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Turning, he was little pleased to come face to face with no less a giant than Lycon. “There was an hour, philotate,” spoke the Spartan, with ill-concealed sneer, “when you did not have so much silver to scatter out to beggars.” Time had not mended Lycon’s aspect, nor taken from his eye that sinister twinkle which was so marked a foil to his brutishness.
He could not understand everything, but he heard Lycon’s name passed many times, then one thing he caught clearly. ‘The Babylonish carpet-seller was the Prince Mardonius.’ ‘The Babylonian fled on the Solon.’ ‘The Prince is safe in Sardis.’ If Mardonius could escape the storm and wreck, why not Glaucon, a king among swimmers?” Hermione clapped her hands to her head. “Don’t torture me.
No doubt the Phœnician was taking Lampaxo with him. The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it, laughing hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his hands! How the Moræ in sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon’s business and his, had provided the means of ridding him of the haunting terror! How everything conspired to aid him!
It is within your power to find a thousand good reasons why Themistocles and Evænetus should retreat. And you will do so at once, Excellency.” “Do not think you and your accursed masters can drive me from infamy to infamy. I can be terrible if pushed to bay.” “Your Nobility has read Lycon’s letter,” observed the Phœnician, with folded arms.
Why had he not foreseen that Agis would fall into Lycon’s hands? Why had he trusted that lying tale from Artemisium? And worst of all, worse than the howls of the people who would tear his body asunder like dogs, not waiting the work of the hemlock, was the thought of Hermione. She hated him now. How she would love him, though he sat on Xerxes’s throne, if once her suspicion rose to certainty!
“Noble tidings,” whispered the giant, as the two stood an instant, before each went to his own men. “Behold how Hermes helps us—a great deity.” “Sometimes I think Nemesis is greater,” said Democrates, once again refusing Lycon’s proffered hand. “By noon you’ll laugh at Nemesis, philotate, when we both drink Helbon wine in Xerxes’s tent!” and away went Lycon into the dark.
An unhealed scar marred his forehead—Lycon’s handiwork; but who thought of that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there. “Io!
Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The Athenians aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who gives us victory!” “And the traitors?” Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy. “Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered by Aristeides’s tents.”
“I expected that speech.” Lycon’s coolness drove his victim almost frantic. “In the affair of Tempē I bent to you for the last time,” Democrates charged desperately. “I have counted the cost. Perhaps you can use against me certain documents, but I am on a surer footing than once.
Nothing—except a miracle sent from Zeus.” “Such as what?” “As merciful Hiram’s relenting and releasing your dear Glaucon.” Lycon’s chuckle was loud. “Never, as you hope me to be anything save your mortal enemy, mention that name again.” “As you like it—it’s no very pretty tale, I grant, even amongst Medizers. Yet it was most imprudent to let him live.”
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