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These are serious tidings, Democrates,” remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his voice seldom betrayed. “Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in Hellas explains many things.” “I do not understand.”

There was a sword lying on the tripod by which Democrates stood; he regretted for all the rest of his life that he had not seized it and ended the snakelike Oriental then and there. The impulse came, and went. The opportunity never returned. The orator’s head dropped down upon his breast.

I’ve heard that story of ‘Medizing,’ ” interrupted Democrates, promptly; “I can assure you it is not true.” “Enough if he’s suspected,” cried the uncompromising son of Miltiades; “honest Hellenes should not even be blown upon in times like this. Another reason then for hating him—”

Themistocles was the first to kiss him. Little Simonides wept. Cimon, trying to embrace the victor, hugged in the confusion a dirty Platæan. Democrates seemed lost in the whirlpool, and came with greetings later. Perhaps he had stopped to watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the foot-race.

I gave the stranger a fine pillow and a blanket embroidered by Stephanium, she was my great-aunt, and left it to me by will, and the beautiful red wool was from Byzantium—” “But you spoke of Critias?” Democrates could scarce keep upon his seat. “Yes, kyrie. Well, I warned Phormio not to give him any more wine. Then I went up the ladder.

As their arms parted, the bow-bearer spoke three words in earnest whisper:— “Beware of Democrates.” “What do you mean?” “I can say no more. Yet be wise. Beware of Democrates.” The attendants, faithful body-servants of Mardonius, and mute witnesses of all that passed, were thrusting the skiff into the water. There were no long farewells.

At present you are ‘watching the moon,’ as you say here in Athens,—I mean, that at the end of this month you must account to the people for all the money you have handled, and at this hour are at your wits’ ends to know whence the repayment will come.” “That is all you know of me?” “All.” Democrates sighed with relief. “Then you have yet to complete the story, my dear Barbarian.

Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The Athenians aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who gives us victory!” “And the traitors?” Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy. “Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered by Aristeides’s tents.”

As their feet sounded on the ladder in the companionway, Themistocles turned on the outlaw, it seemed, fiercely. “Tell your story.” Glaucon told it: the encounter on the hillside at Trœzene, the seizure in Phormio’s house, the coming of Democrates and his boasts over the captives, the voyage and the pursuing.

On the way homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans, and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction.