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“Ah, kyria; pardon the word, it’s overcold; makaira, I’d say more gladly,” Democrates was marvellously at his ease despite her frowns, “your noble father will take nothing amiss if I ask you to sit again that we may talk together.” “I do not think so.” Hermione drew herself up at full height. But Democrates deliberately placed himself in the path up the hillside.
“And so Bias at once told you?” Hermione could not forbear a smile, but her gesture was of desperation. “O Father Zeus—only the testimony of a slave to lean on, I a weak woman and Democrates one of the chief men in Athens! O for strength to wring out all the bitter truth!” “Peace, kyria,” said Phormio, not ungently, “Aletheia, Mistress Truth, is a patient dame, but she says her word at last.
So the Athenian sat and mused, now sadly, now with a gleam of brightness, for she was too young to have her sun clouded always. A speaker near by her called her out of her reverie. “You sit long, kyria, and gaze forth as if you were Zeus in Olympus and could look on all the world.”
Hermippus is resolved to make the kyria wed him, however bitterly she resists. It’s taken a long time for her father to determine to break her will, but now his mind’s made up. The betrothal is in three days, the wedding ten days thereafter.” The sailor had dropped her hand. She shrank at the pallor of his face. He seemed struggling for words; when they came she made nothing of them.
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