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Updated: June 25, 2025
A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.” “He ruined Glaucon,” said Hermione, tearfully. “At least,” returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel things, “he has never been a traitor to his country.” Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phœnix in the cradle.
“Little one, little one,” she said, while he beamed up at her, “you have not to avenge your father now. You have a better, greater task, to be as fair in body and still more in mind as he.” Then came the rush of tears, the sobbing, the laughter, and Lysistra and Cleopis, who feared the shock of too much joy, were glad. The Nausicaä bore them to Peiræus.
If the tale was not of perfect workmanship at all points, there was no one with interest to gainsay it. A few ran up the hill slope, but the sailor was nowhere in sight. Hermione was still speechless. They made a litter of oars and sail-cloth and carried her to her mother. Democrates oiled Cleopis’s palm well, that she should tell nothing amiss to Lysistra.
And last of all he saw those his gaze hungered for the most, Hermippus, Lysistra, and another standing at their side all in white, and in her arms she bore something he knew must be her child,—Hermione’s son, his son, born to the lot of a free man of Athens or a slave of Xerxes according as his elders played their part this day.
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