wealthy nations know that our finest stuffs are twice dyed—dibaptha. They’re only for the robes of kings and priests and princes.” “What do the rich merchants wear,” asked Jane, with interest, “in the pleasure-houses?” “They wear the dibaptha. _Our_ merchants _are_ princes,” scowled the skipper. “Oh, don’t be cross, we do so like hearing about things. We want to know _all_ about the dyeing,” said Anthea cordially. “Oh, you do, do you?” growled the man. “So that’s what you’re here for? Well, you won’t get the secrets of the dye trade out of _me_.” He went away, and everyone felt snubbed and uncomfortable. And all the time the long, narrow eyes of the Egyptian were watching, watching. They felt as though he was watching them through the darkness, when they lay down to sleep on a pile of cloaks. Next morning the baskets were drawn up full of what looked like whelk shells. The children were rather in the way, but they made themselves as small as they could. While the skipper was at the other end of the boat they did ask one question of a sailor, whose face was a little less unkind than the others. “Yes,” he answered, “this is the dye-fish. It’s a sort of murex—and there’s another kind that they catch at Sidon and then, of course, there’s the kind that’s used for the dibaptha. But that’s quite different. It’s—” “Hold your tongue!” shouted the skipper. And the man held it.