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Updated: May 26, 2025
Clearer, clearer in his ears was ringing Æschylus’s song of the Furies. He could not silence it. “With scourge and with ban We prostrate the man Who with smooth-woven wile And a fair-facèd smile Hath planted a snare for his friend! Though fleet, we shall find him; Though strong, we shall bind him, Who planted a snare for his friend!”
“With scourge and with ban We prostrate the man, Who with smooth-woven wile, And a fair-facèd smile Hath planted a snare for his friend. Though fleet, we shall find him; Though strong, we shall bind him, Who planted a snare for his friend.” Democrates approached the bust of Hermes standing in one corner. The brazen face seemed to wear a smile of malignant gladness at the fulfilment of his will.
That was not all Themistocles said, that was all Democrates heard. In his ears sounded, even once again, the song of the Furies,—never so clearly as now. “With scourge and with ban We prostrate the man Who with smooth-woven wile And a fair-facèd smile Hath planted a snare for his friend! Though fleet, we shall find him, Though strong, we shall bind him, Who planted a snare for his friend!”
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