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As the question was repeated, the scrutiny grew yet closer. The soldiers were pressing around, one comrade leaning over another’s shoulder. Twenty saw the fugitive’s form straighten as he stood in the morning twilight. “I am Glaucon of Athens, Isthmionices!” “Ah!” Leonidas’s jaw dropped for an instant. He showed no other astonishment, but the listening Spartans raised a yell. “Death!
He’s strong and desperate. Bias and I will wait and guard him. If you stir, traitor,—” she was holding a heavy meat-knife at the fugitive’s throat,—“I’ll slit your weasand like a chicken.” But for once in his life Phormio defied his tyrant effectively. With one hand he tore the weapon from her clutch, the other closed her screaming mouth. “Are you mad yourself? Will you rouse the neighbourhood?
Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor’s cloak of hair-cloth. To fling this over Glaucon’s rent chiton took an instant, another instant to clap on the fugitive’s head a brimless red cap. “Euge!—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is dangerous.
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