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“Delightful, no doubt” replied the statesman, “though Zeus spare me fighting one against ten! But what god possessed you to meddle in this brawl, and imperil all chances for to-morrow?” “I was returning from practice at the palæstra. I saw the lad beset and knew he was not Dexippus’s slave. I ran to help him. I thought no more about it.” “And risked everything for a sly-eyed Oriental.
Here’s Dexippus’s slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and don’t you hinder.” He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand, seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his fellows. “Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists!
He would have been swept off in ungentle custody had not a strong hand intervened in his favor. “A moment, good citizens,” called a voice in clear Attic. “Release this lad. I know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.” The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.
It is only an unlucky misunderstanding. You are quite satisfied, I am sure, Master Bronze-Dealer?” The Sicyonian, who saw in a riot the ruin of his evening’s trade, nodded gladly. “He says there was no thieving, and he is entirely satisfied. He thanks you for your friendly zeal. The Oriental was not Dexippus’s slave, and Xerxes does not need such boys for spies.
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