"Justice! The beautiful salutes the beautiful." And who thought the less of Hermione for betraying the woman beneath the mien of the goddess?

But now the march drew to an end. The procession halted, reformed, commenced the rugged way upward. Suddenly from the bastion of the Acropolis above wafted new music. Low, melancholy at first, as the pipers and harpers played in the dreamy Lydian mode, till, strengthening into the bolder AEolic, the strains floated down, inviting, "Come up hither," then stronger still it pealed in the imperious crash of the Doric as the procession mounted steadily. Now could be seen great Lamprus, Orpheus's peer, the master musician, standing on the balcony above the gate, beating time for the loud choral.

A chorus amongst the marchers and a second chorus in the citadel joined together, till the red crags shook,—singing the old hymn of the Homeridae to Athena, homely, rude, yet dear with the memory of ages:—

"Pallas Athena, gray-eyed queen of wisdom, Thy praise I sing! Steadfast, all holy, sure ward of our city, Triton-born rule whom High Zeus doth bring Forth from his forehead. Thou springest forth valiant; The clangour swells far as thy direful arms ring.

"All the Immortals in awed hush are bending, Beautiful, terrible, thy light thou'rt sending Flashed from thine eyes and thy pitiless spear. Under thy presence Olympus is groaning, Earth heaves in terrors, the blue deeps are moaning; 'Wisdom, the All-Seeing Goddess is here!'

"Now the sea motionless freezes before thee; Helios, th' Sun-Lord, draws rein to adore thee; Whilst thou, O Queen, puttest on divine might. Zeus, the deep-councillor, gladly greets thee! Hail, Holy Virgin—our loud paean meets thee, PALLAS, CHASTE WISDOM, DISPELLER OF NIGHT!"

Up the face of the Rock, up the long, statue-lined way, till through the gate the vision burst,—the innumerable fanes and altars, the assembly of singers and priests, the great temple in its pride of glittering marble. Clearer, stronger sounded the choral, shot up through the limpid azure; swaying, burning, throbbing, sobs and shouting, tears and transports, so mounted new strains of the mighty chorus, lit through with the flames of Homeric verse. Then stronger yet was the mingling of voices, earth, sky, deep, beasts' cry and gods' cry, all voiced, as chorus answered to chorus. Now the peplus was wafted on a wave of song toward the temple's dawn-facing portal, when from beneath the columns, as the tall valves turned and the sun leaped into the cella, hidden voices returned the former strains—mournful at first. Out of the adytum echoed a cry of anguish, the lament of the Mother of Wisdom at her children's deathly ignorance, which plucks them down from the Mount of the Beautiful Vision. But as the thousands neared, as its paeans became a prayer, as yearning answered to yearning, lo! the hidden song swelled and soared,—for the goddess looked for her own, and her own were come to her. And thus in beneath the massy pediment, in through the wide-flung doors, floated the peplus, while under its guardian shadow walked Hermione.

So they brought the robe to Athena.

* * * * * * *

Glaucon and his companions had watched the procession ascend, then followed to see the sacrifice upon the giant altar. The King Archon cut the throat of the first ox and made public prayer for the people. Wood soaked in perfumed oil blazed upon the huge stone platform of the sacrifice. Girls flung frankincense upon the roaring flames. The music crashed louder. All Athens seemed mounting the citadel. The chief priestess came from the holy house, and in a brief hush proclaimed that the goddess had received the robe with all favour. After her came the makers of the peplus, and Hermione rejoined her husband.

"Let us not stay to the public feast," was her wish; "let these hucksters and charcoal-burners who live on beans and porridge scramble for a bit of burned meat, but we return to Colonus."

"Good then," answered Glaucon, "and these friends of course go with us."

Cimon assented readily. Democrates hesitated, and while hesitating was seized by the cloak by none other than Agis, who gave a hasty whisper and vanished in the swirling multitude before Democrates could do more than nod.

"He's an uncanny fox," remarked Cimon, mystified; "I suppose you know his reputation?"

"The servant of Athens must sometimes himself employ strange servants," evaded the orator.

"Yet you might suffer your friends to understand—"

"Dear son of Miltiades," Democrates's voice shook in the slightest, "the meaning of my dealings with Agis I pray Athena you may never have cause to know."

"Which means you will not tell us. Then by Zeus I swear the secret no doubt is not worth the knowing." Cimon stopped suddenly, as he saw a look of horror on Hermione's face. "Ah, lady! what's the matter?"

"Glaucon," she groaned, "frightful omen! I am terrified!"

Glaucon's hands dropped at her cry. He himself paled slightly. In one of his moods of abstraction he had taken the small knife from his belt and begun to pare his nails,—to do which after a sacrifice was reputed an infallible means of provoking heaven's anger. The friends were grave and silent. The athlete gave a forced laugh.

"The goddess will be merciful to-day. To-morrow I will propitiate her with a goat."

"Now, now, not to-morrow," urged Hermione, with white lips, but her husband refused.

"The goddess is surfeited with sacrifices this morning. She would forget mine."

Then he led the rest, elbowing the way through the increasing swarms of young and old, and down into the half-deserted city. Democrates left them in the Agora, professing great stress of duties.

"Strange man," observed Cimon, as he walked away; "what has he this past month upon his mind? That Persian spy, I warrant. But the morning wanes. It's a long way to Colonus. 'Let us drink, for the sun is in the zenith.' So says Alcaeus—and I love the poet, for he like myself is always thirsty."

The three went on to the knoll of Colonus where Glaucon dwelt. Cimon was overrunning with puns and jests, but the others not very merry. The omen of Glaucon's thoughtlessness, or something else, made husband and wife silent, yet it was a day when man or maid should have felt their spirits rise. The sky had never been brighter, not in Athens. Never had the mountains and sea spread more gloriously. From the warm olive-groves sounded the blithesome note of the Attic grasshopper. The wind sweeping over the dark cypresses by the house set their dark leaves to talking. The afternoon passed in pleasure, friends going and coming; there was laughter, music, and good stories. Hermione at least recovered part of her brightness, but her husband, contrary to all custom, remained taciturn, even melancholy. At last as the gentle tints of evening began to cover hill and plain and the red-tiled roofs of the ample city, all the friends were gone, saving only Cimon, and he—reckless fellow—was well able to dispense with companionship, being, in the words of Theognis, "not absolutely drunk, nor sober quite." Thus husband and wife found themselves alone together on the marble bench beneath the old cypress.

"Oh, makaire! dearest and best," asked Hermione, her hands touching his face, "is it the omen that makes you grow so sad? For the sun of your life is so seldom under clouds that when it is clouded at all, it seems as deep darkness."

He answered by pressing back her hair, "No, not the omen. I am not a slave to chance like that. Yet to-day,—the wise God knows wherefore,—there comes a sense of brooding fear. I have been too happy—too blessed with friendship, triumph, love. It cannot last. Clotho the Spinner will weary of making my thread of gold and twine in a darker stuff. Everything lovely must pass. What said Glaucus to Diomedes? 'Even as the race of leaves, so likewise are those of men; the leaves that now are, the wind scattereth, and the forest buddeth forth more again; thus also with the race of men, one putteth forth, another ceaseth.' So even my joy must pass—"

"Glaucon,—take back the words. You frighten me."

He felt her in his arms trembling, and cursed himself for what he had uttered.

"A blight upon my tongue! I have frightened you, and without cause. Surely the day is bright enough, surely Athena having been thus far good we can trust her goodness still. Who knows but that it be many a year before our sun comes to his setting!"

He kissed her many times. She grew comforted, but they had not been together long when they were surprised by the approach of Themistocles and Hermippus. Hermione ran to her father.

"Themistocles and I were summoned hither," explained Hermippus, "by a message from Democrates bidding us come to Colonus at once, on an urgent matter touching the public weal."

"He is not here. I cannot understand," marvelled Glaucon; but while he spoke, he was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs from a party of horsemen spurring furiously and heading from the pass of Daphni.



CHAPTER XII

A TRAITOR TO HELLAS

Before the house six riders were reining,—five Scythian "bowmen" of the constabulary of Athens, tow-headed Barbarians, grinning but mute; the sixth was Democrates. He dismounted with a bound, and as he did so the friends saw that his face was red as with pent-up excitement. Themistocles advanced hastily.

"What's this? Your hands seem a-quiver. Whom has that constable tied up behind him?"

"Seuthes!" cried Glaucon, bounding back, "Seuthes, by every god, and pinioned like a felon."

"Ay!" groaned the prisoner, lashed to a horse, "what have I done to be seized and tried like a bandit? Why should I be set upon by these gentlemen while I was enjoying a quiet pot of wine in the tavern at Daphni, and be haled away as if to crucifixion? Mu! Mu! make them untie me, dear Master Glaucon."

"Put down your prisoner," ordered Democrates, "and all you constables stay without the house. I ask Themistocles, Hermippus, and Glaucon to come to an inner room. I must examine this man. The matter is serious."

"Serious?" echoed the bewildered athlete, "I can vouch for Seuthes—an excellent Corinthian, come to Athens to sell some bales of wool—"

"Answer, Glaucon," Democrates's voice was stern. "Has he no letters from you for Argos?"

"Certainly."

"You admit it?"

"By the dog of Egypt, do you doubt my word?"

"Friends," called Democrates, dramatically, "mark you that Glaucon admits he has employed this Seuthes as his courier."

"Whither leads this mummery?" cried the athlete, growing at last angry.

"If to nothing, I, Democrates, rejoice the most. Now I must bid you to follow me."

Seizing the snivelling Seuthes, the orator led into the house and to a private chamber. The rest followed, in blank wonderment. Cimon had recovered enough to follow—none too steadily. But when Hermione approached, Democrates motioned her back.

"Do not come. A painful scene may be impending."

"What my husband can hear, that can I," was her retort. "Ah! but why do you look thus dreadfully on Glaucon?"

"I have warned you, lady. Do not blame me if you hear the worst," rejoined Democrates, barring the door. A single swinging lamp shed a fitful light on the scene—the whimpering prisoner, the others all amazed, the orator's face, tense and white. Democrates's voice seemed metallic as he continued:—

"Now, Seuthes, we must search you. Produce first the letter from Glaucon."

The fat florid little Corinthian was dressed as a traveller, a gray chalmys to his hips, a brimmed brown hat, and high black boots. His hands were now untied. He tugged from his belt a bit of papyrus which Democrates handed to Themistocles, enjoining "Open."

Glaucon flushed.

"Are you mad, Democrates, to violate my private correspondence thus?"

"The weal of Athens outweighs even the pleasure of Glaucon," returned the orator, harshly, "and you, Themistocles, note that Glaucon does not deny that the seal here is his own."

"I do not deny," cried the angry athlete. "Open, Themistocles, and let this stupid comedy end."

"And may it never change to tragedy!" proclaimed Democrates. "What do you read, Themistocles?"

"A courteous letter of thanks to Ageladas." The senior statesman was frowning. "Glaucon is right. Either you are turned mad, or are victim of some prank,—is it yours, Cimon?"

"I am as innocent as a babe. I'd swear it by the Styx," responded that young man, scratching his muddled head.

"I fear we are not at the end of the examination," observed Democrates, with ominous slowness. "Now, Seuthes, recollect your plight. Have you no other letter about you?"

"None!" groaned the unheroic Corinthian. "Ah! pity, kind sirs; what have I done? Suffer me to go."

"It is possible," remarked his prosecutor, "you are an innocent victim, or at least do not realize the intent of what you bear. I must examine the lining of your chalmys. Nothing. Your girdle. Nothing. Your hat, remove it. Quite empty. Blessed be Athena if my fears prove groundless. But my first duty is to Athens and Hellas. Ah! Your high boots. Remove the right one." The orator felt within, and shook the boot violently. "Nothing again. The left one, empty it seems. Ei! what is this?"

In a tense silence he shook from the boot a papyrus, rolled and sealed. It fell on the floor at the feet of Themistocles, who, watching all his lieutenant did, bent and seized it instantly; then it dropped from his hands as a live coal.

"The seal! The seal! May Zeus smite me blind if I see aright!"

Hermippus, who had been following all the scene in silence, bent, lifted the fateful paper, and he too gave a cry of grief.

"It is the seal of Glaucon. How came it here?"

"Glaucon,"—hard as Democrates's voice had been that night, it rang like cold iron now,—"as the friend of your boyhood, and one who would still do for you all he may, I urge you as you love me to look upon this seal."

"I am looking," but as he spoke paleness followed the angry flush on the athlete's forehead. He needed no omen to tell him something fearful was about to ensue.

"The seal is yours?"

"The very same, two dancing maenads and over them a winged Eros. But how came this letter here? I did not—"

"As you love life or death, as you preserve any regard for our friendship, I adjure you,—not to brave it longer, but to confess—"

"Confess what? My head is reeling."

"The treason in which you have dipped your hands, your dealings with the Persian spy, your secret interviews, and last of all this letter,—I fear a gross betrayal of all trust,—to some agent of Xerxes. I shudder when I think of what may be its contents."

"And—this—from—you! Oh,—Democrates,—"

The accused man's hands snatched at the air. He sank upon a chest.

"He does not deny it," threw out the orator, but Glaucon's voice rang shrilly:—

"Ever! Ever will I deny! Though the Twelve Gods all cried out 'guilty!' The charge is monstrous."

"It is time, Democrates," said Themistocles, who had preserved a grim silence, "that you showed us clearly whither your path is leading. This is a fearful accusation you launch against your best-loved friend."

"Themistocles is right," assented the orator, moving away from the luckless Seuthes as from a pawn no longer important in the game of life and death. "The whole of the wretched story I fear I must tell on the Bema to all Athens. I must be brief, but believe me, I can make good all I say. Since my return from the Isthmia, I have been observed to be sad. Rightly—for knowing Glaucon as I did, I grew suspicious, and I loved him. You have thought me not diligent in hunting down the Persian spy. You were wrong. But how could I ruin my friend without full proof? I made use of Agis,—no genteel confederate, to be sure, but honest, patriotic, indefatigable. I soon had my eyes on the suspected Babylonish carpet-seller. I observed Glaucon's movements closely, they gave just ground for suspicion. The Babylonian, I came to feel, was none other than an agent of Xerxes himself. I discovered that Glaucon had been making this emissary nocturnal visits."

"A lie!" groaned the accused, in agony.

"I would to Athena I believed you," was the unflinching answer; "I have direct evidence from eye-witnesses that you went to him. In a moment I can produce it. Yet still I hesitated. Who would blast a friend without damning proof? Then yesterday with your own lips you told me you sent a messenger to disloyal Argos. I suspected two messages, not one, were entrusted to Seuthes, and that you proclaimed the more innocent matter thus boldly simply to blind my eyes. Before Seuthes started forth this morning Agis informed me he had met him in a wine-shop—"

"True," whimpered the unhappy prisoner.

"And this fellow as much as admitted he carried a second and secret message—"

"Liar!" roared Seuthes.

"Men hint strange things in wine-shops," observed Democrates, sarcastically. "Enough that a second papyrus with Glaucon's seal has been found hidden upon you."

"Open it then, and know the worst," interjected Themistocles, his face like a thunder-cloud; but Democrates forbade him.

"A moment. Let me complete my story. This afternoon I received warning that the Babylonish carpet-vender had taken sudden flight, presumably toward Thebes. I have sent mounted constables after him. I trust they can seize him at the pass of Phyle. In the meantime, I may assure you I have irrefutable evidence—needless to present here—that the man was a Persian agent, and to more purpose hear this affidavit, sworn to by very worthy patriots.

"Polus, son of Phodrus of the Commune of Diomea, and Lampaxo his sister take oath by Zeus, Dike, and Athena, thus: We swear we saw and recognized Glaucon, son of Conon, twice visiting by night in the past month of Scirophorion a certain Babylonish carpet-seller, name unknown, who had lodgings above Demas's shield factory in Alopece."

"Details lack," spoke Themistocles, keenly.

"To be supplied in full measure at the trial," rejoined the orator. "And now to the second letter itself."

"Ay, the letter, whatever the foul Cyclops that wrought it!" groaned Glaucon through his teeth.

Themistocles took the document from Hermippus's trembling hands. His own trembled whilst he broke the seal.

"The handwriting of Glaucon. There is no doubt," was his despairing comment. His frown darkened. Then he attempted to read.

"Glaucon of Athens to Cleophas of Argos wishes health:—

"Cleophas leads the Medizers of Argos, the greatest friend of Xerxes in Greece. O Zeus, what is this next—

"Our dear friend, whom I dare not name, to-day departs for Thebes, and in a month will be safe in Sardis. His visit to Athens has been most fruitful. Since you at present have better opportunity than we for forwarding packets to Susa, do not fail to despatch this at once. A happy chance led Themistocles to explain to me his secret memorandum for the arraying of the Greek fleet. You can apprize its worth, for the only others to whom it is entrusted are Democrates and later Leonidas—"

Themistocles flung the papyrus down. His voice was broken. Tears stood in his eyes.

"O Glaucon, Glaucon,—whom I have trusted? Was ever trust so betrayed! May Apollo smite me blind, if so I could forget what I read here! It is all written—the secret ordering of the fleet—"

For a terrible moment there was silence in the little room, a silence broken by a wild, shrill cry,—Hermione's, as she cast her arms about her husband.

"A lie! A snare! A wicked plot! Some jealous god has devised this guile, seeing we were too happy!"

She shook with sobs, and Glaucon, roused to manhood by her grief, uprose and faced the stern face of Democrates, the blenching faces of the rest.

"I am the victim of a conspiracy of all the fiends in Tartarus,"—he strove hard to speak steadily; "I did not write that second letter. It is a forgery."

"But who, then," groaned Themistocles, hopelessly, "can claim this handiwork? Democrates or I?—for no other has seen the memorandum,—that I swear. It has not yet gone to Leonidas. It has been guarded as the apple of my eye. We three alone knew thereof. And it is in this narrow room the betrayer of Hellas must stand."

"I cannot explain." Glaucon staggered back to his seat. His wife's head sank upon his lap. The two sat in misery.

"Confess, by the remnants of our friendship I implore, confess," ordered Democrates, "and then Themistocles and I will strive to lighten if possible your inevitable doom."

The accused man sat dumb, but Hermione struck back as some wild creature driven to bay. She lifted her head.

"Has Glaucon here no friend but me, his wife?" She sent beseeching eyes about the room. "Do you all cry 'guilty, guilty'? Then is your friendship false, for when is friendship proved, save in the hour of need?"

The appeal brought an answer from her father, who had been standing silent; and in infinite distress kindly, cautious, charitable Hermippus began:—

"Dear Glaucon, Hermione is wrong; we were never more your friends. We are willing to believe the best and not the worst. Therefore tell all frankly. You have been a victim of great temptation. The Isthmian victory has turned your head. The Persian was subtle, plausible. He promised I know not what. You did not realize all you were doing. You had confederates here in Athens who are more guilty. We can make allowances. Tell only the truth, and the purse and influence of Hermippus of Eleusis shall never be held back to save his son-in-law."

"Nor mine, nor mine," cried Themistocles, snatching at every straw; "only confess, the temptation was great, others were more guilty, everything then may be done—"

Glaucon drew himself together and looked up almost proudly. Slowly he was recovering strength and wit.

"I have nothing to confess," he spoke, "nothing. I know nothing of this Persian spy. Can I swear the god's own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—"

Themistocles shook his head wearily.

"How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?"

"Never. Never!"

"Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?"

"A forgery."

"Impossible. Is the forger Democrates or I?"

"Some god has done this thing in malice, jealous of my great joy."

"I fear Hermes no longer strides so frequently about Athens. The hand and seal are yours,—and still you do not confess?"

"If I must die," Glaucon was terribly pale, but his voice was steady, "it is not as a perjurer!"

Themistocles turned his back with a groan.

"I can do nothing for you. This is the saddest hour in my life." He was silent, but Democrates sprang to the athlete's side.

"Have I not prayed each god to spare me this task?" he spoke. "Can I forget our friendship? Do not brave it to the end. Pity at least your friends, your wife—"

He threw back his cloak, pointing to a sword.

"Ai," cried the accused, shrinking. "What would you have me do?"

"Save the public disgrace, the hooting jury, the hemlock, the corpse flung into the Barathrum. Strike this into your breast and end the shame."

No further. Glaucon smote him so that he reeled. The athlete's tone was terrible.

"Villain! You shall not tempt me." Then he turned to the rest, and stood in his white agony, yet beautiful as ever, holding out his arms.

"O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn silently against me?" No answer. "And you, Hermippus?" No answer again. "And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the world?" The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to Democrates.

"And you I deemed more than comrade, for we were boys at school together, were flogged with the same rod, and drank from the same cup, had like friends, foes, loves, hates; and have lived since as more than brothers,—do you too turn utterly away?"

"I would it were otherwise," came the sullen answer. Again Democrates pointed to the sword, but Glaucon stood up proudly.

"No. I am neither traitor, nor perjurer, nor coward. If I must perish, it shall be as becomes an Alcmaeonid. If you have resolved to undo me, I know your power over Athenian juries. I must die. But I shall die with unspotted heart, calling the curse of the innocent upon the god or man who plotted to destroy me."

"We have enough of this direful comedy," declared Democrates, pale himself. "Only one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves, and hale the traitor to prison."

He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione. She had her back against the door before the orator could open.

"Hold," she commanded, "for you are doing murder!"

Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone out of them. Athena Promachos, "Mistress of Battles," must have stood in that awful beauty when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread moment of her power over the will of the orator? Glaucon was still standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having ended in mute resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.

"Glaucon! Glaucon!" she adjured, "do not throw your life away. They shall not murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is lost."

"Fly!" spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. "No, I will brave them to the end."

"For my sake, fly," she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman, Glaucon moved toward her.

"How? Whither?"

"To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all Athens knows you are innocent."

As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the latch. Her husband's face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed. Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm and leaped forward.

"After the traitor! Not too late!—"

For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on his shoulder—Cimon's.

"You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To me Glaucon is still a friend. I'll not see him dragged to death before my eyes. When we follow even a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair play. You shall not pursue him yet."

"Blessing on you!" cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing Cimon's cloak. "Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!"

Hermippus—tender-hearted man—was in tears. Themistocles was pacing the little chamber, his hand tugging his beard, clearly in grievous doubt.

"The Scythians! The constables!" Democrates clamoured frantically; "every instant gives the traitor better start."

But Cimon held him fast, and Themistocles was not to be interrupted. Only after a long time he spoke, and then with authority which brooked no contradiction.

"There is no hole in the net of Democrates's evidence that Glaucon is guilty of foul disloyalty, disloyalty worthy of shameful death. Were he any other there would be only one way with him and that a short one. But Glaucon I know, if I know any man. The charges even if proved are nigh incredible. For of all the thousands in Hellas his soul seemed the purest, noblest, most ingenuous. Therefore I will not hasten on his death. I will give the gods a chance to save him. Let Democrates arraign me for 'misprision of treason' if he will, and of failing in duty to Athens. There shall be no pursuit of Glaucon until morning. Then let the Eleven(7) issue their hue and cry. If they take him, let the law deal with him. Till then give respite."

Democrates attempted remonstrance. Themistocles bade him be silent sharply, and the other bowed his head in cowed acquiescence. Hermione staggered from the door, her father unbarred, and the whole wretched company went forth. In the passage hung a burnished steel mirror; Hermione gave a cry as she passed it. The light borne by Hermippus showed her in her festival dress, the rippling white drapery, the crown of white violets.

"My father!" she cried, falling into his arms, "is it still the day of the Panathenaea, when I marched in the great procession, when all Athens called me happy? It was a thousand years ago! I can never be glad again—"

He lifted her tenderly as she fainted. Old Cleopis, the Spartan nurse who had kissed her almost before her mother, ran to her. They carried her to bed, and Athena in mercy hid her from consciousness that night and all the following day.



CHAPTER XIII

THE DISLOYALTY OF PHORMIO

On the evening of the Panathenaea, Bias, servant of Democrates, had supped with Phormio,—for in democratic Athens a humble citizen would not disdain to entertain even a slave. The Thracian had a merry wit and a story-teller's gift that more than paid for the supper of barley-porridge and salt mackerel, and after the viands had disappeared was ready even to tell tales against his master.

"I've turned my brain inside out, and shaken it like a meal sack. No wisdom comes. The kyrios has something on his mind. He prays to Hermes Dolios as often as if he were a cut-purse. Then yesterday he sent me for Agis—"

"Agis?" Phormio pricked up his ears. "The gambling-house keeper? What does Democrates with him?"

"Answer yourself. My master has been to Agis's pretty place before to see his cocks. However, this is different. To-day I met Theon."

"Who's he?"

"Agis's slave, the merriest scoundrel in Athens. Agis, he says, has been prancing like an ass stuffed with barley. He gave Theon a letter from Democrates to take to your Babylonian opposite; Theon must hunt up Seuthes, a Corinthian, and worm out of him when and how he was leaving Athens. Agis promised Theon a gold stater if all was right."

Phormio whistled. "You mean the carpet-dealer here? By Athena's owls, there is no light in his window to-night!"

"None, indeed," crackled Lampaxo; "didn't I see that cursed Babylonian with his servants gliding out just as Bias entered? Zeus knows whither! I hope ere dawn Democrates has them by the heels."

"Democrates does something to-night," asserted Bias, extending his cup for wine. "At noon Agis flew up to him, chattered something in his ear, whereupon Democrates bade me be off and not approach him till to-morrow, otherwise a cane gets broken on my shoulders."

"It's not painful to have a holiday," laughed Phormio.

"It's most painful to be curious yet unsatisfied."

"But why did not you take the letter to the Babylonian?" observed Phormio, shrewdly.

"I'm perplexed, indeed. Only one thing is possible."

"And that is—"

"Theon is not known in this street. I am. Perhaps the kyrios didn't care to have it rumoured he had dealings with that Babylonian."

"Silence, undutiful scoundrel," ordered Lampaxo, from her corner; "what has so noble a patriot as Democrates to conceal? Ugh! Be off with you! Phormio, don't dare to fill up the tipsy fox's beaker again. I want to pull on my nightcap and go to bed."

Bias did not take the hint. Phormio was considering whether it was best to join combat with his redoubtable spouse, or save his courage for a more important battle, when a slight noise from the street made all listen.

"Pest light on those bands of young roisterers!" fumed Lampaxo. "They go around all night, beating on doors and vexing honest folk. Why don't the constables trot them all to jail?"

"This isn't a drunken band, good wife," remarked Phormio, rising; "some one is sitting on the stones by the Hermes, near the door, groaning as if in pain."

"A drunkard? Let him lie then," commanded Lampaxo; "let the coat-thieves come and filch his chiton."

"He's hardly drunken," observed her husband, peering through the lattice in the door, "but sick rather. Don't detain me, philotata,"—Lampaxo's skinny hand had tried to restrain. "I'll not let even a dog suffer."

"You'll be ruined by too much charity," bewailed the woman, but Bias followed the fishmonger into the night. The moon shone down the narrow street, falling over the stranger who half lay, half squatted by the Hermes. When the two approached him, he tried to stagger to his feet, then reeled, and Phormio's strong arms seized him. The man resisted feebly, and seemed never to hear the fishmonger's friendly questions.

"I am innocent. Do not arrest me. Help me to the temple of Hephaestos, where there's asylum for fugitives. Ah! Hermione, that I should bring you this!"

Bias leaped back as the moonlight glanced over the face of the stranger.

"Master Glaucon, half naked and mad! Ai! woe!"

"Glaucon the Alcmaeonid," echoed Phormio, in amazement, and the other still struggled to escape.

"Do you not hear? I am innocent. I never visited the Persian spy. I never betrayed the fleet. By what god can I swear it, that you may believe?"

Phormio was a man to recover from surprise quickly, and act swiftly and to the purpose. He made haste to lead his unfortunate visitor inside and lay him on his one hard couch. Scarcely was this done, however, when Lampaxo ran up to Glaucon in mingled rage and exultation.

"Phormio doesn't know what Polus and I told Democrates, or what he told us! So you thought to escape, you white-skinned traitor? But we've watched you. We know how you went to the Babylonian. We know your guilt. And now the good gods have stricken you mad and delivered you to justice." She waved her bony fists in the prostrate man's face. "Run, Phormio! don't stand gaping like a magpie. Run, I say—"

"Whither? For a physician?"

"To Areopagus, fool! There's where the constables have their camp. Bring ten men with fetters. He's strong and desperate. Bias and I will wait and guard him. If you stir, traitor,—" she was holding a heavy meat-knife at the fugitive's throat,—"I'll slit your weasand like a chicken."

But for once in his life Phormio defied his tyrant effectively. With one hand he tore the weapon from her clutch, the other closed her screaming mouth.

"Are you mad yourself? Will you rouse the neighbourhood? I don't know what you and Polus tattled about to Democrates. I don't greatly care. As for going for constables to seize Glaucon the Fortunate—"

"Fortunate!" echoed the miserable youth, rising on one elbow, "say it never again. The gods have blasted me with one great blow. And you—you are Phormio, husband and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against me,—you are the slave of Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus soften you!—already clamour for my worthless life, as all Athens does to-morrow!"

Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected she lost at once arguments and breath. Phormio continued to act promptly; taking a treasured bottle from a cupboard he filled a mug and pressed it to the newcomer's lips. The fiery liquor sent the colour back into Glaucon's face. He raised himself higher—strength and mind in a measure returned. Bias had whispered to Phormio rapidly. Perhaps he had guessed more of his master's doings than he had dared to hint before.

"Hark you, Master Glaucon," began Phormio, not unkindly. "You are with friends, and never heed my wife. She's not so steely hearted as she seems."

"Seize the traitor," interjected Lampaxo, with a gasp.

"Tell your story. I'm a plain and simple man, who won't believe a gentleman with your fair looks, fame, and fortune has pawned them all in a night. Bias has sense. First tell how you came to wander down this way."

Glaucon sat upright, his hands pressing against his forehead.

"How can I tell? I have run to and fro, seeing yet not seeing whither I went. I know I passed the Acharnican gate, and the watch stared at me. Doubtless I ran hither because here they said the Babylonian lived, and he has been ever in my head. I shudder to go over the scene at Colonus. I wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!"

"Constables—fetters!" howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be silenced by an angry gesture from her helpmeet.

"Nevertheless, try to tell what you can," spoke Phormio, mildly, and Glaucon, with what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce coherent often, his story came at last. He sat silent while Phormio clutched his own head. Then Glaucon darted around wild and hopeless eyes.

"Ai! you believe me guilty. I almost believe so myself. All my best friends have cast me off. Democrates, my friend from youth, has wrought my ruin. My wife I shall never see again. I am resolved—" He rose. A desperate purpose made his feet steady.

"What will you do?" demanded Phormio, perplexed.

"One thing is left. I am sure to be arrested at dawn if not before. I will go to the 'City-House,' the public prison, and give myself up. The ignominy will soon end. Then welcome the Styx, Hades, the never ending night—better than this shame!"

He started forth, but Phormio's hand restrained him. "Not so fast, lad! Thank Olympus, I'm not Lampaxo. You're too young a turbot for Charon's fish-net. Let me think a moment."

The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo decided him.

"Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!"

"I'm resolved," cried Phormio, striking his thigh. "Only an honest man could get such hatred from my wife. If they've not tracked you yet, they're not likely to find you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is master of the Solon, and owes a good turn—"

Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor's cloak of hair-cloth. To fling this over Glaucon's rent chiton took an instant, another instant to clap on the fugitive's head a brimless red cap.

"Euge!—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is dangerous. See!" he rubbed over the Alcmaeonid's face two handfuls of black ashes snatched from the hearth and sprang back with a great laugh, "you're a sailor unlading charcoal now. Zeus himself would believe it. All is ready—"

"For prison?" asked Glaucon, clearly understanding little.

"For the sea, my lad. For Athens is no place for you to-morrow, and Brasidas sails at dawn. Some more wine? It's a long, brisk walk."

"To the havens? You trust me? You doubt the accusation which every friend save Hermione believes? O pure Athena—and this is possible!" Again Glaucon's head whirled. It took more of the fiery wine to stay him up.

"Ay, boy," comforted Phormio, very gruff, "you shall walk again around Athens with a bold, brave face, though not to-morrow, I fear. Polus trusts his heart and not his head in voting 'guilty,' so I trust it voting 'innocent.' "

"I warn you," Glaucon spoke rapidly, "I've no claim on your friendship. If your part in this is discovered, you know our juries."

"That I know," laughed Phormio, grimly, "for I know dear Polus. So now my own cloak and we are off."

But Lampaxo, who had watched everything with accumulating anger, now burst loose. She bounded to the door.

"Constables! Help! Athens is betrayed!"

She bawled that much through the lattice before her husband and Bias dragged her back. Fortunately the street was empty.

"That I should see this! My own husband betraying the city! Aiding a traitor!" Then she began whimpering through her nose. "Mu! mu! leave the villain to his fate. Think of me if not of your own safety. Woe! when was a woman more misused?"

But here her lament ended, for Phormio, with the firmness of a man thoroughly determined, thrust a rag into her mouth and with Bias's help bound her down upon the couch by means of a convenient fish-cord.

"I am grieved to stop your singing, blessed dear," spoke the fishmonger, indulging in a rare outburst of sarcasm against his formidable helpmeet, "but we play a game with Fate to-night a little too even to allow unfair chances. Bias will watch you until I return, and then I can discover, philotata, whether your love for Athens is so great you must go to the Archon to denounce your husband."

The Thracian promised to do his part. His affection for Democrates was clearly not the warmest. Lampaxo's farewell, as Phormio guided his half-dazed companion into the street, was a futile struggle and a choking. The ways were empty and silent. Glaucon allowed himself to be led by the hand and did not speak. He hardly knew how or whither Phormio was taking him. Their road lay along the southern side of the Acropolis, past the tall columns of the unfinished Temple of Zeus, which reared to giant height in the white moonlight. This, as well as the overshadowing Rock itself, they left behind without incident. Phormio chose devious alleys, and they met neither Scythian constables nor bands of roisterers. Only once the two passed a house bright with lamps. Jovial guests celebrated a late wedding feast. Clearly the two heard the marriage hymn of Sappho.

"The bridegroom comes tall as Ares, Ho, Hymenaeus! Taller than a mighty man, Ho, Hymenaeus!"

Glaucon stopped like one struck with an arrow.

"They sang that song the night I wedded Hermione. Oh, if I could drink the Lethe water and forget!"

"Come," commanded Phormio, pulling upon his arm. "The sun will shine again to-morrow."

Thus the twain went forward, Glaucon saying not a word. He hardly knew how they passed the Itonian Gate and crossed the long stretch of open country betwixt the city and its havens. No pursuit as yet—Glaucon was too perplexed to reason why. At last he knew they entered Phaleron. He heard the slapping waves, the creaking tackle, the shouting sailors. Torches gleamed ruddily. A merchantman was loading her cargo of pottery crates and oil jars,—to sail with the morning breeze. Swarthy shipmen ran up and down the planks betwixt quay and ship, balancing their heavy jars on their heads as women bear water-pots. From the tavern by the mooring came harping and the clatter of cups, while two women—the worse for wine—ran out to drag the newcomers in to their revel. Phormio slapped the slatterns aside with his staff. In the same fearful waking dream Glaucon saw Phormio demanding the shipmaster. He saw Brasidas—a short man with the face of a hound and arms to hug like a bear—in converse with the fishmonger, saw the master at first refusing, then gradually giving reluctant assent to some demand. Next Phormio was half leading, half carrying the fugitive aboard the ship, guiding him through a labyrinth of bales, jars, and cordage, and pointing to a hatchway ladder, illumined by a swinging lantern.

"Keep below till the ship sails; don't wipe the charcoal from your face till clear of Attica. Officers will board the vessel before she puts off; yet have no alarm, they'll only come to see she doesn't violate the law against exporting grain." Phormio delivered his admonitions rapidly, at the same time fumbling in his belt. "Here—here are ten drachmae, all I've about me, but something for bread and figs till you make new friends,—in which there'll be no trouble, I warrant. Have a brave heart. Remember that Helios can shine lustily even if you are not in Athens, and pray the gods to give a fair return."

Glaucon felt the money pressed within his palm. He saw Phormio turning away. He caught the fishmonger's hard hand and kissed it twice.

"I can never reward you. Not though I live ten thousand years and have all the gold of Gyges."

"Phui!" answered Phormio, with a shrug; "don't detain me, it's time I was home and was unlashing my loving wife."

And with that he was gone. Glaucon descended the ladder. The cabin was low, dark, unfurnished save with rude pallets of straw, but Glaucon heeded none of these things. Deeper than the accusation by Democrates, than the belief therein by Themistocles and the others, the friendship of the fishmonger touched him. A man base-born, ignorant, uncivil, had believed him, had risked his own life to save him, had given him money out of his poverty, had spoken words of fair counsel and cheer. On the deck above the sailors were tumbling the cargo, and singing at their toil, but Glaucon never heard them. Flinging himself on a straw pallet, for the first time came the comfort of hot tears.

* * * * * * *

Very early the Solon's square mainsail caught the breeze from the warm southwest. The hill of Munychia and the ports receded. The panorama of Athens—plain, city, citadel, gray Hymettus, white Pentelicus—spread in a vista of surpassing beauty—so at least to the eyes of the outlaw when he clambered to the poop. As the ship ran down the low coast, land and sea seemed clothed with a robe of rainbow-woven light. Far, near,—islands, mountains, and deep were burning with saffron, violet, and rose, as the Sun-God's car climbed higher above the burning path it marked across the sea. Glaucon saw all in clear relief,—the Acropolis temple where he had prayed, the Pnyx and Areopagus, the green band of the olive groves, even the knoll of Colonus,—where he had left his all. Never had he loved Athens more than now. Never had she seemed fairer to his eyes than now. He was a Greek, and to a Greek death was only by one stage a greater ill than exile.

"O Athena Polias," he cried, stretching his hands to the fading beauty, "goddess who determineth all aright,—bless thou this land, though it wakes to call me traitor. Teach it to know I am innocent. Comfort Hermione, my wife. And restore me to Athens, after doing deeds which wipe out all my unearned shame!"

The Solon rounded the cape. The headland concealed the city. The Saronian bay opened into the deeper blue of the AEgean and its sprinkling of brown islands. Glaucon looked eastward and strove to forget Attica.

* * * * * * *

Two hours later all Athens seemed reading this placard in the Agora:—

NOTICE

For the arrest of GLAUCON, SON OF CONON, charged with high treason, I will pay one talent.

DEXILEUS, Chairman of the Eleven.

Other such placards were posted in Peiraeus, in Eleusis, in Marathon, in every Attic village. Men could talk of nothing else.



CHAPTER XIV

MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN

Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.

Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the Solon clear of the rocky shores.

As they raced past holy Delos the frightened passengers had vowed twelve oxen to Apollo if he saved them.

Near Naxos, Brasidas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,—hoping at least to find some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.

The Solon, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,—excellent for cargo, but none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint oaths, and began to pray—sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed almost too panic-stricken to aid in flinging the cargo overboard. Several were raving.

"Hearken, Poseidon of Calauria," howled a Peiraeus merchant against the screeching blasts, "save from this peril and I vow thee and thy temple two mixing bowls of purest gold!"

"A great vow," suggested a calmer comrade. "All your fortune can hardly pay it."

"Hush," spoke the other, in undertone, "don't let the god overhear me; let me get safe to Mother Earth and Poseidon has not one obol. His power is only over the sea."

A creaking from the mainmast told that it might fall at any moment. Passengers and crew redoubled their shouts to Poseidon and to Zeus of AEgina. A fat passenger staggered from his cabin, a huge money-bag bound to his belt,—as if gold were the safest spar to cling to in that boiling deep. Others, less frantic, gave commissions one to another, in case one perished and another escaped.

"You alone have no messages, pray no prayers, show no fear!" spoke a grave, elderly man to Glaucon, as both clutched the swaying bulwark.

"And wherefore?" came the bitter answer; "what is left me to fear? I desire no life hereafter. There can be no consciousness without sad memory."

"You are very young to speak thus."

"But not too young to have suffered."

A wave dashed one of the steering rudders out of the grip of the sailor guiding it. The rush of water swept him overboard. The Solon lurched. The wind smote the straining mainsail, and the shivered mainmast tore from its stays and socket. Above the bawling of wind and water sounded the crash. The ship, with only a small sail upon the poop, blew about into the trough of the sea. A mountain of green water thundered over the prow, bearing away men and wreckage. The "governor," Brasidas's mate, flung away the last steering tiller.

"The Solon is dying, men," he trumpeted through his hands. "To the boat! Save who can!"

The pinnace set in the waist was cleared away by frantic hands and axes. Ominous rumblings from the hold told how the undergirding could not keep back the water. The pinnace was dragged to the ship's lee and launched in the comparative calm of the Solon's broadside. Pitifully small was the boat for five and twenty. The sailors, desperate and selfish, leaped in first, and watched with jealous eyes the struggles of the passengers to follow. The noisy merchant slipped in the leap, and they heard him scream once as the wave swallowed him. Brasidas stood in the bow of the pinnace, clutching a sword to cut the last rope. The boat filled to the gunwales. The spray dashed into her. The sailors bailed with their caps. Another passenger leaped across, whereat the men yelled and drew their dirks.

"Three are left. Room for one more. The rest must swim!"

Glaucon stood on the poop. Was life still such a precious thing to some that they must clutch for it so desperately? He had even a painful amusement in watching the others. Of himself he thought little save to hope that under the boiling sea was rest and no return of memory. Then Brasidas called him.

"Quick! The others are Barbarians and you a Hellene. Your chance—leap!"

He did not stir. The "others"—two strangers in Oriental dress—were striving to enter the pinnace. The seamen thrust their dirks out to force them back.

"Full enough!" bawled the "governor." "That fellow on the poop is mad. Cut the rope, or we are caught in the swirl."

The elder Barbarian lifted his companion as if to fling him into the boat, but Brasidas's sword cut the one cable. The wave flung the Solon and the pinnace asunder. With stolid resignation the Orientals retreated to the poop. The people in the pinnace rowed desperately to keep her out of the deadly trough of the billows, but Glaucon stood erect on the drifting wreck and his voice rang through the tumult of the sea.

"Tell them in Athens, and tell Hermione my wife, that Glaucon the Alcmaeonid went down into the deep declaring his innocence and denouncing the vengeance of Athena on whosoever foully destroyed him!—"

Brasidas waved his sword in last farewell. Glaucon turned back to the wreck. The Solon had settled lower. Every wave washed across the waist. Nothing seemed to meet his gaze save the leaden sky, the leaden green water, the foam of the bounding storm-crests. He told himself the gods were good. Drowning was more merciful death than hemlock. Pelagos, the untainted sea, was a softer grave than the Barathrum. The memory of the fearful hour at Colonus, the vision of the face of Hermione, of all things else that he would fain forget—all these would pass. For what came after he cared nothing.

So for some moments he stood, clinging upon the poop, awaiting the end. But the end came slowly. The Solon was a stoutly timbered ship. Much of her lading had been cast overboard, but more remained and gave buoyancy to the wreckage. And as the Athenian awaited, almost impatiently, the final disaster, something called his eye away from the heaving sky-line. Human life was still about him. Wedged in a refuge, betwixt two capstans, the Orientals were sitting, awaiting doom like himself. But wonder of wonders,—he had not relaxed his hold on life too much to marvel,—the younger Barbarian was beyond all doubt a woman. She sat in her companion's lap, lifting her white face to his, and Glaucon knew she was of wondrous beauty. They were talking together in some Eastern speech. Their arms were closely twined. It was plain they were passing the last love messages before entering the great mystery together. Of Glaucon they took no heed. And he at first was almost angered that strangers should intrude upon this last hour of life. But as he looked, as he saw the beauty of the woman, the sheen of her golden hair, the interchange of love by touch and word,—there came across his own spirit a most unlooked-for change. Suddenly the white-capped billows seemed pitiless and chill. The warm joy of life returned. Again memory surged back, but without its former pang. He saw again the vision of Athens, of Colonus, of Eleusis-by-the-Sea. He saw Hermione running through the throng to meet him the day he returned from the Isthmia. He heard the sweet wind singing over the old olives beside the cool Cephissus. Must these all pass forever? forever? Were life, friends, love, the light of the sun, eternally lost, and nothing left save the endless sleep in the unsunned caves of Oceanus? With one surge the desire to live, to bear hard things, to conquer them, returned. He dashed the water from his eyes. What he did next was more by instinct than by reason. He staggered across the reeling deck, approached the Barbarians, and seized the man by the arm.

"Would you live and not die? Up, then,—there is still a chance."

The man gazed up blankly.

"We are in Mazda's hands," he answered in foreign accent. "It is manifestly his will that we should pass now the Chinvat bridge. We are helpless. Where is the pinnace?"

Glaucon dragged him roughly to his feet.

"I do not know your gods. Do not speak of their will to destroy us till the destruction falls. Do you love this woman?"

"Save her, let me twice perish."

"Rouse yourself, then. One hope is left!"

"What hope?"

"A raft. We can cast a spar overboard. It will float us. You look strong,—aid me."

The man rose and, thoroughly aroused, seconded the Athenian intelligently and promptly. The lurches of the merchantman told how close she was to her end. One of the seamen's axes lay on the poop. Glaucon seized it. The foremast was gone and the mainmast, but the small boat-mast still stood, though its sail had blown to a thousand flapping streamers. Glaucon laid his axe at the foot of the spar. Two fierce strokes weakened so that the next lurch sent it crashing overboard. It swung in the maelstrom by its stays and the halyards of the sail. Tossing to and fro like a bubble, it was a fearful hope, but a louder rumbling from the hold warned how other hope had fled. The Barbarian recoiled as he looked on it.

"It can never float through this storm," Glaucon heard him crying between the blasts, but the Athenian beckoned him onward.

"Leap!" commanded Glaucon; "spring as the mast rises on the next wave."

"I cannot forsake her," called back the man, pointing to the woman, who lay with flying hair between the capstans, helpless and piteous now that her lover was no longer near.

"I will provide for her. Leap!"

Glaucon lifted the woman in his arms. He took a manner of pride in showing the Barbarian his skill. The man looked at him once, saw he could be trusted, and took the leap. He landed in the water, but caught the sail-cloth drifting from the mast, climbed beside it, and sat astride. The Athenian sprang at the next favoring wave. His burden made the task hard, but his stadium training never stood in better stead. The cold water closed around him. The wave dragged down in its black abyss, but he struck boldly upward, was beside the friendly spar, and the Barbarian aided him to mount beside him, then cut the lashings to the Solon with the dagger that still dangled at his belt. The billows swept them away just as the wreck reared wildly, and bow foremost plunged into the deep. They bound the woman—she was hardly conscious now—into the little shelter formed by the junction of the broken sail-yard and the mast. The two men sat beside her, shielding her with their bodies from the beat of the spray. Speech was all but impossible. They were fain to close their eyes and pray to be delivered from the unceasing screaming of the wind, the howling of the waters. And so for hours....

Glaucon never knew how long they thus drifted. The Solon had been smitten very early in the morning. She had foundered perhaps at noon. It may have been shortly before sunset—though Helios never pierced the clouds that storm-racked day—when Glaucon knew that the Barbarian was speaking to him.

"Look!" The wind had lulled a little; the man could make himself heard. "What is it?"

Through the masses of gray spray and driving mist Glaucon gazed when the next long wave tossed them. A glimpse,—but the joys of Olympus seemed given with that sight; wind-swept, wave-beaten, rock-bound, that half-seen ridge of brown was land,—and land meant life, the life he had longed to fling away in the morning, the life he longed to keep that night. He shouted the discovery to his companion, who bowed his head, manifestly in prayer.

The wind bore them rapidly. Glaucon, who knew the isles of the AEgean as became a Hellene, was certain they drove on Astypalaea, an isle subject to Persia, though one of the outermost Cyclades. The woman was in no state to realize their crisis. Only a hand laid on her bosom told that her heart still fluttered. She could not endure the surge and the suffocating spray much longer. The two men sat in silence, but their eyes went out hungrily toward the stretch of brown as it lifted above the wave crests. The last moments of the desperate voyage crept by like the pangs of Tantalus. Slowly they saw unfolding the fog-clothed mountains, a forest, scattered bits of white they knew were stuccoed houses; but while their eyes brought joy, their ears brought sadness. The booming of the surf upon an outlying ledge grew ever clearer. Almost ere they knew it the drifting mast was stayed with a shock. They saw two rocks swathed in dripping weed that crusted with knife-like barnacles, thrust their black heads out of the boiling water. And beyond—fifty paces away—the breakers raced up the sandy shore where waited refuge.

The spar wedged fast in the rocks. The waves beat over it pitilessly. He who stayed by it long had better have sunk with the Solon,—his would have been an easier death. Glaucon laid his mouth to the man's ear.

"Swim through the surf. I will bear the woman safely."

"Save her, and be you blessed forever. I die happy. I cannot swim."

The moment was too terrible for Glaucon to feel amazed at this confession. To a Hellene swimming was second nature. He thought and spoke quickly.

"Climb on the higher rock. The wave does not cover it entirely. Dig your toes in the crevices. Cling to the seaweed. I will return for you."

He never heard what the other cried back to him. He tore the woman clear of her lashings, threw his left arm about her, and fought his way through the surf. He could swim like a Delian, the best swimmers in Hellas; but the task was mighty even for the athlete. Twice the deadly undertow almost dragged him downward. Then the soft sand was oozing round his feet. He knew a knot of fisher folk were running to the beach, a dozen hands took his fainting burden from him. One instant he stood with the water rushing about his ankles, gasped and drew long breaths, then turned his face toward the sea.

"Are you crazed?" he heard voices clamouring—they seemed a great way off,—"a miracle that you lived through the surf once! Leave the other to fate. Phorcys has doomed him already."

But Glaucon was past acting by reason now. His head seemed a ball of fire. Only his hands and feet responded mechanically to the dim impulse of his bewildered brain. Once more the battling through the surf, this time against it and threefold harder. Only the man whose strength had borne the giant Spartan down could have breasted the billows that came leaping to destroy him. He felt his powers were strained to the last notch. A little more and he knew he might roll helpless, but even so he struggled onward. Once again the two black rocks were springing out of the swollen water. He saw the Barbarian clinging desperately to the higher. Why was he risking his life for a man who was not a Hellene, who might be even a servant of the dreaded Xerxes? A strange moment for such questionings, and no time to answer! He clung to the seaweed beside the Barbarian for an instant, then through the gale cried to the other to place his hands upon his shoulders. The Oriental complied intelligently. For a third time Glaucon struggled across the raging flood. The passage seemed endless, and every receding breaker dragging down to the graves of Oceanus. The Athenian knew his power was failing, and doled it out as a miser, counting his strokes, taking deep gulps of air between each wave. Then, even while consciousness and strength seemed passing together, again beneath his feet were the shifting sands, again the voices encouraging, the hands outstretched, strange forms running down into the surf, strange faces all around him. They were bearing him and the Barbarian high upon the beach. They laid him on the hard, wet sand—never a bed more welcome. He was naked. His feet and hands bled from the tearing of stones and barnacles. His head was in fever glow. Dimly he knew the Barbarian was approaching him.

"Hellene, you have saved us. What is your name?"

The other barely raised his head. "In Athens, Glaucon the Alcmaeonid, but now I am without name, without country."

The Oriental answered by kneeling on the sands and touching his head upon them close to Glaucon's feet.

"Henceforth, O Deliverer, you shall be neither nameless nor outcast. For you have saved me and her I love more than self. You have saved Artazostra, sister of Xerxes, and Mardonius, son of Gobryas, who is not the least of the Princes of Persia and Eran."

"Mardonius—arch foe of Hellas!" Glaucon spoke the words in horror. Then reaction from all he had undergone robbed him of sense. They carried him to the fisher-village. That night he burned with fever and raved wildly. It was many days before he knew anything again.

* * * * * * *

Six days later a Byzantine corn-ship brought from Amorgos to Peiraeus two survivors of the Solon,—the only ones to escape the swamping of the pinnace. Their story cleared up the mystery of the fate of "Glaucon the Traitor." "The gods," said every Agora wiseacre, "had rewarded the villain with their own hands." The Babylonish carpet-seller and Hiram had vanished, despite all search, but everybody praised Democrates for saving the state from a fearful peril. As for Hermione, her father took her to Eleusis that she might be free from the hoots of the people. Themistocles went about his business very sorrowful. Cimon lost half his gayety. Democrates, too, appeared terribly worn. "How he loved his friend!" said every admirer. Beyond doubt for long Democrates was exceeding thoughtful. Perhaps a reason for this was that about a month after the going of Glaucon he learned from Sicinnus that Prince Mardonius was at length in Sardis,—and possibly Democrates knew on what vessel the carpet-seller had taken flight.



BOOK II

THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN



CHAPTER XV

THE LOTUS-EATING AT SARDIS

When Glaucon awoke to consciousness, it was with a sense of absolute weakness, at the same moment with a sense of absolute rest. He knew that he was lying on pillows "softer than sleep," that the air he breathed was laden with perfume, that the golden light which came through his half-closed eyelids was deliciously tempered, that his ears caught a musical murmur, as of a plashing fountain. So he lay for long, too impotent, too contented to ask where he lay, or whence he had departed. Athens, Hermione, all the thousand and one things of his old life, flitted through his brain, but only as vague, far shapes. He was too weak even to long for them. Still the fountain plashed on, and mingling with the tinkling he thought he heard low flutes breathing. Perhaps it was only a phantasy of his flagging brain. Then his eyes opened wider. He lifted his hand. It was a task even to do that little thing,—he was so weak. He looked at the hand! Surely his own, yet how white it was, how thin; the bones were there, the blue veins, but all the strength gone out of them. Was this the hand that had flung great Lycon down? It would be mere sport for a child to master him now. He touched his face. It was covered with a thick beard, as of a long month's growth. The discovery startled him. He strove to rise on one elbow. Too weak! He sank back upon the cushions and let his eyes rove inquiringly. Never had he seen tapestries the like of those that canopied his bed. Scarlet and purple and embroidered in gold thread with elaborate hunting scenes,—the dogs, the chariots, the slaying of the deer, the bearing home of the game. He knew the choicest looms of Sidon must have wrought them. And the linen, so cool, so grateful, underneath his head—was it not the almost priceless fabric of Borsippa? He stirred a little, his eyes rested on the floor. It was covered with a rug worth an Athenian patrician's ransom,—a lustrous, variegated sheen, showing a new tint at each change of the light. So much he saw from the bed, and curiosity was wakened. Again he put forth his hand, and touched the hanging curtains. The movement set a score of little silver bells that dangled over the canopy to jingling. As at a signal the flutes grew louder, mingling with them was the clearer note of lyres. Now the strains swelled sweetly, now faded away into dreamy sighing, as if bidding the listener to sink again into the arms of sleep. Another vain effort to rise on his elbow. Again he was helpless. Giving way to the charm of the music, he closed his eyes.

"Either I am awaking in Elysium, or the gods send to me pleasant dreams before I die."

He was feebly wondering which was the alternative when a new sound roused him, the sweep and rustle of the dresses of two women as they approached the bed. He gazed forth listlessly, when lo! above his couch stood two strangers,—strangers, but either as fair as Aphrodite arising from the sea. Both were tall, and full of queenly grace, both were dressed in gauzy white, but the hair of the one was of such gold that Glaucon hardly saw the circlet which pressed over it. Her eyes were blue, the lustre of her face was like a white rose. The other's hair shone like the wing of a raven. A wreath of red poppies covered it, but over the softly tinted forehead there peered forth a golden snake with emerald eyes—the Egyptian uraeus, the crown of a princess from the Nile. Her eyes were as black as the other's were blue, her lips as red as the dye of Tyre, her hands—But before Glaucon looked and wondered more, the first, she of the golden head, laid her hand upon his face,—a warm, comforting hand that seemed to speed back strength and gladness with the touch. Then she spoke. Her Greek was very broken, yet he understood her.

"Are you quite awakened, dear Glaucon?"

He looked up marvelling, not knowing how to answer; but the golden goddess seemed to expect none from him.

"It is now a month since we brought you from Astypalaea. You have wandered close to the Portals of the Dead. We feared you were beloved by Mazda too well, that you would never wake that we might bless you. Night and day have my husband and I prayed to Mithra the Merciful and Hauratat the Health-Giver in your behalf; each sunrise, at our command, the Magians have poured out for you the Haoma, the sacred juice dear to the Beautiful Immortals, and Amenhat, wisest of the physicians of Memphis, has stood by your bedside without rest. Now at last our prayers and his skill have conquered; you awake to life and gladness."

Glaucon lay wondering, not knowing how to reply, and only understanding in half, when the dark-haired goddess spoke, in purer Greek than her companion.

"And I, O Glaucon of Athens, would have you suffer me to kiss your feet. For you have given my brother and my sister back to life." Then drawing near she took his hand in hers, while the two smiling looked down on him.

Then at last he found tongue to speak. "O gracious Queens, for such you are, forgive my roving wits. You speak of great service done. But wise Zeus knoweth we are strangers—"

The golden goddess tossed her shining head and smiled,—still stroking with her hand.

"Dear Glaucon, do you remember the Eastern lad you saved from the Spartans at the Isthmus? Behold him! Recall the bracelet of turquoise,—my first gratitude. Then again you saved me with my husband. For I am the woman you bore through the surf at the island. I am Artazostra, wife of Mardonius, and this is Roxana, his half-sister, whose mother was a princess in Egypt."

Glaucon passed his fingers before his face, beckoning back the past.

"It is all far away and strange: the flight, the storm, the wreck, the tossing spar, the battling through the surges. My head is weak. I cannot picture it all."

"Do not try. Lie still. Grow strong and glad, and suffer us to teach you," commanded Artazostra.

"Where do I lie? We are not upon the rocky islet still?"

The ladies laughed, not mockingly but so sweetly he wished that they would never cease.

"This is Sardis," spoke Roxana, bending over him; "you lie in the palace of the satrap."

"And Athens—" he said, wandering.

"Is far away," said Artazostra, "with all its griefs and false friends and foul remembrances. The friends about you here will never fail. Therefore lie still and have peace."

"You know my story," cried he, now truly in amaze.

"Mardonius knows all that passes in Athens, in Sparta, in every city of Hellas. Do not try to tell more. We weary you already. See—Amenhat comes to bid us begone."

The curtains parted again. A dark man in a pure white robe, his face and head smooth-shaven, approached the bed. He held out a broad gold cup, the rim whereof glinted with agate and sardonyx. He had no Greek, but Roxana took the cup from him and held it to Glaucon's lips.

"Drink," she commanded, and he was fain to obey. The Athenian felt the heavily spiced liquor laying hold of him. His eyes closed, despite his wish to gaze longer on the two beautiful women. He felt their hands caressing his cheeks. The music grew ever softer. He thought he was sinking into a kind of euthanasy, that his life was drifting out amid delightful dreams. But not cold Thanatos, but health-bearing Hypnos was the god who visited him now. When next he woke, it was with a clearer vision, a sounder mind.

* * * * * * *

Sardis the Golden, once capital of the Lydian kings and now of the Persian satraps, had recovered from the devastation by the Ionians in their ill-starred revolt seventeen years preceding. The city spread in the fertile Sardiene, one of the garden plains of Asia Minor. To the south the cloud-crowned heights of Tmolus ever were visible. To the north flowed the noble stream of Hebrus, whilst high above the wealthy town, the busy agora, the giant temple of Lydian Cybele, rose the citadel of Meles, the palace fortress of the kings and the satraps. A frowning castle it was without, within not the golden-tiled palaces of Ecbatana and Susa boasted greater magnificence and luxury than this one-time dwelling of Croesus. The ceilings of the wide banqueting halls rose on pillars of emerald Egyptian malachite. The walls were cased with onyx. Winged bulls that might have graced Nineveh guarded the portals. The lions upbearing the throne in the hall of audience were of gold. The mirrors in the "House of the Women" were not steel but silver. The gorgeous carpets were sprinkled with rose water. An army of dark Syrian eunuchs and yellow-faced Tartar girls ran at the beck of the palace guests. Only the stealthy entrance of Sickness and Death told the dwellers here they were not yet gods.

Artaphernes, satrap of Lydia, had his divan, his viziers, and his audiences,—a court worthy of a king,—but the real lord of Western Asia was the prince who was nominally his guest. Mardonius had his own retinue and wing of the palace. On him fell the enormous task of organizing the masses of troops already pouring into Sardis, and he discharged his duty unwearyingly. The completion of the bridges of boats across the Hellespont, the assembling of the fleet, the collecting of provisions, fell to his province. Daily a courier pricked into Sardis with despatches from the Great King to his trusted general. Mardonius left the great levees and public spectacles to Artaphernes, but his hand was everywhere. His decisions were prompt. He was in constant communication with the Medizing party in Hellas. He had no time for the long dicing and drinking bouts the Persians loved, but he never failed to find each day an hour to spend with Artazostra his wife, with Roxana his half-sister, and with Glaucon his preserver.

Slowly through the winter health had returned to the Athenian. For days he had lain dreaming away the hours to the tune of the flutes and the fountains. When the warm spring came, the eunuchs carried him in a sedan-chair through the palace garden, whence he could look forth on the plain, the city, the snow-clad hills, and think he was on Zeus's Olympian throne, surveying all the earth. Then it was he learned the Persian speech, and easily, for were not his teachers Artazostra and Roxana? He found it no difficult tongue, simple and much akin to Greek, and unlike most of the uncouth tongues the Oriental traders chattered in Sardis. The two women were constantly with him. Few men were admitted to a Persian harem, but Mardonius never grudged the Greek the company of these twain.

"Noble Athenian," said the Prince, the first time he visited Glaucon's bed, "you are my brother. My house is yours. My friends are yours. Command us all."

* * * * * * *

Every day Glaucon was stronger. He tested himself with dumb-bells. Always he could lift a heavier weight. When the summer was at hand, he could ride out with Mardonius to the "Paradise," the satrap's hunting park, and be in at the death of the deer. Yet he was no more the "Fortunate Youth" of Athens. Only imperfectly he himself knew how complete was the severance from his old life. The terrible hour at Colonus had made a mark on his spirit which not all Zeus's power could take away. No doubt all the one-time friends believed him dead. Had Hermione's confidence in him remained true? Would she not say "guilty" at last with all the rest? Mardonius might have answered, he had constant letters from Greece, but the Prince was dumb when Glaucon strove to ask of things beyond the AEgean.

Day by day the subtle influence of the Orient—the lotus-eating,—"tasting the honey-sweet fruit which makes men choose to abide forever, forgetful of the homeward way"—spread its unseen power over the Alcmaeonid. Athens, the old pain, even the face of Hermione, would rise before him only dimly. He fought against this enchantment. But it was easier to renew his vow to return to Athens, after wiping out his shame, than to break these bands daily tightening.

He heard little Greek, now that he was learning Persian. Even he himself was changed. His hair and beard grew long, after the Persian manner. He wore the loose Median cloak, the tall felt cap of a Persian noble. The elaborate genuflexions of the Asiatics no longer astonished him. He learned to admire the valiant, magnanimous lords of the Persians. And Xerxes, the distant king, the wielder of all this power, was he not truly a god on earth, vicegerent of Lord Zeus himself?

"Forget you are a Hellene. We will talk of the Nile, not of the Cephissus," Artazostra said, whenever he spoke of home. Then she would tell of Babylon and Persepolis, and Mardonius of forays beside the wide Caspian, and Roxana of her girlhood, while Gobryas was satrap of Egypt, spent beside the magic river, of the Pharaohs, the great pyramid, of Isis and Osiris and the world beyond the dead. Before the Athenian was opened the golden East, its glitter, its wonderment, its fascination. He even was silent when his hosts talked boldly of the coming war, how soon the Persian power would rule from the Pillars of Heracles to Ind.

Yet once he stood at bay, showing that he was a Hellene still. They were in the garden. Mardonius had come to them where under the pomegranate tree the women spread their green tapestry which their nimble needles covered with a battle scene in scarlet. The Prince told of the capture and crucifixion of the chiefs of a futile revolt in Armenia. Then Artazostra clapped her hands to cry.

"Fools! Fools whom Angra-Mainyu the Evil smites blind that he may destroy them!"

Glaucon, sitting at her feet, looked up quickly. "Valiant fools, lady; every man must strike for his own country."

Artazostra shook her shining head.

"Mazda gives victory to the king of Eran alone. Resisting Xerxes is not rebellion against man, it is rebellion against Heaven."

"Are you sure?" asked the Athenian, his eye lighting ominously. "Are yours the greatest gods?"

But Roxana in turn cast down the tapestry and opened her arms with a charming gesture.

"Be not angry, Glaucon, for will you not become one with us? I dare to prophesy like a seer from old Chaldea. Assur of Nineveh, Marduk of Babylon, Baal of Tyre, Ammon of Memphis—all have bent the knee to Mazda the Glorious, to Mithra the Fiend-Smiting, and shall the weak daevas, the puny gods of Greece, save their land, when greater than they bow down in sore defeat?"

Yet Glaucon still looked on her boldly.

"You have your mighty gods, but we have ours. Pray to your Mazda and Mithra, but we will still trust Zeus of the Thunders and Athena of the Gray Eyes, the bulwarks of our fathers. And Fate must answer which can help the best."

The Persians shook their heads. It was time to return to the palace. All that Glaucon had seen of the Barbarian's might, since awakening in Sardis, told him Xerxes was indeed destined to go forth conquering and to conquer. Then the vision of the Acropolis, the temples, the Guardian Goddess, returned. He banished all disloyal thoughts for the instant. The Prince walked with his wife, Glaucon with Roxana. He had always thought her beautiful; she had never seemed so beautiful as now. Did he imagine whither Mardonius perhaps was leading him?



CHAPTER XVI

THE COMING OF XERXES THE GOD-KING

At last the lotus-eating ended. Repeated messengers told how Xerxes was quitting Babylon, was holding a muster in Cappadocia, and now was crossing Asia Minor toward Sardis. Mardonius and his companions had returned to that capital. Daily the soldiery poured into Sardis by tens of thousands. Glaucon knew now it was not a vain boast that for ten years the East had been arming against Hellas, that the whole power of the twenty satrapies would be flung as one thunderbolt upon devoted Greece.

In the plain about Sardis a second city was rising, of wicker booths and gay pavilions. The host grew hourly. Now a band of ebony archers in leopard skins entered from far Ethiopia, now Bactrian battle-axemen, now yellow-faced Tartars from the northeast, now bright-turbaned Arabs upon their swaying camels,—Syrians, Cilicians, black-bearded Assyrians and Babylonians, thick-lipped Egyptians, came, and many a strange race more.

But the core of the army were the serried files of Aryan horse and foot,—blond-headed, blue-eyed men, Persians and Medes, veterans of twenty victories. Their muscles were tempered steel. Their unwearying feet had tramped many a long parasang. Some were light infantry with wicker shields and powerful bows, but as many more horsemen in gold-scaled armour and with desert steeds that flew like Pegasus.

"The finest cavalry in the world!" Mardonius vaunted, and his guest durst not answer nay.

Satrap after satrap came. When at last a foaming Arab galloping to the castle proclaimed, "Next morn the Lord of the World will enter Sardis," Glaucon could scarce have looked for a greater, though he had expected Cronian Zeus himself.

Mardonius, as "bow-bearer to the king," a semi-regal office, rode forth a stage to meet the sovran. The streets of Sardis were festooned with flowers. Thousands of spearmen held back the crowds. The Athenian stood beside Roxana and Artazostra at the upper window of a Lydian merchant prince, and his eyes missed nothing.

Never had the two women seemed lovelier than when their hearts ran out to their approaching king. He felt now the power of personal sovranty, how these children of the East awaited not Xerxes the Master, but Xerxes the Omnipotent, God-Manifest, whose decrees were as the decrees of Heaven. And their awe could not fail to awe the Athenian.

At noon the multitude caught the first token of the king. Down the road, through the gate, walked a man, bare-headed, bare-footed, alone,—Artaphernes, despot of all Lydia, going to pay his abject homage. Presently the eunuch priests of Cybele, perched above the gate, clashed their cymbals and raised their hymn of welcome. To the boom of drums the thousand chosen cavalry and as many picked footmen of the Life Guard entered, tall, magnificent soldiers,—caps and spear butts shining with gold. After these a gilded car drawn by the eight sacred horses, each milk-white, and on the car an altar bearing the eternal fire of Mazda. Then, each in his flashing chariot, moved the "Six Princes," the heads of the great clans of the Achaemenians, then two hundred led desert horses, in splendid trappings, and then—after a long interval, that the host might cast no dust upon its lord, rode a single horseman on a jet-black steed, Artabanus—the king's uncle and vizier. He beckoned to the people.

"Have fear, Lydians, the giver of breath to all the world comes now beneath your gates!"

The lines of soldiers flung down their spears and dropped upon their knees. The multitude imitated. A chariot came running behind four of the sacred steeds of Nisaea,—their coats were like new snow, their manes braided with gold thread, bridle, bits, pole, baseboard, shone with gems and the royal metal. The wheel was like the sun. A girl-like youth guided the crimson reins, a second held the tall green parasol. Its shadow did not hide the commanding figure upon the car. Glaucon looked hard. No mistaking—Xerxes was here, the being who could say to millions "Die!" and they perished like worms; in verity "God-Manifest."

For in looks Xerxes, son of Darius, was surely the Great King. A figure of august height was set off nobly by the flowing purple caftan and the purple cap which crowned the curling black hair. The riches of satrapies were in the rubies and topazes on sword sheath and baldric. The head was raised. The face was not regular, but of a proud, aquiline beauty. The skin was olive, the eyes dark, a little pensive. If there were weak lines about the mouth, the curling beard covered them. The king looked straight on, unmoved by the kneeling thousands, but as he came abreast of the balcony, chance made him look upward. Perhaps the sight of the beautiful Greek caused Xerxes to smile winsomely. The smile of a god can intoxicate. Caught away from himself, Glaucon the Alcmaeonid joined in the great salvo of cheering.

"Victory to Xerxes! Let the king of kings reign forever!"

The chariot was gone almost instantly, a vast retinue—cooks, eunuchs, grooms, hunters, and many closed litters bearing the royal concubines—followed, but all these passed before Glaucon shook off the spell the sight of royalty cast on him.

* * * * * * *

That night in the palace Xerxes gave a feast in honour of the new campaign. The splendours of a royal banquet in the East need no retelling. Silver lamps, carpets of Kerman rugs or of the petals of fresh roses, a thousand lutes and dulcimers, precious Helbon wine flowing like water, cups of Phoenician crystal, tables groaning with wild boars roasted whole, dancing women none too modest,—these were but the incidentals of a gorgeous confusion. To Glaucon, with the chaste loveliness of the Panathenaea before his mind, the scene was one of vast wonderment but scarcely of pleasure. The Persian did nothing by halves. In battle a hero, at his cups he became a satyr. Many of the scenes before the guests emptied the last of the tall silver tankards were indescribable.

* * * * * * *

On the high dais above the roaring hall sat Xerxes the king,—adored, envied, pitiable.

When Spitames, the seneschal, brought him the cup, the bearer bowed his face, not daring to look on his dread lord's eyes.

When Artabanus, the vizier, approached with a message, he first kissed the carpet below the dais.

When Hydarnes, commander of the Life Guard, drew near to receive the watchword for the night, he held his mantle before his mouth, lest his breath pollute the world monarch.

Yet of all forms of seeming prosperity wherewith Fate can curse a man, the worst was the curse of Xerxes. To be called "god" when one is finite and mortal; to have no friends, but only a hundred million slaves; to be denied the joys of honest wish and desire because there were none left unsatisfied; to have one's hastiest word proclaimed as an edict of deity; never to be suffered to confess a mistake, cost what the blunder might, that the "king of kings" might seem lifted above all human error; in short, to be the bondsman of one's own deification,—this was the hard captivity of the lord of the twenty satrapies.

For Xerxes the king was a man,—of average instincts, capacities, goodness, wickedness. A god or a genius could have risen above his fearful isolation. Xerxes was neither. The iron ceremonial of the Persian court left him of genuine pleasures almost none. Something novel, a rare sensation, an opportunity to vary the dreary monotony of splendour by an astounding act of generosity or an act of frightful cruelty,—it mattered little which,—was snatched at by the king with childlike eagerness. And this night Xerxes was in an unwontedly gracious mood. At his elbow, as he sat on the throne cased with lapis lazuli and onyx, waited the one man who came nearest to being a friend and not a slave,—Mardonius, son of Gobryas, the bow-bearer,—and therefore more entitled than any other prince of the Persians to stand on terms of intimacy with his lord.

While Spitames passed the wine, the king hearkened with condescending and approving nod to the report of the Prince as to his mad adventure in Hellas. Xerxes even reproved his brother-in-law mildly for hazarding his own life and that of his wife among those stiff-necked tribesmen who were so soon to taste the Aryan might.

"It was in your service, Omnipotence," the Prince was rejoining blandly; "what if not I alone, but a thousand others of the noblest of the Persians and the Medes may perish, if only the glory of their king is advanced?"

"Nobly said; you are a faithful slave, Mardonius. I will remember you when I have burned Athens."

He even reached forth and stroked the bow-bearer's hand, a condescension which made the footstool-bearer, parasol-bearer, quiver-bearer, and a dozen great lords more gnaw their lips with envy. Hydarnes, the commander who had waited an auspicious moment, now thought it safe to kneel on the lowest step of the throne.

"Omnipotence, I am constrained to tell you that certain miserable Hellenes have been seized in the camp to-night—spies sent to pry out your power. Do you deign to have them impaled, crucified, or cast into the adders' cage?"

The king smiled magnanimously.

"They shall not die. Show them the host, and all my power. Then send them home to their fellow-rebels to tell the madness of dreaming to withstand my might."

The smile of Xerxes had spread, like the ripple from a pebble splashing in a pool, over the face of every nobleman in hearing. Now their praises came as a chant.

"O Ocean of Clemency and Wisdom! Happy Eran in thy sagacious yet merciful king!"

Xerxes, not heeding, turned to Mardonius.

"Ah! yes,—you were telling how you corrupted one of the chief Athenians, then had to flee. On the voyage you were shipwrecked?"

"So I wrote to Babylon, to your Eternity."

"And a certain Athenian fugitive saved your lives? And you brought him to Sardis?"

"I did so, Omnipotence."

"Of course he is at the banquet."

"The king speaks by the promptings of Mazda. I placed him with certain friends and bade them see he did not lack good cheer."

"Send,—I would talk with him."

"Suffer me to warn your Majesty," ventured Mardonius, "he is an Athenian and glories in being of a stubborn, Persian-hating stock. I fear he will not perform due obeisance to the Great King."

"I can endure his rudeness," spoke Xerxes, for once in excellent humour; "let the 'supreme usher' bring him with full speed."

The functionary thus commanded bowed himself to the ground and hastened on his errand.

But well that Mardonius had deprecated the wrath of the monarch. Glaucon came with his head high, his manner almost arrogant. The mere fact that his boldness might cost him his life made him less bending than ever. He trod firmly upon the particular square of golden carpet at the foot of the dais which none, saving the king, the vizier, and the "Six Princes," could lawfully tread. He held his hands at his sides, firmly refusing to conceal them in his cloak, as court etiquette demanded. As he stood on the steps of the throne, he gave the glittering monarch the same familiar bow he might have awarded a friend he met in the Agora. Mardonius was troubled. The supreme usher was horrified. The master-of-punishments, ever near his chief, gazed eagerly to see if Xerxes would not touch the audacious Hellene's girdle—a sign for prompt decapitation. Only the good nature of the king prevented a catastrophe, and Xerxes was moved by two motives, pleasure at meeting a fellow-mortal who could look him in the eye without servility or fear, delight at the beautiful features and figure of the Athenian. For an instant monarch and fugitive looked face to face, then Xerxes stretched out, not his hand, but the gold tip of his ivory baton. Glaucon had wisdom enough to touch it,—a token that he was admitted to audience with the king.