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Updated: May 25, 2025
“I do not love your new fleet, Themistocles,” she said, frowning at the handsome statesman; “I do not love anything that tells so clearly of war. It mars the beauty.” “Rather you should rejoice we have so fair a wooden wall against the Barbarian, dear lady,” answered he, quite at ease. “What can we do to hearten her, Democrates?”
Themistocles? Impossible. Democrates?—“the friend with the understanding heart no less than a brother dear,” as Homer said? More impossible. An unknown enemy, then, had stolen the fleet order from Themistocles? But what man had hated Glaucon? One answer remained,—unwittingly the athlete had offended some god, forgotten some vow, or by sheer good fortune had awakened divine jealousy.
And as in a vision Democrates saw a stranger stepping through the inner portal, as at Lycon’s summons—a man of no huge stature, but masterful in eye and mien. Another Oriental, but not as the obsequious Hiram. Here was a lord to command and be obeyed.
I have adventured on half the cargo of a large merchantman bringing timber and tin from Massalia; I look every day for a messenger from Corinth with news of her safe arrival. Upon her coming I can make good all I owe and still be a passing rich man.” If the Cyprian was discomposed at this announcement, he did not betray it. “The sea is frightfully uncertain, good Democrates.
Many times I heard Hermione named, and yourself once—” “And how?” “The stranger said: ‘So she will not wed Democrates. She loathes him. Aphrodite shed joy on her forever.’ Then Phormio answered him, ‘Therefore, dear Glaucon, you should trust the gods a little longer.’ ” “ ‘Glaucon,’ said he?” Democrates leaped from the chair. “ ‘Glaucon,’ on my oath by the Styx. Then I covered my head and wept.
Instead of looking down as calm and idle spectators on the theatre of Europe, our domestic harmony is somewhat embittered by the infusion of party spirit: our ladies and gentlemen assume the character of self-taught politicians; and the sober dictates of wisdom and experience are silenced by the clamour of the triumphant democrates.
“Treason and blasphemy,” cried Democrates, dropping on his knees, his frame shaking with dishonest passion, “yes! call them so now. They will be blessed truth for me in a month, for me, for you. Hermes the Trickster is a mighty god. He has befriended Eros. I shall possess Athens and possess you. I shall be the most fortunate mortal upon earth as now I am most miserable.
Then she came to herself enough to see that the stranger was a young man in a sailor’s loose dress, his features almost hidden under the dishevelled hair and beard. All this time he uttered no word, but having smitten Democrates down, leaped back, rubbing his hands upon his thigh, as if despising to touch so foul an object. The orator groaned, staggered upward. He wore a sword.
Democrates grew calmer. “You are merciful. You do not know how I was tempted. You will save me.” “I will do all I can.” Themistocles’s voice was solemn as an æolian harp, but the prisoner caught at everything eagerly. “Ah, you can do so much. Pausanias fought the battle, but they call you the true saviour of Hellas. They will do anything you say.”
“The gods will some day explain,” said Clearchus, winding up the argument,—and so for a little while the four forgot all about Glaucon. Despite the cane, Clearchus was right. The visitor was Democrates. The orator mounted the dark stair above the shield-factory and knocked against a door, calling, “Pai! Pai!” “Boy! boy!” a summons answered by none other than the ever smiling Hiram.
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