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He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis. “Guilty—I vote guilty,” the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower. “Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; “you’re not condemning any poor scoundrel now.” “Ai! ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “I only thought I was dropping the black bean—” “Against whom?” quoth Crito, the fat contractor. “Whom?

At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as Agis. “Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a ‘steward’ of the procession to-day,” wondered Crito.

Shall then a noble man appear inferior to Polus, so as not to act well every character imposed upon him by Divine Providence; and shall he not imitate Ulysses, who even in rags was no less conspicuous than in the curled nap of his purple cloak?"

Quod vtique non est ita, quod existentibus in Iudaea eleuatur multum polus arcticus.

You’ll be enlightened to-morrow,” said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, “Ah, me,—I wish I could afford to serve in the cavalry. It’s far safer than tugging a spear on foot. But there’s one young man out yonder on whose horse I’d not gladly be sitting.” “Phui,” complained Clearchus, “you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and bones!

Polus trusts his heart and not his head in voting ‘guilty,’ so I trust it voting ‘innocent.’ ” “I warn you,” Glaucon spoke rapidly, “I’ve no claim on your friendship. If your part in this is discovered, you know our juries.” “That I know,” laughed Phormio, grimly, “for I know dear Polus. So now my own cloak and we are off.”

Slowly he was recovering strength and wit. “I have nothing to confess,” he spoke, “nothing. I know nothing of this Persian spy. Can I swear the god’s own oathby Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—” Themistocles shook his head wearily. “How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?” “Never. Never!” “Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?” “A forgery.” “Impossible.

The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the leschesthe numerous little club houses about itoverran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus’s booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored.

Do you not see that Polus acted the part of Oedipus in his royal state with no less beauty of voice than that of Oedipus in Colonos, a wanderer and beggar?

Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!” The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night.