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And now that the intent of her parents ever more clearly dawned on her, she was close upon despair. Hermippus, however,—whatever his purpose,—was considerate, nay kindly. He regarded Hermione’s feelings as pardonable, if not laudable. He would wait for time to soothe her.
So be with me on the morrow, and I will not forget thy favour.” The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates took comfort. Hermes was a great god and would help him. When the song of the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back Hermione’s face and asking one triumphant question:— “She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?”
“Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it,” he declared lightly. “A fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm.” The mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates. The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback.
Above Hermione’s head rose a few blackened columns,—all that was left of the holy house of Athena,—but the crystalline air and the red Rock of the Acropolis no Persian had been able to take away. And even as Hermione crossed the Agora she heard a shouting, a word running from lip to lip as a wave leaps over the sea. In the centre of the buzzing mart she stopped.
Then by Zeus I swear the secret no doubt is not worth the knowing.” Cimon stopped suddenly, as he saw a look of horror on Hermione’s face. “Ah, lady! what’s the matter?” “Glaucon,” she groaned, “frightful omen! I am terrified!” Glaucon’s hands dropped at her cry. He himself paled slightly.
A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.” “He ruined Glaucon,” said Hermione, tearfully. “At least,” returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel things, “he has never been a traitor to his country.” Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phœnix in the cradle.
Hermione’s dislike for her husband’s destroyer was natural,—nay, in bounds, laudable,—but one must not give way too much to women’s phantasies. The lady was making a Cyclops of Democrates by sheer imagination; an interview would dispel her prejudices. Therefore Hermippus planned, and his plan was not hard to execute.
Enough that he will grow up fair as the Delian Apollo and an unspeakable joy to his mother.” “Her only joy,” was Hermione’s icy answer. “Wrap up the child, Cleopis. My father is coming. It is a long walk home to the city.” With a rustle of white Hermione went down the slope in advance of her mother. Hermippus and Lysistra were not pleased.
Enough that Hermione’s hands were pressing her husband, and these two cared not whether a thousand watched or only Helios on high. Penelope was greeting the returning Odysseus:—
Under Hermione’s window, as she gazed up and down the street, jostled the army of fugitives, women old and young, shrinking from the bustle and uproar, grandsires on their staves, boys driving the bleating goats or the patient donkeys piled high with pots and panniers, little girls tearfully hugging a pet puppy or hen.
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