"But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?" questioned the younger man; "the peril he runs? the risk of discovery—"

"Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—" Themistocles's hands went up in easy piety—"where, let him come if come he dare!" Then with a swift change, as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.

"Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this commission I give to you. You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand."

"A great task," spoke Democrates, none too readily.

"And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?"

Themistocles's hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....

When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried, "Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens." Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion's wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.

"Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a very foolish thing."

"Wine, boy," ordered Democrates; "and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day."

He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening. The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred drachmae, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiraeus. Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor's bosom friend,—Democrates.



CHAPTER VI

ATHENS

In Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.



"Full market time." The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. Megarian swine squealed and tugged at their leg-cords. An Asiatic sailor clamoured at the money-changer's stall for another obol in change for a Persian daric. "Buy my oil!" bawled the huckster from his wicker booth beside the line of Hermes-busts in the midst of the square. "Buy my charcoal!" roared back a companion, whilst past both was haled a grinning negro with a crier who bade every gentleman to "mark his chance" for a fashionable servant. Phocian the quack was hawking his toothache salve from the steps of the Temple of Apollo. Deira, the comely flower girl, held out crowns of rose, violet, and narcissus to the dozen young dandies who pressed about her. Around the Hermes-busts idle crowds were reading the legal notices plastered on the base of each statue. A file of mules and wagons was ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new building. Every instant the noise grew. Pandora's box had opened, and every clamour had flitted out.

At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off toward the Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter. A low counter was covered with the owner's wares,—tall amphorae for wine, flat beakers, water-pots, and basins. Behind, two apprentices whirled the wheel, another glazed on the black varnish and painted the jars with little red loves and dancing girls. Clearchus sat on the counter with three friends,—come not to trade but to barter the latest gossip from the barber-shops: Agis the sharp, knavish cockpit and gaming-house keeper, Crito the fat mine-contractor, and finally Polus, gray and pursy, who "devoted his talents to the public weal," in other words was a perpetual juryman and likewise busybody.

The latest rumour about Xerxes having been duly chewed, conversation began to lag.

"An idle day for you, my Polus," threw out Clearchus.

"Idle indeed! No jury sits to-day in the King Archon's Porch or the 'Red Court'; I can't vote to condemn that Heraclius who's exported wheat contrary to the law."

"Condemn?" cried Agis; "wasn't the evidence very weak?"

"Ay," snorted Polus, "very weak, and the wretch pleaded piteously, setting his wife and four little ones weeping on the stand. But we are resolved. 'You are boiling a stone—your plea's no profit,' thought we. Our hearts vote 'guilty,' if our heads say 'innocent.' One mustn't discourage honest informers. What's a patriot on a jury for if only to acquit? Holy Father Zeus, but there's a pleasure in dropping into the voting-urn the black bean which condemns!"

"Athena keep us, then, from litigation," murmured Clearchus; while Crito opened his fat lips to ask, "And what adjourns the courts?"

"A meeting of the assembly, to be sure. The embassy's come back from Delphi with the oracle we sought about the prospects of the war."

"Then Themistocles will speak," observed the potter; "a very important meeting."

"Very important," choked the juror, fishing a long piece of garlic from his wallet and cramming it into his mouth with both hands. "What a noble statesman Themistocles is! Only young Democrates will ever be like him."

"Democrates?" squeaked out Crito.

"Why, yes. Almost as eloquent as Themistocles. What zeal for democracy! What courage against Persia! A Nestor, I say, in wisdom—"

Agis gave a whistle.

"A Nestor, perhaps. Yet if you knew, as I do, how some of his nights pass,—dice, Rhodian fighting-cocks, dancing-girls, and worse things,—"

"I'll scarce believe it," grunted the juror; yet then confessed somewhat ruefully, "however, he is unfortunate in his bosom friend."

"What do you mean?" demanded the potter.

"Glaucon the Alcmaeonid, to be sure. I cried 'Io, paean!' as loud as the others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so fortunate."

"Even as you voted to banish Aristeides, Themistocles's rival, because you were tired of hearing him called 'the Just.' "

"There's much in that. Besides, he's an Alcmaeonid, and since their old murder of Cylon the house has been under a blood curse. He has married the daughter of Hermippus, who is too highly born to be faithful to the democracy. He carries a Laconian cane,—sure sign of Spartanizing tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant."

"Hush," warned Clearchus, "there he passes now, arm in arm with Democrates as always, and on his way to the assembly."

"The men are much alike in build," spoke Crito, slowly, "only Glaucon is infinitely handsomer."

"And infinitely less honest. I distrust your too beautiful and too lucky men," snapped Polus.

"Envious dog," commented Agis; and bitter personalities might have followed had not a bell jangled from an adjacent portico.

"Phormio, my brother-in-law, with fresh fish from Phaleron," announced Polus, drawing a coin from his wonted purse,—his cheek; "quick, friends, we must buy our dinners."

Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a table heaped with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue eyes lit by a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot, calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured. Phormio's broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich gentleman's cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the bidding sharpened. The "Market Wardens" seemed needed to check the jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—

"Look out for the rope!"

Phormio's customers scattered. Scythian constables were stretching cords dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora, save that to the south. Soon the band began contracting its nets and driving a swarm of citizens toward the remaining exit, for a red chalk-mark on a mantle meant a fine. Traffic ceased instantly. Thousands crowded the lane betwixt the temples and porches, seeking the assembly place,—through a narrow, ill-built way, but the great area of the Pnyx opened before them like the slopes of some noble theatre.

No seats; rich and poor sat down upon the rocky ground. Under the open azure, at the focus of the semicircle, with clear view before of the city, and to right of the red cliffs of the Acropolis, rose a low platform hewn in the rock,—the "Bema," the orator's pulpit. A few chairs for the magistrates and a small altar were its sole furnishings. The multitude entered the Pnyx through two narrow entrances pierced in the massy engirdling wall and took seats at pleasure; all were equals—the Alcmaeonid, the charcoal-seller from Acharnae. Amid silence the chairman of the Council arose and put on the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. A herald besought blessings on the Athenians and the Plataeans their allies. A wrinkled seer carefully slaughtered a goose, proclaimed that its entrails gave good omen, and cast the carcass on the altar. The herald assured the people there was no rain, thunder, or other unlucky sign from heaven. The pious accordingly breathed easier, and awaited the order of the day.

The decree of the Council convening the assembly was read; then the herald's formal proclamation:—

"Who wishes to speak?"

The answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended the Bema. They bore the olive branches and laurel garlands, suppliants at Delphi; but their cloaks were black. "The oracle is unfavourable! The gods deliver us to Xerxes!" The thrill of horror went around the Pnyx.

The three stood an instant in gloomy silence. Then Callias the Rich, solemn and impressive, their spokesman, told their eventful story.

"Athenians, by your orders we have been to Delphi to inquire of the surest oracle in Greece your destinies in the coming war. Hardly had we completed the accustomed sacrifices in the Temple of Apollo, when the Pythoness Aristonice, sitting above the sacred cleft whence comes the inspiring vapour, thus prophesied." And Callias repeated the hexameters which warned the Athenians that resistance to Xerxes would be worse than futile; that Athens was doomed; concluding with the fearful line, "Get from this temple afar, and brood on the ills that await ye."

In the pause, as Callias's voice fell, the agony of the people became nigh indescribable. Sturdy veterans who had met the Persian spears at Marathon blinked fast. Many groaned, some cursed. Here and there a bold spirit dared to open his heart to doubt, and to mutter, "Persian gold, the Pythoness was corrupted," but quickly hushed even such whispers as rank impiety. Then a voice close to the Bema rang out loudly:—

"And is this all the message, Callias?"

"The voice of Glaucon the Fortunate," cried many, finding relief in words. "He is a friend to the ambassador. There is a further prophecy."

The envoy, who had made his theatrical pause too long, continued:—

"Such, men of Athens, was the answer; and we went forth in dire tribulation. Then a certain noble Delphian, Timon by name, bade us take the olive branches and return to the Pythoness, saying, 'O King Apollo, reverence these boughs of supplication, and deliver a more comfortable answer concerning our dear country. Else we will not leave thy sanctuary, but stay here until we die.' Whereat the priestess gave us a second answer, gloomy and riddling, yet not so evil as the first."

Again Callias recited his lines of doom, "that Athena had vainly prayed to Zeus in behalf of her city, and that it was fated the foe should overrun all Attica, yet

" 'Safe shall the wooden wall continue for thee and thy children; Wait not the tramp of the horse, nor the footmen mightily moving Over the land, but turn your back to the foe, and retire ye. Yet a day shall arrive when ye shall meet him in battle. Oh, holy Salamis, thou shalt destroy the offspring of women When men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest.' "

"And that is all?" demanded fifty voices.

"That is all," and Callias quitted the Bema. Whereupon if agony had held the Pnyx before, perplexity held it now. "The wooden wall?" "Holy Salamis?" "A great battle, but who is to conquer?" The feverish anxiety of the people at length found its vent in a general shout.

"The seers! Call the seers! Explain the oracle!"

The demand had clearly been anticipated by the president of the Council.

"Xenagoras the Cerycid is present. He is the oldest seer. Let us hearken to his opinion."

The head of the greatest priestly family in Athens arose. He was a venerable man, wearing his ribbon-decked robes of office. The president passed him the myrtle crown, as token that he had the Bema. In a tense hush his voice sounded clearly.

"I was informed of the oracles before the assembly met. The meaning is plain. By the 'wooden wall' is meant our ships. But if we risk a battle, we are told slaughter and defeat will follow. The god commands, therefore, that without resistance we quit Attica, gathering our wives, our children, and our goods, and sail away to some far country."

Xenagoras paused with the smile of him who performs a sad but necessary duty, removed the wreath, and descended the Bema.

"Quit Attica without a blow! Our fathers' fathers' sepulchres, the shrines of our gods, the pleasant farmsteads, the land where our Attic race have dwelt from dimmest time!"

The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence, while many a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned Acropolis, asked once, yes twice, "Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to that?" Then after the silence broke the clamour of voices.

"The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!"

Hegias, the "King Archon," chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.

"All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others' interpretation."

Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered "Silence!" and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said "the wooden wall" would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.

So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more. "Kataba! Kataba!" "Go down! go down!" pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.

"Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!"

But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.

"Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!"

The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman's stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.

There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.

"Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!"

Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.

The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer's ears till life's end. The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic. His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the blast. "When he began to weave his words, one might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could with him contend?" Thus Homer of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.

First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was not the "wooden wall" which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected solution. "Holy Salamis," spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said "holy," if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens? "Luckless Salamis" were then more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured them victory.

Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers' hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—

"Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say with Hector of Troy, 'One oracle is best—to fight for one's native country.' Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we may trust to the 'wooden wall,' and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—

" 'Our Athens need fear no hurt Though gods may conspire her ill. The hand that hath borne us up, It guides us and guards us still. Athena, the child of Zeus, She watches and knows no fear. The city rests safe from harm Beneath her protecting spear.'

Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will destroy him."

"Who wishes to speak?" called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle, was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him, "Peitho,—Queen Persuasion." He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head tossed back toward the general's office by the Agora, to attend to some routine business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a foreigner that passed them.

"Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded me at the Isthmus."

Democrates glanced twice.

"Dear Glaucon," said he, "that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man's is black as a crow." And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly recognized the "Cyprian."



CHAPTER VII

DEMOCRATES AND THE TEMPTER

In the northern quarter of Athens the suburb of Alopece thrust itself under the slopes of Mt. Lycabettus, that pyramid of tawny rock which formed the rear bulwark, as it were, of every landscape of Athens. The dwellings in the suburb were poor, though few even in the richer quarters were at all handsome; the streets barely sixteen feet wide, ill-paved, filthy, dingy. A line of dirty gray stucco house-fronts was broken only by the small doors and the smaller windows in the second story. Occasionally a two-faced bust of Hermes stood before a portal, or a marble lion's head spouted into a corner water trough. All Athenian streets resembled these. The citizen had his Pnyx, his Jury-Court, his gossiping Agora for his day. These dingy streets sufficed for the dogs, the slaves, and the women, whom wise Zeus ordered to remain at home.

Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows,—good man,—for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap. His patience indeed that evening was so near to exhaustion that after cursing inwardly the "match-maker" who had saddled this Amazon upon him, he actually found courage for an outbreak. He threw up his arms after the manner of a tragic actor:—

"True, true is the word of Hesiod!"

"True is what?" flew back none too gently.

" 'The fool first suffers and is after wise.' Woman, I am resolved."

"On what?" Lampaxo's voice was soft as broken glass.

"Years increase. I shan't live long. We are childless. I will provide for you in my will by giving you in marriage to Hyperphon."(3)

"Hyperphon!" screamed the virago, "Hyperphon the beggarly hunchback, the laughing-stock of Athens! O Mother Hera!—but I see the villain's aim. You are weary of me. Then divorce me like an honourable man. Send me back to Polus my dear brother. Ah, you sheep, you are silent! You think of the two-minae dowry you must then refund. Woe is me! I'll go to the King Archon. I'll charge you with gross abuse. The jury will condemn you. There'll be fines, fetters, stocks, prison—"

"Peace," groaned Phormio, terrified at the Gorgon, "I only thought—"

"How dared you think? What permitted—"

"Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!" The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night. Groups of young men wandered past, bound homeward from the Cynosarges, the Academy, or some other well-loved gymnasium. In an hour the streets would be dark and still, except for a belated guest going to his banquet, a Scythian constable, or perhaps a cloak thief. For your Athenian, when he had no supper invitation, went to bed early and rose early, loving the sunlight far better than the flicker of his uncertain lamps.

"And did the jury vote 'guilty'?" was Phormio's first question of his brother-in-law.

"We were patriotically united. There were barely any white beans for acquittal in the urn. The scoundrelly grain-dealer is stripped of all he possesses and sent away to beg in exile. A noble service to Athens!"

"Despite the evidence," murmured Clearchus; but Lampaxo's shrill voice answered her brother:—

"It's my opinion you jurors should look into a case directly opposite this house. Spies, I say, Persian spies."

"Spies!" cried Polus, leaping up as from a coal; "why, Phormio, haven't you denounced them? It's compounding with treason even to fail to report—"

"Peace, brother," chuckled the fishmonger, "your sister smells for treason as a dog for salt fish. There is a barbarian carpet merchant—a Babylonian, I presume—who has taken the empty chambers above Demas's shield factory opposite. He seems a quiet, inoffensive man; there are a hundred other foreign merchants in the city. One can't cry 'Traitor!' just because the poor wight was not born to speak Greek."

"I do not like Babylonish merchants," propounded Polus, dogmatically; "to the jury with him, I say!"

"At least he has a visitor," asserted Clearchus, who had long been silent. "See, a gentleman wrapped in a long himation is going up to the door and standing up his walking stick."

"And if I have eyes," vowed the juror, squinting through his hands in the half light, "that closely wrapped man is Glaucon the Alcmaeonid."

"Or Democrates," remarked Clearchus; "they look much alike from behind. It's getting dark."

"Well," decided Phormio, "we can easily tell. He has left his stick below by the door. Steal across, Polus, and fetch it. It must be carved with the owner's name."

The juror readily obeyed; but to read the few characters on the crooked handle was beyond the learning of any save Clearchus, whose art demanded the mystery of writing.

"I was wrong," he confessed, after long scrutiny, " 'Glaucon, son of Conon.' It is very plain. Put the cane back, Polus."

The cane was returned, but the juror pulled a very long face.

"Dear friends, here is a man I've already suspected of undemocratic sentiments conferring with a Barbarian. Good patriots cannot be too vigilant. A plot, I assert. Treason to Athens and Hellas! Freedom's in danger. Henceforth I shall look on Glaucon the Alcmaeonid as an enemy of liberty."

"Phui!" almost shouted Phormio, whose sense of humour was keen, "a noble conspiracy! Glaucon the Fortunate calls on a Babylonish merchant by night. You say to plot against Athens. I say to buy his pretty wife a carpet."

"The gods will some day explain," said Clearchus, winding up the argument,—and so for a little while the four forgot all about Glaucon.

* * * * * * *

Despite the cane, Clearchus was right. The visitor was Democrates. The orator mounted the dark stair above the shield-factory and knocked against a door, calling, "Pai! Pai!" "Boy! boy!" a summons answered by none other than the ever smiling Hiram. The Athenian, however, was little prepared for the luxury, nay splendour, which greeted him, once the Phoenician had opened the door. The bare chamber had been transformed. The foot sank into the glowing carpets of Kerman and Bactria. The gold-embroidered wall tapestries were of Sidonian purple. The divans were covered with wondrous stuff which Democrates could not name,—another age would call it silk. A tripod smoked with fragrant Arabian frankincense. Silver lamps, swinging from silver chains, gave brilliant light. The Athenian stood wonderbound, until a voice, not Hiram's, greeted him.

"Welcome, Athenian," spoke the Cyprian, in his quaint, eastern accent. It was the strange guest in the tavern by Corinth. The Prince—prince surely, whatever his other title—was in the same rich dress as at the Isthmus, only his flowing beard had been dyed raven black. Yet Democrates's eyes were diverted instantly to the peculiarly handsome slave-boy on the divan beside his master. The boy's dress, of a rare blue stuff, enveloped him loosely. His hair was as golden as the gold thread on the round cap. In the shadows the face almost escaped the orator,—he thought he saw clear blue eyes and a marvellously brilliant, almost girlish, bloom and freshness. The presence of this slave caused the Athenian to hesitate, but the Cyprian bade him be seated, with one commanding wave of the hand.

"This is Smerdis, my constant companion. He is a mute. Yet if otherwise, I would trust him as myself."

Democrates, putting by surprise, began to look on his host fixedly.

"My dear Barbarian, for that you are a Hellene you will not pretend, you realize, I trust, you incur considerable danger in visiting Athens."

"I am not anxious," observed the Prince, composedly. "Hiram is watchful and skilful. You see I have dyed my hair and beard black and pass for a Babylonish merchant."

"With all except me, philotate,—'dearest friend,' as we say in Athens." Democrates's smile was not wholly agreeable.

"With all except you," assented the Prince, fingering the scarlet tassel of the cushion whereon he sat. "I reckoned confidently that you would come to visit me when I sent Hiram to you. Yes—I have heard the story that is on your tongue: one of Themistocles's busybodies has brought a rumour that a certain great man of the Persian court is missing from the side of his master, and you have been requested to greet that nobleman heartily if he should come to Athens."

"You know a great deal!" cried the orator, feeling his forehead grow hot.

"It is pleasant to know a great deal," smiled back the Prince, carelessly, while Hiram entered with a tray and silver goblets brimming with violet-flavoured sherbet; "I have innumerable 'Eyes-and-ears.' You have heard the name? One of the chief officers of his Majesty is 'The Royal Eye.' You Athenians are a valiant and in many things a wise people, yet you could grow in wisdom by looking well to the East."

"I am confident," exclaimed Democrates, thrusting back the goblet, "if your Excellency requires a noble game of wits, you can have one. I need only step to the window, and cry 'Spies!'—after which your Excellency can exercise your wisdom and eloquence defending your life before one of our Attic juries."

"Which is a polite and patriotic manner of saying, dearest Athenian, you are not prepared to push matters to such unfortunate extremity. I omit what his Majesty might do in the way of taking vengeance; sufficient that if aught unfortunate befalls me, or Hiram, or this my slave Smerdis, while we are in Athens, a letter comes to your noble chief Themistocles from the banker Pittacus of Argos."

Democrates, who had risen to his feet, had been flushed before. He became pale now. The hand that clutched the purple tapestry was trembling. The words rose to his lips, the lips refused to utter them. The Prince, who had delivered his threat most quietly, went on, "In short, good Democrates, I was aware before I came to Athens of our necessities, and I came because I was certain I could relieve them."

"Never!" The orator shot the word out desperately.

"You are a Hellene."

"Am I ashamed of it?"

"Do not, however, affect to be more virtuous than your race. Persians make their boast of truth-telling and fidelity. You Hellenes, I hear, have even a god—Hermes Dolios,—who teaches you lying and thieving. The customs of nations differ. Mazda the Almighty alone knoweth which is best. Follow then the customs of Hellenes."

"You speak in riddles."

"Plainer, then. You know the master I serve. You guess who I am, though you shall not name me. For what sum will you serve Xerxes the Great King?"

The orator's breath came deep. His hands clasped and unclasped, then were pressed behind his head.

"I told Lycon, and I tell you, I am no traitor to Hellas."

"Which means, of course, you demand a fair price. I am not angry. You will find a Persian pays like the lord he is, and that his darics always ring true metal."

"I'll hear no more. I was a fool to meet Lycon at Corinth, doubly a fool to meet you to-night. Farewell."

Democrates seized the latch. The door was locked. He turned furiously on the Barbarian. "Do you keep me by force? Have a care. I can be terrible if driven to bay. The window is open. One shout—"

The Cyprian had risen, and quietly, but with a grip like iron on Democrates's wrist, led the orator back to the divan.

"You can go free in a twinkling, but hear you shall. Before you boast of your power, you shall know all of mine. I will recite your condition. Contradict if I say anything amiss. Your father Myscelus was of the noble house of Codrus, a great name in Athens, but he left you no large estate. You were ambitious to shine as an orator and leader of the Athenians. To win popularity you have given great feasts. At the last festival of the Theseia you fed the poor of Athens on sixty oxen washed down with good Rhodian wine. All that made havoc in your patrimony."

"By Zeus, you speak as if you lived all your life in Athens!"

"I have said 'I have many eyes.' But to continue. You gave the price of the tackling for six of the triremes with which Themistocles pretends to believe he can beat back my master. Worse still, you have squandered many minae on flute girls, dice, cock-fights, and other gentle pleasures. In short your patrimony is not merely exhausted but overspent. That, however, is not the most wonderful part of my recital."

"How dare you pry into my secrets?"

"Be appeased, dear Athenian; it is much more interesting to know you deny nothing of all I say. It is now five months since you were appointed by your sagacious Athenian assembly as commissioner to administer the silver taken from the mines at Laurium and devoted to your navy. You fulfilled the people's confidence by diverting much of this money to the payment of your own great debts to the banker Pittacus of Argos. At present you are 'watching the moon,' as you say here in Athens,—I mean, that at the end of this month you must account to the people for all the money you have handled, and at this hour are at your wits' ends to know whence the repayment will come."

"That is all you know of me?"

"All."

Democrates sighed with relief. "Then you have yet to complete the story, my dear Barbarian. I have adventured on half the cargo of a large merchantman bringing timber and tin from Massalia; I look every day for a messenger from Corinth with news of her safe arrival. Upon her coming I can make good all I owe and still be a passing rich man."

If the Cyprian was discomposed at this announcement, he did not betray it.

"The sea is frightfully uncertain, good Democrates. Upon it, as many fortunes are lost as are made."

"I have offered due prayers to Poseidon, and vowed a gold tripod on the ship's arrival."

"So even your gods in Hellas have their price," was the retort, with an ill-concealed sneer. "Do not trust them. Take ten talents from me and to-night sleep sweetly."

"Your price?" the words slipped forth involuntarily.

"Themistocles's private memoranda for the battle-order of your new fleet."

"Avert it, gods! The ship will reach Corinth, I warn you—" Democrates's gestures became menacing, as again he rose, "I will set you in Themistocles's hand as soon—"

"But not to-night." The Prince rose, smiled, held out his hand. "Unbar the door for his Excellency, Hiram. And you, noble sir, think well of all I said at Corinth on the certain victory of my master; think also—" the voice fell—"how Democrates the Codrid could be sovereign of Athens under the protection of Persia."

"I tyrant of Athens?" the orator clapped his hand behind his back; "you say enough. Good evening."

He was on the threshold, when the slave-boy touched his master's hand in silent signal.

"And if there be any fair woman you desire,"—how gliding the Cyprian's voice!—"shall not the power of Xerxes the great give her unto you?"

Why did Democrates feel his forehead turn to flame? Why—almost against will—did he stretch forth his hand to the Cyprian? He went down the stair scarce feeling the steps beneath him. At the bottom voices greeted him from across the darkened street.

"A fair evening, Master Glaucon."

"A fair evening," his mechanical answer; then to himself; as he walked away, "Wherefore call me Glaucon? I have somewhat his height, though not his shoulder. Ah,—I know it, I have chanced to borrow his carved walking-stick. Impudent creatures to read the name!"

He had not far to go. Athens was compactly built, all quarters close together. Yet before he reached home and bed, he was fighting back an ill-defined but terrible thought. "Glaucon! They think I am Glaucon. If I chose to betray the Cyprian—" Further than that he would not suffer the thought to go. He lay sleepless, fighting against it. The dark was full of the harpies of uncanny suggestion. He arose unrefreshed, to proffer every god the same prayer: "Deliver me from evil imaginings. Speed the ship to Corinth."



CHAPTER VIII

ON THE ACROPOLIS

The Acropolis of Athens rises as does no other citadel in the world. Had no workers in marble or bronze, no weavers of eloquence or song, dwelt beneath its shadow, it would stand the centre and cynosure of a remarkable landscape. It is "The Rock," no other like unto it. Is it enough to say its ruddy limestone rises as a huge boulder one hundred and fifty feet above the plain, that its breadth is five hundred, its length one thousand? Numbers and measures can never disclose a soul,—and the Rock of Athens has all but a soul: a soul seems to glow through its adamant when the fire-footed morning steals over the long crest of Hymettus, and touches the citadel's red bulk with unearthly brightness; a soul when the day falls to sleep in the arms of night as Helios sinks over the western hill by Daphni. Then the Rock seems to throb and burn with life again.

It is so bare that the hungry goats can hardly crop one spear of grass along its jagged slopes. It is so steep it scarce needs defence against an army. It is so commanding that he who stands on the westmost pinnacle can look across the windy hill of the Pnyx, across the brown plain-land and down to the sparkling blue sea with the busy havens of Peiraeus and Phalerum, the scattered gray isles of the AEgean, and far away to the domelike crest of Acro-Corinthus. Let him turn to the right: below him nestles the gnarled hill of Areopagus, home of the Furies, the buzzing plaza of the Agora, the closely clustered city. Behind, there spread mountain, valley, plain,—here green, here brown, here golden,—with Pentelicus the Mighty rearing behind all, his summits fretted white, not with winter snows, but with lustrous marble. Look to the left: across the view passes the shaggy ridge of Hymettus, arid and scarred, as if wrought by the Titans, home only of goats and bees, of nymphs and satyrs.

That was almost the self-same vision in the dim past when the first savage clambered this "Citadel of Cecrops" and spoke, "Here is my dwelling-place." This will be the vision until earth and ocean are no more. The human habitation changes, the temples rise and crumble; the red and gray rock, the crystalline air, the sapphire sea, come from the god, and these remain.



Glaucon and Hermione were come together to offer thanks to Athena for the glory of the Isthmus. The athlete had already mounted the citadel heading a myrtle-crowned procession to bear a formal thanksgiving, but his wife had not then been with him. Now they would go together, without pomp. They walked side by side. Nimble Chloe tripped behind with her mistress's parasol. Old Manes bore the bloodless sacrifice, but Hermione said in her heart there came two too many.

Many a friendly eye, many a friendly word, followed as they crossed the Agora, where traffic was in its morning bustle. Glaucon answered every greeting with his winsome smile.

"All Athens seems our friend!" he said, as close by the Tyrannicides' statues at the upper end of the plaza a grave councilman bowed and an old bread woman left her stall to bob a courtesy.

"Is your friend," corrected Hermione, thinking only of her husband, "for I have won no pentathlon."

"Ah, makaira, dearest and best," he answered, looking not on the glorious citadel but on her face, "could I have won the parsley wreath had there been no better wreath awaiting me at Eleusis? And to-day I am gladdest of the glad. For the gods have sent me blessings beyond desert, I no longer fear their envy as once. I enjoy honour with all good men. I have no enemy in the world. I have the dearest of friends, Cimon, Themistocles—beyond all, Democrates. I am blessed in love beyond Peleus espoused to Thetis, or Anchises beloved of Aphrodite, for my golden Aphrodite lives not on Olympus, nor Paphos, nor comes on her doves from Cythera, but dwells—"

"Peace." The hand laid on his mouth was small but firm. "Do not anger the goddess by likening me unto her. It is joy enough for me if I can look up at the sun and say, 'I keep the love of Glaucon the Fortunate and the Good.' "

Walking thus in their golden dream, the two crossed the Agora, turned to the left from the Pnyx, and by crooked lanes went past the craggy rock of Areopagus, till before them rose a wooden palisade and a gate. Through this a steep path led upward to the citadel. Not to the Acropolis of fame. The buildings then upon the Rock in one short year would lie in heaps of fire-scarred ruin. Yet in that hour before Glaucon and Hermione a not unworthy temple rose, the old "House of Athena," prototype of the later Parthenon. In the morning light it stood in beauty—a hundred Doric columns, a sculptured pediment, flashing with white marble and with tints of scarlet, blue, and gold. Below it, over the irregular plateau of the Rock, spread avenues of votive statues of gods and heroes in stone, bronze, or painted wood. Here and there were numerous shrines and small temples, and a giant altar for burning a hundred oxen. So hand in hand the twain went to the bronze portal of the Temple. The kindly old priest on guard smiled as he sprinkled them with the purifying salt water out of the brazen laver. The door closed behind them. For a moment they seemed to stand in the high temple in utter darkness. Then far above through the marble roof a softened light came creeping toward them. As from unfolding mist, the great calm face of the ancient goddess looked down with its unchanging smile. A red coal glowed on the tripod at her feet. Glaucon shook incense over the brazier. While it smoked, Hermione laid the crown of lilies between the knees of the half-seen image, then her husband lifted his hands and prayed aloud.

"Athena, Virgin, Queen, Deviser of Wisdom,—whatever be the name thou lovest best,—accept this offering and hear. Bless now us both. Give us to strive for the noblest, to speak the wise word, to love one another. Give us prosperity, but not unto pride. Bless all our friends; but if we have enemies, be thou their enemy also. And so shall we praise thee forever."

This was all the prayer and worship. A little more meditation, then husband and wife went forth from the sacred cella. The panorama—rocks, plain, sea, and bending heavens—opened before them in glory. The light faded upon the purple breasts of the western mountains. Behind the Acropolis, Lycabettus's pyramid glowed like a furnace. The marble on distant Pentelicus shone dazzlingly.

Glaucon stood on the easternmost pinnacle of the Rock, watching the landscape.

"Joy, makaira, joy," he cried, "we possess one another. We dwell in 'violet-crowned Athens'; for what else dare we to pray?"

But Hermione pointed less pleased toward the crest of Pentelicus.

"Behold it! How swiftly yonder gray cloud comes on a rushing wind! It will cover the brightness. The omen is bad."

"Why bad, makaira?"

"The cloud is the Persian. He hangs to-day as a thunder-cloud above Athens and Hellas. Xerxes will come. And you—"

She pressed closer to her husband.

"Why speak of me?" he asked lightly.

"Xerxes brings war. War brings sorrow to women. It is not the hateful and old that the spears and the arrows love best."

Half compelled by the omen, half by a sudden burst of unoccasioned fear, her eyes shone with tears; but her husband's laugh rang clearly.

"Euge! dry your eyes, and look before you. King AEolus scatters the cloud upon his briskest winds. It breaks into a thousand bits. So shall Themistocles scatter the hordes of Xerxes. The Persian shadow shall come, shall go, and again we shall be happy in beautiful Athens."

"Athena grant it!" prayed Hermione.

"We can trust the goddess," returned Glaucon, not to be shaken from his happy mood. "And now that we have paid our vows to her, let us descend. Our friends are already waiting for us by the Pnyx before they go down to the harbours."

As they went down the steep, Cimon and Democrates came running to join them, and in the brisk chatter that arose the omen of the cloud and fears of the Persian faded from Hermione's mind.

* * * * * * *

It was a merry party such as often went down to the havens of Athens in the springtime and summer: a dozen gentlemen, old and young, for the most part married, and followed demurely by their wives with the latter's maids, and many a stout Thracian slave tugging hampers of meat and drink. Laughter there was, admixed with wiser talk; friends walking by twos and threes, with Themistocles, as always, seeming to mingle with all and to surpass every one both in jests and in wisdom. So they fared down across the broad plain-land to the harbours, till the hill Munychia rose steep before them. A scramble over a rocky, ill-marked way led to the top; then before them broke a second view comparable almost to that from the Rock of Athena: at their feet lay the four blue havens of Athens, to the right Phaleron, closer at hand the land-locked bay of Munychia, beyond that Zea, beyond that still a broader sheet—Peiraeus, the new war-harbour of Athens. They could look down on the brown roofs of the port-town, the forest of masts, the merchantman unloading lumber from the Euxine, the merchantman loading dried figs for Syria; but most of all on the numbers of long black hulls, some motionless on the placid harbour, some propped harmlessly on the shore. Hermione clouded as she saw them, and glanced away.

"I do not love your new fleet, Themistocles," she said, frowning at the handsome statesman; "I do not love anything that tells so clearly of war. It mars the beauty."

"Rather you should rejoice we have so fair a wooden wall against the Barbarian, dear lady," answered he, quite at ease. "What can we do to hearten her, Democrates?"

"Were I only Zeus," rejoined the orator, who never was far from his best friend's wife, "I would cast two thunderbolts, one to destroy Xerxes, the second to blast Themistocles's armada,—so would the Lady Hermione be satisfied."

"I am sorry, then, you are not the Olympian," said the woman, half smiling at the pleasantry. Cimon interrupted them. Some of the party had caught a sun-burned shepherd in among the rocks, a veritable Pan in his shaggy goat-skin. The bribe of two obols brought him out with his pipe. Four of the slave-boys fell to dancing. The party sat down upon the burnt grass,—eating, drinking, wreathing poppy-crowns, and watching the nimble slaves and the ships that crawled like ants in the haven and bay below. Thus passed the noon, and as the sun dropped toward craggy Salamis across the strait, the men of the party wandered down to the ports and found boats to take them out upon the bay.

The wind was a zephyr. The water spread blue and glassy. The sun was sinking as a ball of infinite light. Themistocles, Democrates, and Glaucon were in one skiff, the athlete at the oars. They glided past the scores of black triremes swinging lazily at anchor. Twice they pulled around the proudest of the fleet,—the Nausicaae, the gift of Hermippus to the state, a princely gift even in days when every Athenian put his all at the public service. She would be Themistocles's flag-ship. The young men noted her fine lines, her heavy side timbers, the covered decks, an innovation in Athenian men-of-war, and Themistocles put a loving hand on the keen bronze beak as they swung around the prow.

"Here's a tooth for the Persian king!" he was laughing, when a second skiff, rounding the trireme in an opposite direction, collided abruptly. A lurch, a few splinters was all the hurt, but as the boats parted Themistocles rose from his seat in the stern, staring curiously.

"Barbarians, by Athena's owls, the knave at the oars is a sleek Syrian, and his master and the boy from the East too. What business around our war-fleet? Row after them, Glaucon; we'll question—"

"Glaucon does no such folly," spoke Democrates, instantly, from the bow; "if the harbour-watch doesn't interfere with honest traders, what's it to us?"

"As you like it." Themistocles resumed his seat. "Yet it would do no harm. Now they row to another trireme. With what falcon eyes the master of the trio examines it! Something uncanny, I repeat."

"To examine everything strange," proclaimed Democrates, sententiously, "needs the life of a crow, who, they say, lives a thousand years, but I don't see any black wings budding on Themistocles's shoulders. Pull onward, Glaucon."

"Whither?" demanded the rower.

"To Salamis," ordered Themistocles. "Let us see the battle-place foretold by the oracle."

"To Salamis or clear to Crete," rejoined Glaucon, setting his strength upon the oars and making the skiff bound, "if we can find water deep enough to drown those gloomy looks that have sat on Democrates's brows of late."

"Not gloomy but serious," said the young orator, with an attempt at lightness; "I have been preparing my oration against the contractor I've indicted for embezzling the public naval stores."

"Destroy the man!" cried the rower.

"And yet I really pity him; he was under great temptation."

"No excuses; the man who robs the city in days like these is worse than he who betrays fortresses in most wars."

"I see you are a savage patriot, Glaucon," said Themistocles, "despite your Adonis face. We are fairly upon the bay; our nearest eavesdroppers, yon fishermen, are a good five furlongs. Would you see something?" Glaucon rested on the oars, while the statesman fumbled in his breast. He drew out a papyrus sheet, which he passed to the rower, he in turn to Democrates.

"Look well, then, for I think no Persian spies are here. A month long have I wrought on this bit of papyrus. All my wisdom flowed out of my pen when I spread the ink. In short here is the ordering of the ships of the allied Greeks when we meet Xerxes in battle. Leonidas and our other chiefs gave me the task when we met at Corinth. To-day it is complete. Read it, for it is precious. Xerxes would give twenty talents for this one leaf from Egypt."

The young men peered at the sheet curiously. The details and diagrams were few and easy to remember, the Athenian ships here, the AEginetan next, the Corinthian next, and so with the other allies. A few comments on the use of the light penteconters behind the heavy triremes. A few more comments on Xerxes's probable naval tactics. Only the knowledge that Themistocles never committed himself in speech or writing without exhausting every expedient told the young men of the supreme importance of the paper. After due inspection the statesman replaced it in his breast.

"You two have seen this," he announced, seemingly proud of his handiwork; "Leonidas shall see this, then Xerxes, and after that—" he laughed, but not in jest—"men will remember Themistocles, son of Neocles!"

The three lapsed into silence for a moment. The skiff was well out upon the sea. The shadows of the hills of Salamis and of AEgelaos, the opposing mountain of Attica, were spreading over them. Around the islet of Psyttaleia in the strait the brown fisher-boats were gliding. Beyond the strait opened the blue hill-girdled bay of Eleusis, now turning to fire in the evening sun. Everything was peaceful, silent, beautiful. Again Glaucon rested on his oars and let his eyes wander.

"How true is the word of Thales the Sage," he spoke; " 'the world is the fairest of all fair things, because it is the work of God.' It cannot be that, here, between these purple hills and the glistening sea, there will come that battle beside which the strife of Achilles and Hector before Troy shall pass as nothing!"

Themistocles shook his head.

"We do not know; we are dice in the high gods' dice-boxes.

" 'Man all vainly shall scan the mind of the Prince of Olympus.'

"We can say nothing wiser than that. We can but use our Attic mother wit, and trust the rest to destiny. Let us be satisfied if we hope that destiny is not blind."

They drifted many moments in silence.

"The sun sinks lower," spoke Democrates, at length; "so back again to the havens."

On the return Themistocles once more vowed he caught a glimpse of the skiff of the unknown foreigners, but Democrates called it mere phantasy. Hermione met them at the Peiraeus, and the party wandered back through the gathering dusk to the city, where each little group went its way. Themistocles went to his own house, where he said he expected Sicinnus; Cimon and Democrates sought a tavern for an evening cup; Glaucon and Hermione hastened to their house in the Colonus suburb near the trickling Cephissus, where in the starlit night the tettix(4) in the black old olives by the stream made its monotonous music, where great fireflies gleamed, where Philomela the nightingale called, and the tall plane trees whispered softly to the pines. When Hermione fell asleep, she had forgotten about the coming of the Persian, and dreamed that Glaucon was Eros, she was Psyche, and that Zeus was giving her the wings of a butterfly and a crown of stars.

Democrates went home later. After the heady Pramnian at the tavern, he roved away with Cimon and others to serenade beneath the lattice of a lady—none too prudish—in the Ceramicus quarter. But the fair one was cruel that night, and her slaves repelled the minstrels with pails of hot water from an upper window. Democrates thereupon quitted the party. His head was very befogged, but he could not expel one idea from it—that Themistocles had revealed that day a priceless secret, that the statesman and Glaucon and he himself were the only men who shared it, and that it was believed that Glaucon had visited the Babylonish carpet-seller. Joined to this was an overpowering consciousness that Helen of Troy was not so lovely as Hermione of Eleusis. When he came to his lodgings, however, his wits cleared in a twinkling after he had read two letters. The first was short.

"Themistocles to Democrates:—This evening I begin to discover something. Sicinnus, who has been searching in Athens, is certain there is a Persian agent in the city. Seize him.—Chaire."

The second was shorter. It came from Corinth.

"Socias the merchant to Democrates:—Tyrrhenian pirates have taken the ship. Lading and crew are utterly lost.—Chaire."

The orator never closed his eyes that night.



CHAPTER IX

THE CYPRIAN TRIUMPHS

Democrates fronted ruin. What profit later details from Socias of the capture of the merchantman? Unless three days before the coming festival of the Panathenaea the orator could find a large sum, he was forever undone. His sequestering of the ship-money would become public property. He would be tried for his life. Themistocles would turn against him. The jury would hardly wait for the evidence. He would drink the poisonous hemlock and his corpse be picked by the crows in the Barathrum,—an open pit, sole burial place for Athenian criminals.

One thing was possible: to go to Glaucon, confess all, and beg the money. Glaucon was rich. He could have the amount from Conon and Hermippus for the asking. But Democrates knew Glaucon well enough to perceive that while the athlete might find the money, he would be horrified at the foul disclosure. He would save his old comrade from death, but their friendship would be ended. He would feel in duty bound to tell Themistocles enough to ruin Democrates's political prospects for all time. An appeal to Glaucon was therefore dismissed, and the politician looked for more desperate remedies.

Democrates enjoyed apartments on the street of the Tripods east of the Acropolis, a fashionable promenade of Athens. He was regarded as a confirmed bachelor. If, therefore, two or three dark-eyed flute girls in Phaleron had helped him to part with a good many minae, no one scolded too loudly; the thing had been done genteelly and without scandal. Democrates affected to be a collector of fine arms and armour. The ceiling of his living room was hung with white-plumed helmets, on the walls glittered brass greaves, handsomely embossed shields, inlaid Chalcidian scimitars, and bows tipped with gold. Under foot were expensive rugs. The orator's artistic tastes were excellent. Even as he sat in the deeply pillowed arm-chair his eye lighted on a Nike,—a statuette of the precious Corinthian bronze, a treasure for which the dealer's unpaid account lay still, alas! in the orator's coffer.

But Democrates was not thinking so much of the unpaid bronze-smith as of divers weightier debts. On the evening in question he had ordered Bias, the sly Thracian, out of the room; with his own hands had barred the door and closed the lattice; then with stealthy step thrust back the scarlet wall tapestry to disclose a small door let into the plaster. A key made the door open into a cupboard, out of which Democrates drew a brass-bound box of no great size, which he carried gingerly to a table and opened with a complex key.

The contents of the box were curious, to a stranger enigmatic. Not money, nor jewels, but rolls of closely written papyri, and things which the orator studied more intently,—a number of hard bits of clay bearing the impressions of seals. As Democrates fingered these, his face might have betrayed a mingling of keen fear and keener satisfaction.

"There is no such collection in all Hellas,—no, not in the world," ran his commentary; "here is the signet of the Tagos of Thessaly, here of the Boeotarch of Thebes, here of the King of Argos. I was able to secure the seal of Leonidas while in Corinth. This, of course, is Themistocles's,—how easily I took it! And this—of less value perhaps to a man of the world—is of my beloved Glaucon. And here are twenty more. Then the papyri,"—he unrolled them lovingly, one after another,—"precious specimens, are they not? Ah, by Zeus, I must be a very merciful and pious man, or I'd have used that dreadful power heaven has given me and never have drifted into these straits."

What that "power" was with which Democrates felt himself endued he did not even whisper to himself. His mood changed suddenly. He closed the box with a snap and locked it hurriedly.

"Cursed casket!—I think I would be happier if Phorcys, the old man of the deep, could drown it all! I would be better for it and kept from foul thoughts."

He thrust the box back in the cupboard, drew forth a second like it, unlocked it, and took out more writings. Selecting two, he spread ink and papyrus before him, and copied with feverish haste. Once he hesitated, and almost flung back the writings into the casket. Once he glanced at the notes he had prepared for his speech against the defrauding contractor. He grimaced bitterly. Then the hesitation ended. He finished the copying, replaced the second box, and barred and concealed the cupboard. He hid his new copies in his breast and called in Bias.

"I am going out, but I shall not be late."

"Shall not Hylas and I go with lanterns?" asked the fellow. "Last night there were foot-pads."

"I don't need you," rejoined his master, brusquely.

He went down into the dimly lighted street and wound through the maze of back alleys wherein Athens abounded, but Democrates never missed his way. Once he caught the glint of a lantern—a slave lighting home his master from dinner. The orator drew into a doorway; the others glided by, seeing nothing. Only when he came opposite the house of the Cyprian he saw light spreading from the opposite doorway and knew he must pass under curious eyes. Phormio was entertaining friends very late. But Democrates took boldness for safety, strode across the illumined ring, and up to the Cyprian's stairway. The buzz of conversation stopped a moment. "Again Glaucon," he caught, but was not troubled.

"After all," he reflected, "if seen at all, there is no harm in such a mistake."

The room was again glittering in its Oriental magnificence. The Cyprian advanced to meet his visitor, smiling blandly.

"Welcome, dear Athenian. We have awaited you. We are ready to heal your calamity."

Democrates turned away his face.

"You know it already! O Zeus, I am the most miserable man in all Hellas!"

"And wherefore miserable, good friend?" The Cyprian half led, half compelled the visitor to a seat on the divan. "Is it such to be enrolled from this day among the benefactors of my most gracious lord and king?"

"Don't goad me!" Democrates wrung his hands. "I am desperate. Take these papyri, read, pay, then let me never see your face again." He flung the two rolls in the Prince's lap and sat in abject misery.

The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an inner chamber and silently take station at his master's side, following the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the Prince spoke.

"Well—you bring what purports to be private memoranda of Themistocles on the equipment and arraying of the Athenian fleet. Yet these are only copies."

"Copies; the originals cannot stay in my possession. It were ruin to give them up."

The Prince turned to Hiram.

"And do you say, from what you know of these things, these memoranda are genuine?"

"Genuine. That is the scanty wisdom of the least of your Highness's slaves."

The Oriental bowed himself, then stood erect in a manner that reminded Democrates of some serpent that had just coiled and uncoiled.

"Good," continued the emissary; "yet I must ask our good Athenian to confirm them with an oath."

The orator groaned. He had not expected this last humiliation; but being forced to drink the cup, he drained it to the lees. He swore by Zeus Orchios, Watcher of Oaths, and Dike, the Eternal Justice, that he brought true copies, and that if he was perjured, he called a curse upon himself and all his line. The Cyprian received his oath with calm satisfaction, then held out the half of a silver shekel broken in the middle.

"Show this to Mydon, the Sicyonian banker at Phaleron. He holds its counterpart. He will pay the man who completes the coin ten talents."

Democrates received the token, but felt that he must stand upon his dignity.

"I have given an oath, stranger, but give the like to me. What proof have I of this Mydon?"

The question seemed to rouse the unseen lion in the Cyprian. His eye kindled. His voice swelled.

"We leave oaths, Hellene, to men of trade and barter, to men of trickery and guile. The Aryan noble is taught three things: to fear the king, to bend the bow, to speak the truth. And he learns all well. I have spoken,—my word is my oath."

The Athenian shrank at the storm he had roused. But the Prince almost instantly curbed himself. His voice sank again to its easy tone of conciliation.

"So much for my word, good friend; yet better than an oath, look here. Can the man who bears this ring afford to tell a lie?"

He extended his right hand. On the second finger was a huge beryl signet. Democrates bent over it.

"Two seated Sphynxes and a winged cherub flying above,—the seal of the royal Achaemenians of Persia! You are sent by Xerxes himself. You are—"

The Prince raised a warning finger. "Hush, Athenian. Think what you will, but do not name me, though soon my name shall fly through all the world."

"So be it," rejoined Democrates, his hands clutching the broken coin as at a last reprieve from death. "But be warned, even though I bear you no good-will. Themistocles is suspicious. Sicinnus his agent, a sly cat, is searching for you. The other day Themistocles, in the boat at Peiraeus, was fain to have you questioned. If detected, I cannot save you."

The Prince shrugged his shoulders.

"Good Democrates, I come of a race that trusts in the omnipotence of God and does the right. Duty requires me in Athens. What Ahura-Mazda and Mithra his glorious vicegerent will, that shall befall me, be I in Hellas or in safe Ecbatana. The decree of the Most High, written among the stars, is good. I do not shun it."

The words were spoken candidly, reverently. Democrates drew toward the door, and the others did not strive to detain him.

"As you will," spoke the Athenian; "I have warned you. Trust then your God. I have sold myself this once, but do not call me friend. Necessity is a sharp goad. May our paths never cross again!"

"Until you again have need," said the Prince, not seeking to wring from the other any promise.

Democrates muttered a sullen farewell and went down the dark stairs. The light in Phormio's house was out. No one seemed to be watching. On the way homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans, and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction. Only when Democrates thought of Glaucon and Hermione he was fain to grit his teeth, while many times it returned to him, "They think it was Glaucon who has been twice now to visit the Babylonish carpet-seller."

* * * * * * *

As the door had closed behind the orator, the Prince had strode across the rugs to the window—and spat forth furiously as in extreme disgust.

"Fool, knave, villain! I foul my lips by speaking to his accursed ears!"

The tongue in which he uttered this was the purest "Royal Persian," such as one might hear in the king's court. The beautiful "mute," mute no longer, glided across the chamber and laid both hands upon his shoulder with a gracious caress.

"And yet you bear with these treacherous creatures, you speak them fair?" was the remark in the same musical tongue.

"Yes, because there is sore need. Because, with all their faithlessness, covetousness, and guile, these Hellenes are the keenest, subtlest race beneath Mithra's glorious light. And we Persians must play with them, master them, and use them to make us lords of all the world."

Hiram had disappeared behind a curtain. The Prince lifted her silver embroidered red cap. Over the graceful shoulders fell a mass of clear gold hair, so golden one might have hidden shining darics within it. The shining head pressed against the Persian's breast. In this attitude, with the loose dress parting to show the tender lines, there could be no doubt of the other's sex. The Prince laid his hand upon her neck and drew her bright face nearer.

"This is a mad adventure on which we two have come," he spoke; "how nearly you were betrayed at the Isthmus, when the Athenian saved you! A blunder by Hiram, an ill-turn of Fate, will ruin us yet. It is far, Rose of Eran, from Athens to the pleasant groves of Susa and the sparkling Choaspes."

"But the adventure is ending," answered she, with smiling confidence; "Mazda has guarded us. As you have said—we are in his hand, alike here and in my brother's palace. And we have seen Greece and Athens—the country and city which you will conquer, which you will rule."

"Yes," he said, letting his eyes pass from her face to the vista of the Acropolis, which lay in fair view under the moonlight. "How noble a city this! Xerxes has promised that I shall be satrap of Hellas, Athens shall be my capital, and you, O best beloved, you shall be mistress of Athens."

"I shall be mistress of Athens," echoed she, "but you, husband and lord, would that men might give you a higher name than satrap, chief of the Great King's slaves!"

"Xerxes is king," he answered her.

"My brother wears the purple cap. He sits on the throne of Cyrus the Great and Darius the Dauntless. I would be a loyal Aryan, the king is indeed in Susa or Babylon. But for me the true king of Media and Persia—is here." And she lifted proud eyes to her husband.

"You are bold, Rose of Eran," he smiled, not angry at her implication; "more cautious words than these have brought many in peril of the bow-string. But, by Mithra the Fiend-Smiter, why were you not made a man? Then truly would your mother Atossa have given Darius an heir right worthy the twenty kingdoms!"

She gave a gentle laugh.

"The Most High ordains the best. Have I not the noblest kingdom? Am I not your wife?"

His laugh answered her.

"Then I am greater than Xerxes. I love my empire the best!"

He leaned again from the lattice, "O, fairest of cities, and we shall win it! See how the tawny rock turns to silver beneath the moonbeams! How clearly burn the stars over the plain and the mountain! And these Greeks, clever, wise, beautiful, when we have mastered them, have taught them our Aryan obedience and love of truth, what servants will they not become! For we are ordained to conquer. Mazda has given us empire without limit, from the Indus to the Great Ocean of the West,—all shall be ours; for we are Persians, the race to rule forever."

"We will conquer," she said dreamily, as enchanted as was he by the beauties of the night.

"From the day Cyrus your grandfather flung down Cambyses the Mede, the High God has been with us. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon—have all bowed under our yoke. The Lydian at golden Sardis, the Tartar on the arid steppes, the Hindoo by his sacred river, all send tribute to our king, and Hellas—" he held out his arms confidently—"shall be the brightest star in the Persian tiara. When Darius your father lay dying, I swore to him, 'Master, fear not; I will avenge you on Athens and on all the Greeks.' And in one brief year, O fravashi, soul of the great departed, I may make good the vow. I will make these untamed Hellenes bow their proud necks to a king."

Her own eyes brightened, looking on him, as he spoke in pride and power.

"And yet," she could not keep back the question, "as we have moved through this Hellas, and seen its people, living without princes, or with princes of little power, sometimes a strange thought comes. These perverse, unobedient folk, false as they are, and ununited, have yet a strength to do great things, a strength which even we Aryans lack."

He shook his head.

"It cannot be. Mazda ordained a king to rule, the rest to obey. And all the wits of Hellas have no strength until they learn that lesson well. But I will teach it them."

"For some day you will be their king?" spoke the woman. He did not reprove, but stood beside her, gazing forth upon the night. In the moonlight the columns and sculptures of the great temple on the Acropolis stood out in minute tracery They could see all the caverns and jagged ledges on the massy Rock. The flat roofs of the sleeping city lay like a dark and peaceful ocean. The mountains spread around in shadow-wrapped hush. Far away the dark stretch of the sea sent back a silver shimmering in answer to the moon. A landscape only possible at Athens! The two sensitive Orientals' souls were deeply touched. For long they were silent, then the husband spoke.

"Twenty days more; we are safe in Sardis, the adventure ended. The war only remains, and the glory, the conquest,—and thou. O Ahura-Mazda," he spoke upward to the stars, "give to thy Persians this land. For when Thou hast given this, Thou wilt keep back nothing of all the world."



CHAPTER X

DEMOCRATES RESOLVES

Democrates surpassed himself when arraigning the knavish contractor. "Nestor and Odysseus both speak to us," shouted Polus in glee, flinging his black bean in the urn. "What eloquence, what righteous fury when he painted the man's infamy to pillage the city in a crisis like this!"

So the criminal was sent to death and Democrates was showered with congratulations. Only one person seemed hardly satisfied with all the young orator did,—Themistocles. The latter told his lieutenant candidly he feared all was not being done to apprehend the Persian emissary. Themistocles even took it upon himself to send Sicinnus to run down several suspects, and just on the morning of the day preceding the Panathenaea—the great summer festival—Democrates received a hint which sent him home very thoughtful. He had met his chief in the Agora as he was leaving the Government-House, and Themistocles had again asked if he had smelt aught of the Persian agent. He had not.

"Then you would well devote more time to finding his scent, and less to convicting a pitiful embezzler. You know the Alopece suburb?"

"Certainly."

"And the house of Phormio the fishmonger?" to which Democrates nodded.

"Well, Sicinnus has been watching the quarter. A Babylonish carpet-seller has rooms opposite Phormio. The man is suspicious, does no trading, and Phormio's wife told Sicinnus an odd tale."

"What tale?" Democrates glanced at a passing chariot, avoiding Themistocles's gaze.

"Why, twice the Barbarian, she swears, has had an evening visitor—and he our dear Glaucon."

"Impossible."

"Of course. The good woman is mistaken. Still, question her. Pry into this Babylonian's doings. He may be selling more things than carpets. If he has corrupted any here in Athens,—by Pluto the Implacable, I will make them tell out the price!"

"I'll inquire at once."

"Do so. The matter grows serious."

Themistocles caught sight of one of the archons and hastened across the Agora to have a word with him. Democrates passed his hand across his forehead, beaded with sudden sweat-drops. He knew—though Themistocles had said not a word—that his superior was beginning to distrust his efforts, and that Sicinnus was working independently. Democrates had great respect for the acuteness of that Asiatic. He was coming perilously near the truth already. If the Cyprian and Hiram were arrested, the latter at least would surely try to save his life by betraying their nocturnal visitor. To get the spy safely out of Athens would be the first step,—but not all. Sicinnus once upon the scent would not readily drop it until he had discovered the emissary's confederate. And of the fate of that confederate Themistocles had just given a grim hint. There was one other solution possible. If Democrates could discover the confederate himself, Sicinnus would regard the matter as cleared up and drop all interest therein. All these possibilities raced through the orator's head, as does the past through one drowning. A sudden greeting startled him.

"A fair morning, Democrates." It was Glaucon. He walked arm-in-arm with Cimon.

"A fair morning, indeed. Where are you going?"

"To the Peiraeus to inspect the new tackling of the Nausicaae. You will join us?"

"Unfortunately I argue a case before the King Archon."

"Be as eloquent as in your last speech. Do you know, Cimon declares I am disloyal too, and that you will soon be prosecuting me?"

"Avert it, gods! What do you mean?"

"Why, he is sending a letter to Argos," asserted Cimon. "Now I say Argos has Medized, therefore no good Hellene should correspond with a traitorous Argive."

"Be jury on my treachery," commanded Glaucon. "Ageladas the master-sculptor sends me a bronze Perseus in honour of my victory. Shall I churlishly send him no thanks because he lives in Argos?"

" 'Not guilty' votes the jury; the white beans prevail. So the letter goes to-day?"

"To-morrow afternoon. You know Seuthes of Corinth—the bow-legged fellow with a big belly. He goes home to-morrow afternoon after seeing the procession and the sacrifice."

"He goes by sea?" asked Democrates, casually.

"By land; no ship went to his liking. He will lie overnight at Eleusis."

The friends went their ways. Democrates hardly saw or heard anything until he was in his own chambers. Three things were graven on his mind: Sicinnus was watching, the Babylonian was suspected, Glaucon was implicated and was sending a letter to Argos.

* * * * * * *

Bias the Thracian was discovered that afternoon by his master lurking in a corner of the chamber. Democrates seized a heavy dog-whip, lashed the boy unmercifully, then cast him out, threatening that eavesdropping would be rewarded by "cutting into shoe soles." Then the master resumed his feverish pacings and the nervous twisting of his fingers. Unfortunately, Bias felt certain the threat would never have been uttered unless the weightiest of matters had been on foot. As in all Greek dwellings, Democrates's rooms were divided not by doors but by hanging curtains, and Bias, letting curiosity master fear, ensconced himself again behind one of these and saw all his master's doings. What Democrates said and did, however, puzzled his good servant quite sufficiently.

Democrates had opened the privy cupboard, taken out one of the caskets and scattered its contents upon the table, then selected a papyrus, and seemed copying the writing thereon with extreme care. Next one of the clay seals came into play. Democrates was testing it upon wax. Then the orator rose, dashed the wax upon the floor, put his sandal thereon, tore the papyrus on which he wrote to bits. Again he paced restlessly, his hands clutching his hair, his forehead frowns and blackness, while Bias thought he heard him muttering as he walked:—

"O Zeus! O Apollo! O Athena! I cannot do this thing! Deliver me! Deliver!"

Then back to the table again, once more to pick up the mysterious clay, again to copy, to stamp on the wax, to fling down, mutilate, and destroy. The pantomime was gone through three times. Bias could make nothing of it. Since the day his parents—following the barbarous Thracian custom—had sold him into slavery and he had passed into Democrates's service, the lad had never seen his master acting thus.

"Clearly the kyrios is mad," was his own explanation, and growing frightened at following the strange movements of his lord, he crept from his retreat and tried to banish uncanny fears at a safe distance, by tying a thread to the leg of a gold-chafer(5) and watching its vain efforts at flight. Yet had he continued his eavesdropping he might have found—if not the key to all Democrates's doings—at least a partial explanation. For the fourth time the papyrus had been written, for the fourth time the orator had torn it up. Then his eyes went down to the lump of clay before him on the table.

"Curses upon the miserable stuff!" he swore almost loudly; "it is this which has set the evil thoughts to racing. Destroy that, and the deed is beyond my power."

He held up the clay and eyed it as a miser might his gold.

"What a little lump! Not very hard. I can dash it on the floor and it dissolves in dust. And yet, and yet—all Elysium, all Tartarus, are pent up for me in just this bit of clay."

He picked at it with his finger and broke a small piece from the edge.

"A little more, the stamp is ruined. I could not use it. Better if it were ruined. And yet,—and yet,—"

He laid the clay upon the table and sat watching it wistfully.

"O Father Zeus!" he broke out after silence, "if I were not compelled by fear! Sicinnus is so sharp, Themistocles so unmerciful! It would be a terrible death to die,—and every man is justified in shunning death."

He looked at the inanimate lump as if he expected it to answer him.

"Ah, I am all alone. No one to counsel me. In every other trouble when has it been as this? Glaucon? Cimon? Themistocles?—What would they advise?"—he ended with a laugh more bitter than a sob. "And I must save myself, but at such a price!"

He pressed his hands over his eyes.

"Curses on the hour I met Lycon! Curses on the Cyprian and his gold! It would have been better to have told Glaucon and let him save me now and hate me forever after. But I have sold myself to the Cyprian. The deed cannot be taken back."

But as he said it, he arose, took the charmed bit of clay, replaced in the box, and locked the coffer. His hand trembled as he did it.

"I cannot do this thing. I have been foolish, wicked,—but I must not be driven mad by fear. The Cyprian must quit Athens to-morrow. I can throw Sicinnus off the scent. I shall never be the worse."

He walked with the box toward the cupboard, but stopped halfway.

"It is a dreadful death to die;"—his thoughts raced and were half uttered,—"hemlock!—men grow cold limb by limb and keep all their faculties to the end. And the crows in the Barathrum, and the infamy upon my father's name! When was a son of the house of Codrus branded 'A Traitor to Athens'? Is it wickedness to save one's own life?"

Instead of going to the cupboard he approached the window. The sun beat hotly, but as he leaned forth into the street he shivered as on a winter's morn. In blank wretchedness he watched the throng beneath the window, pannier-laden asses, venders of hot sausage with their charcoal stoves and trays, youths going to and from the gymnasium, slaves returning from market. How long he stood thus, wretched, helpless, he did not know. At last he stirred himself.

"I cannot stand gaping like a fool forever. An omen, by every god an omen! Ah! what am I to do?" He glanced toward the sky in vain hope of a lucky raven or eagle winging out of the east, but saw only blue and brightness. Then his eye went down the street, and at the glance the warm blood tingled from his forehead to his heels.

She was passing,—Hermione, child of Hermippus. She walked before, two comely maids went after with her stool and parasol; but they were the peonies beside the rose. She had thrown her blue veil back. The sun played over the sheen of her hair. As she moved, her floating saffron dress of the rare muslin of Amorgos now revealed her delicate form, now clothed her in an enchanting cloud. She held her head high, as if proud of her own grace and of the beauty and fair name of her husband. She never looked upward, nor beheld how Democrates's eyes grew like bright coals as he gazed on her. He saw her clear high forehead, he heard—or thought he heard despite the jar of the street—the rustle of the muslin robe. Hermione passed, nor ever knew how, by taking this way from the house of a friend, she coloured the skein of life for three mortals—for herself, her husband, and Democrates.

Democrates followed her with his eyes until she vanished around the fountain at the street corner; then sprang back from the window. The workings of his face were terrible. It was an instant when men grasp the godlike or sink to the demon, when they do deeds never to be recalled.

"The omen!" he almost cried, "the omen! Not Zeus but Hermes the Guileful sent it. He will be with me. She is Glaucon's wife. But if not his, whose then but mine? I will do the deed to the uttermost. The god is with me."

He flung the casket upon the table and spread its fateful contents again before him. His hand flew over the papyrus with marvellous speed and skill. He knew that all his faculties were at his full command and unwontedly acute.

Bias was surprised at his sport by a sudden clapping of his master's hands.

"What is it, kyrie?"

"Go to Agis. He keeps the gaming-house in the Ceramicus. You know where. Tell him to come hither instantly. He shall not lack reward. Make your feet fly. Here is something to speed them."

He flung at the boy a coin. Bias opened eyes and mouth in wonder. It was not silver, but a golden daric.

"Don't blink at it, sheep, but run. Bring Agis," ordered the master,—and Bias's legs never went faster than on that afternoon.

Agis came. Democrates knew his man and had no difficulty in finding his price. They remained talking together till it was dark, yet in so guarded a tone that Bias, though he listened closely, was unable to make out anything. When Agis went away, he carried two letters. One of these he guarded as if holding the crown jewels of the Great King; the second he despatched by a discreet myrmidon to the rooms of the Cyprian in Alopece. Its contents were pertinent and ran thus:—

"Democrates to the stranger calling himself a prince of Cyprus, greeting:—Know that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and grows suspicious of your identity. Leave Athens to-morrow or all is lost. The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for your flight by ship from the havens. May our paths never cross again!—Chaire."

After Agis was gone the old trembling came again to Democrates. He had Bias light all the lamps. The room seemed full of lurking goblins,—harpies, gorgons, the Hydra, the Minotaur, every other foul and noxious shape was waiting to spring forth. And, most maddening of all, the chorus of AEschylus, that Song of the Furies Democrates had heard recited at the Isthmus, rang in the miserable man's ears:—

"With scourge and with ban We prostrate the man, Who with smooth-woven wile, And a fair-faced 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.

"Hermes," prayed the orator, "Hermes Dolios, god of craft and lies, thieves' god, helper of evil,—be with me now. To Zeus, to Athena the pure, I dare not pray. Prosper me in the deed to which I set my hand,"—he hesitated, he dared not bribe the shrewd god with too mean a gift, "and I vow to set in thy temple at Tanagra three tall tripods of pure gold. So be with me on the morrow, and I will not forget thy favour."

The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates took comfort. Hermes was a great god and would help him. When the song of the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back Hermione's face and asking one triumphant question:—

"She is Glaucon's wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?"



CHAPTER XI

THE PANATHENAEA

Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each passer with violets, narcissus, and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the Panathenaea, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.

Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice. To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.

The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the lesches—the numerous little club houses about it—overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus's booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.

"Guilty—I vote guilty," the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower.

"Wake up, friend," ordered Clearchus; "you're not condemning any poor scoundrel now."

"Ai! ah!" Polus rubbed his eyes, "I only thought I was dropping the black bean—"

"Against whom?" quoth Crito, the fat contractor.

"Whom? Why that aristocrat Glaucon, surely,—to-night—" Polus suddenly checked himself and began to roll his eyes.

"You've a dreadful grievance against him," remarked Clearchus; "the gods know why."

"The wise patriot can see many things," observed Polus, complacently, "only I repeat—wait till to-night—and then—"

"What then?" demanded all the others.

"Then you shall see," announced the juror, with an oratorical flourish of his dirty himation, "and not you only but all of Athens."

Clearchus grinned.

"Our dear Polus has a vast sense of his own importance. And who has been making you partner of the state secrets—Themistocles?"

"A man almost his peer, the noble patriot Democrates. Ask Phormio's wife, Lampaxo; ask—" Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. "This will be a notable day for Athens!"

"Our good friend surely thinks so!" rejoined the potter, dryly; "but since he won't trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate. Yonder rides Themistocles now to take command."

The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels were prancing Cimon, Democrates, Glaucon, and many another youth of the noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as Agis.

"Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a 'steward' of the procession to-day," wondered Crito.

"You'll be enlightened to-morrow," said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, "Ah, me,—I wish I could afford to serve in the cavalry. It's far safer than tugging a spear on foot. But there's one young man out yonder on whose horse I'd not gladly be sitting."

"Phui," complained Clearchus, "you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to take her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as handsome as her husband."

"She needn't 'draw up her eyebrows,' "(6) growled the juror, viciously; "they're marks of disloyalty even in her. Can't you see she wears shoes of the Theban model, laced open so as to display her bare feet, though everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She's no better than Glaucon."

"Hush," ordered Clearchus, rising, "you have spoken folly enough. Those trumpets tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march ourselves."

* * * * * * *

Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,—what words call down light on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the artist,—his pencil may not limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the sculptor's marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The festival of the Panathenaea was the crown of Athens.

Never had Helios looked down on fairer landscape or city. The doors of the patrician houses were opened; for a day unguarded, unconstrained, the daughters, wives, and mothers of the nobility of Athens walked forth in their queenly beauty. One could see that the sculptor's master works were but rigid counterparts of lovelier flesh and blood. One could see veterans, stalwart almost as on the day of the old-time battles, but crowned with the snow of years. One could see youths, and need no longer marvel the young Apollo was accounted fair. Flowers, fluttering mantles, purple, gold, the bravery of armour, rousing music—what was missing? All conjoined to make a perfect spectacle.

The sun had chased the last vapours from the sky. The little ravines on distant Hymettus stood forth sharply as though near at hand. The sun grew hot, but men and women walked with bared heads, and few were the untanned cheeks and shoulders. Children of the South, and lovers of the Sun-King, the Athenians sought no shelter, their own bright humour rejoicing in the light.

On the broad parade ground outside the Dipylon, the towering northwestern gate, the procession gathered. Themistocles the Handsome, never more gallant than now upon the white Thessalian, was ordering the array, the ten young men, "stewards of the Panathenaea," assisting. He sent his last glance down the long files, his ivory wand signed to the musicians in the van.

"Play! march!"

Fifty pipers blew, fifty citharas tinkled. The host swept into the city.

Themistocles led. Under the massy double gate caracoled the charger. The robe of his rider blew out behind him like purple wings. There was the cry and clang of cymbals and drums. From the gray battlement yellow daisies rained down like gold. Cantering, halting, advancing, beckoning, the chief went forward, and behind swept the "knights," the mounted chivalry of Athens,—three hundred of the noblest youths of Attica, on beasts sleek and spirited, and in burnished armour, but about every helm a wreath. Behind the "knights" rode the magistracy, men white-headed and grave, some riding, some in flower-decked cars. After these the victors in the games and contests of the preceding day. Next the elders of Athens—men of blameless life, beautiful in hale and honoured age. Next the ephebi,—the youths close to manhood, whose fair limbs glistened under their sweeping chitons. Behind them, their sisters, unveiled, the maidens of Athens, walking in rhythmic beauty, and with them their attendants, daughters of resident foreigners. Following upon these was the long line of bleating victims, black bulls with gilded horns and ribbon-decked rams without blemish. And next—but here the people leaned from parapet, house-roof, portico, and shouted louder than ever:

"The car and the robe of Athena! Hail, Io, paean! hail!"

Up the street on a car shaped like a galley moved the peplus, the great robe of the sovran goddess. From afar one could see the wide folds spread on a shipyard and rippling in the breeze. But what a sail! One year long had the noblest women of Attica wrought on it, and all the love and art that might breathe through a needle did not fail. It was a sheen of glowing colour. The strife of Athena with the brutish giants, her contest with Arachne, the deeds of the heroes of Athens—Erechtheus, Theseus, Codrus: these were some of the pictures. The car moved noiselessly on wheels turned by concealed mechanism. Under the shadow of the sail walked the fairest of its makers, eight women, maids and young matrons, clothed in white mantles and wreaths, going with stately tread, unmoved by the shouting as though themselves divine. Seven walked together. But one, their leader, went before,—Hermione, child of Hermippus.

Many an onlooker remembered this sight of her, the deep spiritual eyes, the symmetry of form and fold, the perfect carriage. Fair wishes flew out to her like doves.

"May she be blessed forever! May King Helios forever bring her joy!"

Some cried thus. More thought thus. All seemed more glad for beholding her.

Behind the peplus in less careful array went thousands of citizens of every age and station, all in festival dress, all crowned with flowers. They followed the car up the Dromos Street, across the cheering Agora, and around the southern side of the Acropolis, making a full circuit of the citadel. Those who watched saw Glaucon with Democrates and Cimon give their horses to slaves, and mount the bare knoll of Areopagus, looking down upon the western face of the Acropolis. As the procession swung about to mount the steep, Hermione lifted her glance to Areopagus, saw her husband gazing down on her, raised her hands in delighted gesture, and he answered her. It was done in the sight of thousands, and the thousands smiled with the twain.