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Well, here are my Persians." A little apart from the Mothon, who, resting his cithara on a fragment of rock, appeared to be absorbed in reflection, stood the men of the East. There were two of them; one of tall stature and noble presence, in the prime of life; the other more advanced in years, of a coarser make, a yet darker complexion, and of a sullen and gloomy countenance.
The Mothon bowed his head gratefully, but the expression on his face retained the same calm and sombre resignation. "Alas," said Cleonice, with the delicacy of female consolation, "who in this life is really free? Have citizens no thraldom in custom and law? Are we not all slaves?" "True. All slaves!" murmured the royal victor. "Envy none, O Alcman.
Was there ever an oracle for Helots?" "There was no repute in the oracles even of Apollo," returned Alcman, "till the Apollo-serving Dorians became conquerors. Oracles are the children of victories." "But there are no victories for us," said the first speaker mournfully. "Never, if ye despair," said the Mothon loftily.
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