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“Shall I thank the murderer of my friend?” “Even when that friend has wronged you?” “Silence! What do you mean?” Even in the flickering lamplight Democrates could see the Spartan’s evil smile. “Of course—Hermione.” “Silence, by the infernal gods! Who are you, Cyclops, for her name to cross your teeth?” “I’m not angry. Yet you will thank me to-morrow.
The Athenian, whose roving eye had just caught Cimon and Democrates in the audience, seemed never to hear him. “And you are passing stalwart. Still, be advised. I wouldn’t harm you, so drop out early.” Still no answer from Glaucon, whose clear eye seemed now to be wandering over the bare hills of Megara beyond.
And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried, “Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.” Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered!
Here old Cleopis found her, took her in her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphæus chasing Arethusa—a song more fit for Phœnix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the world and himself.
The officers ranged themselves and saluted stiffly. Themistocles stood before them, his hands closed over the packet. The first time he started to speak his lips closed desperately. The silence grew awkward. Then the admiral gave his head a toss, and drew his form together as a runner before a race. “Democrates is a traitor. Unless Athena shows us mercy, Hellas is lost.”
“O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn silently against me?” No answer. “And you, Hermippus?” No answer again. “And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the world?” The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to Democrates.
“We have enough of this direful comedy,” declared Democrates, pale himself. “Only one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves, and hale the traitor to prison.” He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione. She had her back against the door before the orator could open. “Hold,” she commanded, “for you are doing murder!”
Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. “I leave you to faithful guardians. Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a victory. So take courage.” “Chaire! chaire!” called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to follow the slave-boy. Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves, were touched by the red glow dying behind Acro-Corinthus.
The words rose to his lips, the lips refused to utter them. The Prince, who had delivered his threat most quietly, went on, “In short, good Democrates, I was aware before I came to Athens of our necessities, and I came because I was certain I could relieve them.” “Never!” The orator shot the word out desperately. “You are a Hellene.” “Am I ashamed of it?”
And you—you are Phormio, husband and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against me,—you are the slave of Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus soften you!—already clamour for my worthless life, as all Athens does to-morrow!” Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected she lost at once arguments and breath.
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