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“Why, he is sending a letter to Argos,” asserted Cimon. “Now I say Argos has Medized, therefore no good Hellene should correspond with a traitorous Argive.” “Be jury on my treachery,” commanded Glaucon. “Ageladas the master-sculptor sends me a bronze Perseus in honour of my victory. Shall I churlishly send him no thanks because he lives in Argos?”
Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end. And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra promised and did nothing.
“Ah!” Democrates leaned forward and battled against his impatience,—“and what is the matter wherein I can be of service to so deserving a citizen as your husband?” “I fear me,”—Lampaxo put her apron dutifully to her face and began to sniff,—“your Excellency won’t call him ‘deserving’ any more. Hellas knows your Excellency is patriotism itself. The fact is Phormio has ‘Medized.’ ”
“Medized!” The orator started as became an actor. “Gods and goddesses! what trust is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?” “Hear my story, mu! mu!” groaned Lampaxo. “It’s a terrible thing to accuse one’s own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private.”
“But your accent is Athenian?” asked the decarch, with wonderment. “Ay, Athenian,” assented Glaucon. “Curses on you! I thought no Athenian ever Medized. What business had you in the Persian camp? Who of your countrymen are there save the sons of Hippias?” “Not many,” rejoined the fugitive, not anxious to have the questions pushed home.
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