Glaucon felt the weariness fly from him. He was refreshed as never by wine. Then through the void in place of the band of heroes slowly outspread the tracery of a vessel at anchor,—the outermost guardship of the fleet of the Hellenes. They were again amongst friends. The watcher on the trireme was keeping himself awake after the manner of sentries by singing. In the night-stillness the catch from Archilochus rang lustily.

"By my spear I have won my bread, By spear won my clear, red wine, On my spear I will lean and drink,— Show me a merrier life than is mine!"

The trolling called Glaucon back to reality. Guided by Sicinnus, who knew the stations of the Greek fleet better than he, a second time they came beside the Spartan admiral. The lamps were still burning in the stern-cabin. Even before they were alongside, they caught the clamours of fierce debate.

"Still arguing?" quoth Sicinnus to the yawning marine officer who advanced to greet them as they reached the top of the ladder.

"Still arguing," grunted the Spartan. "I think your master has dragged forth all his old arguments and invented a thousand new ones. He talks continuously, as if battling for time, though only Castor knows wherefore. There's surely a majority against him."

The emissary descended the companionway, Themistocles leaped up from his seat in the crowded council. A few whispers, the Asiatic returned to Glaucon on the deck. The two gazed down the companionway, observing everything. They had not long to wait.



CHAPTER XXVIII

BEFORE THE DEATH GRAPPLE

For the fourth time the subaltern who stood at Eurybiades's elbow turned the water-glass that marked the passing of the hours. The lamps in the low-ceiled cabin were flickering dimly. Men glared on one another across the narrow table with drawn and heated faces. Adeimantus of Corinth was rising to reply to the last appeal of the Athenian.

"We have had enough, Eurybiades, of Themistocles's wordy folly. Because the Athenian admiral is resolved to lead all Hellas to destruction, is no reason that we should follow. As for his threat that he will desert us with his ships if we refuse to fight, I fling it in his face that he dare not make it good. Why go all over the well-threshed straw again? Is not the fleet of the king overwhelming? Were we not saved by a miracle from overthrow at Artemisium? Do not the scouts tell us the Persians are advancing beyond Eleusis toward Megara and the Isthmus? Is not our best fighting blood here in the fleet? Then if the Isthmus is threatened, our business is to defend it and save the Peloponnesus, the last remnant of Hellas unconquered. Now then, headstrong son of Neocles, answer that!"

The Corinthian, a tall domineering man, threw back his shoulders like a boxer awaiting battle. Themistocles did not answer, but only smiled up at him from his seat opposite.

"I have silenced you, grinning babbler, at last," thundered Adeimantus, "and I demand of you, O Eurybiades, that we end this tedious debate. If we are to retreat, let us retreat. A vote, I say, a vote!"

Eurybiades rose at the head of the table. He was a heavy, florid individual with more than the average Spartan's slowness of tongue and intellect. Physically he was no coward, but he dreaded responsibility.

"Much has been said," he announced ponderously, "many opinions offered. It would seem the majority of the council favour the decision to retire forthwith. Has Themistocles anything more to say why the vote should not be taken?"

"Nothing," rejoined the Athenian, with an equanimity that made Adeimantus snap his teeth.

"We will therefore take the vote city by city," went on Eurybiades. "Do you, Phlegon of Seriphos, give your vote."

Seriphos—wretched islet—sent only one ship, but thanks to the Greek mania for "equality" Phlegon's vote had equal weight with that of Themistocles.

"Salamis is not defensible," announced the Seriphian, shortly. "Retreat."

"And you, Charmides of Melos?"

"Retreat."

"And you, Phoibodas of Troezene?"

"Retreat, by all the gods."

"And you, Hippocrates of AEgina?"

"Stay and fight. If you go back to the Isthmus, AEgina must be abandoned to the Barbarians. I am with Themistocles."

"Record his vote," shouted Adeimantus, ill-naturedly, "he is but one against twenty. But I warn you, Eurybiades, do not call for Themistocles's vote, or the rest of us will be angry. The man whose city is under the power of the Barbarian has no vote in this council, however much we condescend to listen to his chatterings."

The Athenian sprang from his seat, his aspect as threatening as Apollo descending Olympus in wrath.

"Where is my country, Adeimantus? Yonder!" he pointed out the open port-hole, "there rides the array of our Athenian ships. What other state in Hellas sends so many and sets better men within them? Athens still lives, though her Acropolis be wrapped in flames. 'Strong-hearted men and naught else are warp and woof of a city.' Do you forget Alcaeus's word so soon, O Boaster from Corinth? Yes, by Athena Promachos, Mistress of Battles, while those nine score ships ride on the deep, I have a city fairer, braver, than yours. And will you still deny me equal voice and vote with this noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his comrade from Melos with his twain?"

Themistocles's voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades broke in with soothing tones.

"No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent Corinthian did but jest."

"A fitting hour for jesting!" muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his seat.

"The vote, the vote!" urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus's elbow, and the voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only three—Themistocles's and those of the AEginetan and Megarian admirals—were in favour of abiding the onset. Yet even when Eurybiades arose to announce the decision, the son of Neocles sat with his hands sprawling on the table, his face set in an inscrutable smile as he looked on Adeimantus.

"It is the plain opinion,"—Eurybiades hemmed and hawed with his words,—"the plain opinion, I say, of this council that the allied fleet retire at once to the Isthmus. Therefore, I, as admiral-in-chief, do order each commander to proceed to his own flag-ship and prepare his triremes to retire at dawn."

"Well said," shouted Adeimantus, already on his feet; "now to obey."

But with him rose Themistocles. He stood tall and calm, his thumbs thrust in his girdle. His smile was a little broader, his head held a little higher, than of wont.

"Good Eurybiades, I grieve to blast the wisdom of all these valiant gentlemen, but they cannot retire if they wish."

"Explain!" a dozen shouted.

"Very simply. I have had good reason to know that the king has moved forward the western horn of his fleet, so as to enclose our anchorage at Salamis. It is impossible to retire save through the Persian line of battle."

Perseus upholding the Gorgon's head before Polydectes's guests and turning them to stone wrought hardly more of a miracle than this calm announcement of Themistocles. Men stared at him vacantly, stunned by the tidings, then Adeimantus's frightened wrath broke loose.

"Fox!(10) Was this your doing?"

"I did not ask you to thank me, philotate," was the easy answer. "It is, however, urgent to consider whether you wish to be taken unresisting in the morning."

The Corinthian shook his fist across the table.

"Liar, as a last device to ruin us, you invent this folly."

"It is easy to see if I lie," rejoined Themistocles; "send out a pinnace and note where the Persians anchor. It will not take long."

For an instant swords seemed about to leap from their scabbards, and the enraged Peloponnesians to sheathe them in the Athenian's breast. He stood unflinching, smiling, while a volley of curses flew over him. Then an orderly summoned him on deck, while Adeimantus and his fellows foamed and contended below. Under the battle lantern Themistocles saw a man who was his elder in years, rugged in feature, with massive forehead and wise gray eyes. This was Aristeides the Just, the admiral's enemy, but their feud had died when Xerxes drew near to Athens.

Hands clasped heartily as the twain stood face to face.

"Our rivalry forever more shall be a rivalry which of us can do most to profit Athens," spoke the returning exile; then Aristeides told how he had even now come from AEgina, how he had heard of the clamours to retreat, how retreat was impossible, for the Persians were pressing in. A laugh from Themistocles interrupted.

"My handiwork! Come to the council. They will not believe me, no, not my oath."

Aristeides told his story, and how his vessel to Salamis had scarce escaped the Egyptian triremes, and how by this time all entrance and exit was surely closed. But even now many an angry captain called him "liar." The strife of words was at white heat when Eurybiades himself silenced the fiercest doubter.

"Captains of Hellas, a trireme of Teos has deserted from the Barbarian to us. Her navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides tell. The Egyptians hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked on Psyttaleia. The Phoenicians and Ionians enclose us on the eastern strait. We are hemmed in."

* * * * * * *

Once more the orderly turned the water-clock. It was past midnight. The clouds had blown apart before the rising wind. The debate must end. Eurybiades stood again to take the votes of the wearied, tense-strung men.

"In view of the report of the Teans, what is your voice and vote?"

Before all the rest up leaped Adeimantus. He was no craven at heart, though an evil genius had possessed him.

"You have your will, Themistocles," he made the concession sullenly yet firmly, "you have your will. May Poseidon prove you in the right. If it is battle or slavery at dawn, the choice is quick. Battle!"

"Battle!" shouted the twenty, arising together, and Eurybiades had no need to declare the vote. The commanders scattered to their flag-ships, to give orders to be ready to fight at dawn. Themistocles went to his pinnace last. He walked proudly. He knew that whatever glory he might gain on the morrow, he could never win a fairer victory than he had won that night. When his barge came alongside, his boat crew knew that his eyes were dancing, that his whole mien was of a man in love with his fortune. Many times, as Glaucon sat beside him, he heard the son of Neocles repeating as in ecstasy:—

"They must fight. They must fight."

* * * * * * *

Glaucon sat mutely in the pinnace which had headed not for the Nausicaae, but toward the shore, where a few faint beacons were burning.

"I must confer with the strategi as to the morning," Themistocles declared after a long interval, at which Sicinnus broke in anxiously:—

"You will not sleep, kyrie?"

"Sleep?" laughed the admiral, as at an excellent jest, "I have forgotten there was such a god as Hypnos." Then, ignoring Sicinnus, he addressed the outlaw.

"I am grateful to you, my friend," he did not call Glaucon by name before the others, "you have saved me, and I have saved Hellas. You brought me a new plan when I seemed at the last resource. How can the son of Neocles reward you?"

"Give me a part to play to-morrow."

"Thermopylae was not brisk enough fighting, ha? Can you still fling a javelin?"

"I can try."

"Euge! Try you shall." He let his voice drop. "Do not forget your name henceforth is Critias. The Nausicaae's crew are mostly from Sunium and the Mesogia. They'd hardly recognize you under that beard; still Sicinnus must alter you."

"Command me, kyrie," said the Asiatic.

"A strange time and place, but you must do it. Find some dark dye for this man's hair to-night, and at dawn have him aboard the flag-ship."

"The thing can be done, kyrie."

"After that, lie down and sleep. Because Themistocles is awake, is no cause for others' star-gazing. Sleep sound. Pray Apollo and Hephaestus to make your eye sure, your hand strong. Then awake to see the glory of Hellas."

Confidence, yes, power came through the tones of the admiral's voice. Themistocles went away to the belated council. Sicinnus led his charge through the crooked streets of the town of Salamis. Sailors were sleeping in the open night, and they stumbled over them. At last they found a small tavern where a dozen shipmen sprawled on the earthen floor, and a gaping host was just quenching his last lamp. Sicinnus, however, seemed to know him. There was much protesting and headshaking, at last ended by the glint of a daric. The man grumbled, departed, returned after a tedious interval with a pot of ointment, found Hermes knew where. By a rush-candle's flicker Sicinnus applied the dark dye with a practised hand.

"You know the art well," observed the outlaw.

"Assuredly; the agent of Themistocles must be a Proteus with his disguises."

Sicinnus laid down his pot and brushes. They had no mirror, but Glaucon knew that he was transformed. The host got his daric. Again they went out into the night and forsaking the crowded town sought the seaside. The strand was broad, the sand soft and cool, the circling stars gave three hours yet of night, and they lay down to rest. The sea and the shore stretched away, a magic vista with a thousand mystic shapes springing out of the charmed darkness, made and unmade as overwrought fancy summoned them. As from an unreal world Glaucon—whilst he lay—saw the lights of the scattered ships, heard the clank of chains, the rattling of tacklings. Nature slept. Only man was waking.

"The mountain brows, the rocks, the peaks are sleeping, Uplands and gorges hush! The thousand moorland things are silence keeping, The beasts under each bush Crouch, and the hived bees Rest in their honeyed ease; In the purple sea fish lie as they were dead, And each bird folds his wing over his head."

The school-learned lines of Alcman, with a thousand other trivial things, swarmed back through the head of Glaucon the Alcmaeonid. How much he had lived through that night, how much he would live through,—if indeed he was to live,—upon the morrow! The thought was benumbing in its greatness. His head swam with confused memories. Then at last all things dimmed. Once more he dreamed. He was with Hermione gathering red poppies on the hill above Eleusis. She had filled her basket full. He called to her to wait for him. She ran away. He chased, she fled with laughter and sparkling eyes. He could hear the wavings of her dress, the little cries she flung back over her shoulder. Then by the sacred well near the temple he caught her. He felt her struggling gayly. He felt her warm breath upon his face, her hair was touching his forehead. Rejoicing in his strength, he was bending her head toward his—but here he wakened. Sicinnus had disappeared. A bar of gray gold hung over the water in the east.

"This was the day. This was the day!"

Some moments he lay trying to realize the fact in its full moment. A thin mist rested on the black water waiting to be dispelled by the sun. From afar came sounds not of seamen's trumpets, but horns, harps, kettledrums, from the hidden mainland across the strait, as of a host advancing along the shore. "Xerxes goes down to the marge with his myriads," Glaucon told himself. "Have not all his captains bowed and smiled, 'Your Eternity's victory is certain. Come and behold.' " But here the Athenian shut his teeth.

People at length were passing up and down the strand. The coast was waking. The gray bar was becoming silver. Friends passed, deep in talk,—perchance for the last time. Glaucon lay still a moment longer, and as he rested caught a voice so familiar he felt all the blood surge to his forehead,—Democrates's voice.

"I tell you, Hiram,—I told you before,—I have no part in the ordering of the fleet. Were I to interfere with ever so good a heart, it would only breed trouble for us all."

So close were the twain, the orator's trailing chiton almost fell on Glaucon's face. The latter marvelled that his own heart did not spring from its prison in his breast, so fierce were its beatings.

"If my Lord would go to Adeimantus and suggest,"—the other's Greek came with a marked Oriental accent.

"Harpy! Adeimantus is no Medizer. He is pushed to bay now, and is sure to fight. Have you Barbarians no confidence? Has not the king two triremes to our one? Only fools can demand more. Tell Lycon, your master, I have long since done my uttermost to serve him."

"Yet remember, Excellency."

"Begone, scoundrel. Don't threaten again. If I know your power over me, I can also promise you not to go down to Orchus alone, but take excellent pains to have fair company."

"I am sorry to bear such tidings to Lycon, Excellency."

"Away with you!"

"Do not raise your voice, kyrie," spoke Hiram, never more blandly, "here is a man asleep."

The hint sent Democrates from the spot almost on a run. Hiram disappeared in the opposite direction. Glaucon rose, shook the sand from his cloak, and stood an instant with his head whirling. The voice of his boyhood friend, of the man who had ruined him because of a suspicion of treason—and now deep in compromising talk with the agent of the chief of the peace party at Sparta! And wherefore had Mardonius spoken those mysterious words at their parting, "Beware of Democrates"? For an instant the problems evoked made him forget even the coming battle.

A clear trumpet-blast down the strand gave a truce to questioning. Sicinnus reappeared, and led Glaucon to one of the great fires roaring on the beach, where the provident Greek sailors were breakfasting on barley porridge and meat broth before dining on spears and arrow-heads. A silent company, no laughter, no jesting. All knew another sun for them might never rise. Glaucon ate not because he hungered, but because duty ordered it. As the light strengthened, the strand grew alive with thousands of men at toil. The triremes drawn on shore went down into the sea on their rollers. More trumpet-blasts sent the rowers aboard their ships. But last of all, before thrusting out to do or die, the Greeks must feast their ears as well as their stomachs. On the sloping beach gathered the officers and the armoured marines,—eighteen from each trireme,—and heard one stirring harangue after another. The old feuds were forgotten. Adeimantus and Eurybiades both spoke bravely. The seers announced that every bird and cloud gave good omen. Prayer was offered to Ajax of Salamis that the hero should fight for his people. Last of all Themistocles spoke, and never to fairer purpose. No boasts, no lip courage, a painting of the noble and the base, the glory of dying as freemen, the infamy of existing as slaves. He told of Marathon, of Thermopylae, and asked if Leonidas had died as died a fool. He drew tears. He drew vows of vengeance. He never drew applause. Men were too strained for that. At last he sent the thousands forth.

"Go, then. Quit yourselves as Hellenes. That is all the task. And I say to you, in the after days this shall be your joy, to hear the greatest declare of you, 'Reverence this man, for he saved us all at Salamis.' "

The company dispersed, each man to his ship. Themistocles went to his pinnace, and a cheer uprose from sea and land as the boat shot out to the Nausicaae. Eurybiades might be chief in name; who did not know that Themistocles was the surest bulwark of Hellas?

The son of Neocles, standing in the boat, uplifted his face to the now golden east.

"Be witness, Helios," he cried aloud, "be witness when thou comest, I have done all things possible. And do thou and thy fellow-gods on bright Olympus rule our battle now; the lot is in your hands!"



CHAPTER XXIX

SALAMIS

Sunrise. The Nausicaae was ready. Ameinias the navarch walked the deck above the stern-cabin with nervous strides. All that human forethought could do to prepare the ship had long been done. The slim hull one hundred and fifty feet long had been stripped of every superfluous rope and spar. The masts had been lowered. On the cat-heads hung the anchors weighted with stone to fend off an enemy, astern towed the pinnace ready to drag alongside and break the force of the hostile ram. The heavy-armed marines stood with their long boarding spears, to lead an attack or cast off grappling-irons. But the true weapon of the Nausicaae was herself. To send the three-toothed beak through a foeman's side was the end of her being. To meet the shock of collision two heavy cables had been bound horizontally around the hull from stem to stern. The oarsmen,—the thranites of the upper tier, the zygites of the middle, the thalamites of the lower,—one hundred and seventy swart, nervous-eyed men, sat on their benches, and let their hands close tight upon those oars which trailed now in the drifting water, but which soon and eagerly should spring to life. At the belt of every oarsman dangled a sword, for boarders' work was more than likely. Thirty spare rowers rested impatiently on the centre deck, ready to leap wherever needed. On the forecastle commanded the proreus, Ameinias's lieutenant, and with him the keleustes, the oar master who must give time on his sounding-board for the rowing, and never fail,—not though the ships around reeled down to watery grave. And finally on the poop by the captain stood the "governor,"—knotted, grizzled, and keen,—the man whose touch upon the heavy steering oars might give the Nausicaae life or destruction when the ships charged beak to beak.

"The trireme is ready, admiral," reported Ameinias, as Themistocles came up leisurely from the stern-cabin.

The son of Neocles threw back his helmet, that all might see his calm, untroubled face. He wore a cuirass of silvered scale-armour over his purple chiton. At his side walked a young man, whom the ship's people imagined the deserter of the preceding night, but he had drawn his helmet close.

"This is Critias," said Themistocles, briefly, to the navarch; "he is a good caster. See that he has plenty of darts."

"One of Themistocles's secret agents," muttered the captain to the governor, "we should have guessed it." And they all had other things to think of than the whence and wherefore of this stranger.

It was a weary, nervous interval. Men had said everything, done everything, hoped and feared everything. They were in no mood even to invoke the gods. In desperation some jested riotously as they gripped the oars on the benches,—demonstrations which the proreus quelled with a loud "Silence in the ship." The morning mist was breaking. A brisk wind was coming with the sun. Clear and strong sang the Notus, the breeze of the kindly south. It covered the blue bay with crisping whitecaps, it sent the surf foaming up along the Attic shore across the strait. Themistocles watched it all with silent eyes, but eyes that spoke of gladness. He knew the waves would beat with full force on the Persian prows, and make their swift movement difficult while the Greeks, taking the galloping surf astern, would suffer little.

"AEolus fights for us. The first omen and a fair one." The word ran in whispers down the benches, and every soul on the trireme rejoiced.

How long did they sit thus? An aeon? Would Eurybiades never draw out his line of battle? Would Adeimantus prove craven at the end? Would treachery undo Hellas to-day, as once before at Lade when the Ionian Greeks had faced the Persian fleet in vain? Now as the vapour broke, men began to be able to look about them, and be delivered from their own thoughts. The shores of Salamis were alive,—old men, women, little children,—the fugitives from Attica were crowding to the marge in thousands to watch the deed that should decide their all. And many a bronze-cheeked oarsman arose from his bench to wave farewell to the wife or father or mother, and sank back again,—a clutching in his throat, a mist before his eyes, while his grip upon the oar grew like to steel.

As the Nausicaae rode at her place in the long line of ships spread up and down the shore of Salamis, it was easy to detect forms if not faces on the strand. And Glaucon, peering out from his helmet bars, saw Democrates himself standing on the sands and beckoning to Themistocles. Then other figures became clear to him out of the many, this one or that whom he had loved and clasped hands with in the sunlit days gone by. And last of all he saw those his gaze hungered for the most, Hermippus, Lysistra, and another standing at their side all in white, and in her arms she bore something he knew must be her child,—Hermione's son, his son, born to the lot of a free man of Athens or a slave of Xerxes according as his elders played their part this day. Only a glimpse,—the throng of strangers opened to disclose them closed again; Glaucon leaned on a capstan. All the strength for the moment was gone out of him.

"You rowed and wrought too much last night, Critias," spoke Themistocles, who had eyes for everything. "To the cabin, Sicinnus, bring a cup of Chian."

"No wine, for Athena's sake!" cried the outlaw, drawing himself together, "it is passed. I am strong again."

A great shout from the shores and the waiting fleet made him forget even the sight of Hermione.

"They come! The Persians! The Persians!"

The fleet of the Barbarians was advancing from the havens of Athens.

* * * * * * *

The sun rose higher. He was far above Hymettus now, and shooting his bright javelins over mainland, islands, and waters. With his rising the southern breeze sang ever clearer, making the narrow channel betwixt Salamis and Attica white, and tossing each trireme merrily. Not a cloud hung upon Pentelicus, Hymettus, or the purple northern range of Parnes. Over the desolate Acropolis hovered a thin mist,—smoke from the smouldering temple, the sight of which made every Attic sailor blink hard and think of the vengeance.

Yonder on the shore of the mainland the host of the Persian was moving: horsemen in gilded panoply, Hydarnes's spearmen in armour like suns. They stood by myriads in glittering masses about a little spur of Mt. AEgaleos, where a holy close of Heracles looked out upon the sea. To them were coming more horsemen, chariots, litters, and across the strait drifted the thunderous acclamation, "Victory to the king!" For here on the ivory throne, with his mighty men, his captains, his harem, about him, the "Lord of the World" would look down on the battle and see how his slaves could fight.

Now the Barbarians began to move forth by sea. From the havens of Peiraeus and their anchorages along the shore swept their galleys,—Phoenician, Cilician, Egyptian, and, sorrow of sorrows, Ionian—Greek arrayed against Greek! Six hundred triremes and more they were, taller in poop and prow than the Hellenes, and braver to look upon.

Each vied with each in the splendour of the scarlet, purple, and gold upon stern and foreship. Their thousands of white oars moved like the onward march of an army as they trampled down the foam. From the masts of their many admirals flew innumerable gay signal-flags. The commands shouted through trumpets in a dozen strange tongues—the shrill pipings of the oar masters, the hoarse shouts of the rowers—went up to heaven in a clamorous babel. "Swallows' chatter," cried the deriding Hellenes, but hearts were beating quicker, breath was coming faster in many a breast by Salamis then,—and no shame. For now was the hour of trial, the wrestle of Olympian Zeus with Ahura-Mazda. Now would a mighty one speak from the heavens to Hellas, and say to her "Die!" or "Be!"

The Barbarians' armadas were forming. Their black beaks, all pointing toward Salamis, stretched in two bristling lines from the islet of Psyttaleia—whence the shields of the landing force glittered—to that brighter glitter on the promontory by AEgaleos where sat the king. To charge their array seemed charging a moving hedge of spears, impenetrable in defence, invincible in attack. Slowly, rocked by the sea and rowing in steady order, the armament approached Salamis. And still the Greek ships lay spread out along the shore, each trireme swinging at the end of the cable which moored her to the land, each mariner listening to the beatings of his own heart and straining his eyes on one ship now—Eurybiades's—which rode at the centre of their line and far ahead.

All could read the order of battle at last as squadron lay against squadron. On the west, under Xerxes's own eye, the Athenians must charge the serried Phoenicians, at the centre the AEginetans must face the Cilicians, on the east Adeimantus and his fellows from Peloponnese must make good against the vassal Ionians. But would the signal to row and strike never come? Had some god numbed Eurybiades's will? Was treachery doing its darkest work? With men so highly wrought moments were precious. The bow strung too long will lose power. And wherefore did Eurybiades tarry?

Every soul in the Nausicaae kept his curses soft, and waited—waited till that trailing monster, the Persian fleet, had crept halfway from Psyttaleia toward them, then up the shrouds of the Spartan admiral leaped a flag. Eager hands drew it, yet it seemed mounting as a snail, till at the masthead the clear wind blew it wide,—a plain red banner, but as it spread hundreds of axes were hewing the cables that bound the triremes to the shore, every Greek oar was biting the sea, the ships were leaping away from Salamis. From the strand a shout went up, a prayer more than a cheer, mothers, wives, little ones, calling it together:—

"Zeus prosper you!"

A roar from the fleet, the tearing of countless blades on the thole-pins answered them. Eurybiades had spoken. There was no treason. All now was in the hand of the god.

* * * * * * *

Across the strait they went, and the Barbarians seemed springing to meet them. From the mainland a tumult of voices was rising, the myriads around Xerxes encouraging their comrades by sea to play the man. No indecisive, half-hearted battle should this be, as at Artemisium. Persian and Hellene knew that. The keen Phoenicians, who had chafed at being kept from action so long, sent their line of ships sweeping over the waves with furious strokes. The grudges, the commercial rivalries between Greek and Sidonian, were old. No Persian was hotter for Xerxes's cause than his Phoenician vassals that day.

And as they charged, the foemen's lines seemed so dense, their ships so tall, their power so vast, that involuntarily hesitancy came over the Greeks. Their strokes slowed. The whole line lagged. Here an AEginetan galley dropped behind, yonder a Corinthian navarch suffered his men to back water. Even the keleustes of the Nausicaae slackened his beating on the sounding-board. Eurybiades's ship had drifted behind to the line of her sisters, as in defiance a towering Sidonian sprang ahead of the Barbarian line of battle, twenty trumpets from her poop and foreship asking, "Dare you meet me?" The Greek line became almost stationary. Some ships were backing water. It was a moment which, suffered to slip unchecked, leads to irreparable disaster. Then like a god sprang Themistocles upon the capstan on his poop. He had torn off his helmet. The crews of scores of triremes saw him. His voice was like Stentor's, the herald whose call was strong as fifty common men.

In a lull amidst the howls of the Barbarians his call rang up and down the flagging ships:—

"O Sons of Hellas! save your land, Your children save, your altars and your wives! Now dare and do, for ye have staked your all!"

"Now dare and do, for ye have staked your all!"

Navarch shouted it to navarch. The cry went up and down the line of the Hellenes, "loud as when billows lash the beetling crags." The trailing oars beat again into the water, and even as the ships once more gained way, Themistocles nodded to Ameinias, and he to the keleustes. The master oarsman leaped from his seat and crashed his gavel down upon the sounding-board.

"Aru! Aru! Aru! Put it on, my men!"

The Nausicaae answered with a leap. Men wrought at the oar butts, tugging like mad, their backs toward the foe, conscious only that duty bade them send the trireme across the waves as a stone whirls from the sling. Thus the men, but Themistocles, on the poop, standing at the captain's and governor's side, never took his gaze from the great Barbarian that leaped defiantly to meet them.

"Can we risk the trick?" his swift question to Ameinias.

The captain nodded. "With this crew—yes."

Two stadia, one stadium, half a stadium, a ship's length, the triremes were charging prow to prow, rushing on a common death, when Ameinias clapped a whistle to his lips and blew shrilly. As one man every rower on the port-side leaped to his feet and dragged his oar inward through its row-hole. The deed was barely done ere the Sidonian was on them. They heard the roaring water round her prow, the cracking of the whips as the petty officers ran up and down the gangways urging on the panting cattle at the oars. Then almost at the shock the governor touched his steering oar. The Nausicaae swerved. The prow of the Sidonian rushed past them. A shower of darts pattered down on the deck of the Hellene, but a twinkling later from the Barbarians arose a frightful cry. Right across her triple oar bank, still in full speed, ploughed the Athenian. The Sidonian's oars were snapping like faggots. The luckless rowers were flung from their benches in heaps. In less time than the telling every oar on the Barbarian's port-side had been put out of play. The diekplous, favourite trick of the Grecian seamen, had never been done more fairly.

Now was Themistocles's chance. He used it. There was no need for him to give orders to the oar master. Automatically every rower on the port-tiers of the Nausicaae had run out his blade again. The governor sent the head of the trireme around with a grim smile locked about his grizzled lips. It was no woman's task which lay before them. Exposing her whole broadside lay the long Sidonian; she was helpless, striving vainly to crawl away with her remaining oar banks. Her people were running to and fro, howling to Baal, Astarte, Moloch, and all their other foul gods, and stretching their hands for help to consorts too far away.

"Aru! Aru! Aru!" was the shout of the oar master; again the Nausicaae answered with her leap. Straight across the narrow water she shot, the firm hand of the governor never veering now. The stroke grew faster, faster. Then with one instinct men dropped the oars, to trail in the rushing water, and seized stanchions, beams, anything to brace themselves for the shock. The crash which followed was heard on the mainland and on Salamis. The side of the Phoenician was beaten in like an egg-shell. From the Nausicaae's poop they saw her open hull reel over, saw the hundreds of upturned, frantic faces, heard the howls of agony, saw the waves leap into the gaping void.—

"Back water," thundered Ameinias, "clear the vortex, she is going down!"

The Nausicaae's people staggered to the oars. So busy were they in righting their own ship few saw the crowning horror. A moment more and a few drifting spars, a few bobbing heads, were all that was left of the Phoenician. The AEgean had swallowed her.

A shout was pealing from the ships of the Hellenes. "Zeus is with us! Athena is with us!"

At the outset of the battle, when advantage tells the most, advantage had been won. Themistocles's deed had fused all the Greeks with hopeful courage. Eurybiades was charging. Adeimantus was charging. Their ships and all the rest went racing to meet the foe.

* * * * * * *

But the Nausicaae had paid for her victory. In the shock of ramming the triple-toothed beak on her prow had been wrenched away. In the melee of ships which had just begun, she must play her part robbed of her keenest weapon. The sinking of the Barbarian had been met with cheers by the Hellenes, by howls of revengeful rage by the host against them. Not lightly were the Asiatics who fought beneath the eyes of the king to be daunted. They came crowding up the strait in such masses that sheer numbers hindered them, leaving no space for the play of the oars, much less for fine manoeuvre. Yet for an instant it seemed as if mere weight would sweep the Hellenes back to Salamis. Then the lines of battle dissolved into confused fragments. Captains singled out an opponent and charged home desperately, unmindful how it fared elsewhere in the battle. Here an Egyptian ran down a Euboean, there a Sicyonian grappled a Cilician and flung her boarders on to the foeman's decks. To the onlookers the scene could have meant naught save confusion. A hundred duels, a hundred varying victories, but to which side the final glory would fall, who knew?—perchance not even Zeus.

In the roaring melee the Nausicaae had for some moments moved almost aimlessly, her men gathering breath and letting their unscathed comrades pass. Then gradually the battle drifted round them also. A Cyprian, noting they had lost their ram, strove to charge them bow to bow. The skill of the governor avoided that disaster. They ran under the stem of a Tyrian, and Glaucon proved he had not forgotten his skill when he sent his javelins among the officers upon the poop. A second Sidonian swept down on them, but grown wise by her consort's destruction turned aside to lock with an AEginetan galley. How the fight at large was going, who was winning, who losing, Glaucon saw no more than any one else. An arrow grazed his arm. He first learned it when he found his armour bloody. A sling-stone smote the marine next to him on the forehead. The man dropped without a groan. Glaucon flung the body overboard, almost by instinct. Themistocles was everywhere, on the poop, on the foreship, among the rowers' benches, shouting, laughing, cheering, ordering, standing up boldly where the arrows flew thickest, yet never hit. So for a while, till out of the confusion of ships and wrecks came darting a trireme, loftier than her peers. The railing on poop and prow was silver. The shields of the javelin-men that crowded her high fighting decks were gilded. Ten pennons whipped from her masts, and the cry of horns, tambours, and kettledrums blended with the shoutings of her crew. A partially disabled Hellene drifted across her path. She ran the luckless ship down in a twinkling. Then her bow swung. She headed toward the Nausicaae.

"Do you know this ship?" asked Themistocles, at Glaucon's side on the poop.

"A Tyrian, the newest in their fleet, but her captain is the admiral Ariamenes, Xerxes's brother."

"She is attacking us, Excellency," called Ameinias, in his chief's ear. The din which covered the sea was beyond telling.

Themistocles measured the water with his eye.

"She will be alongside then in a moment," was his answer, "and the beak is gone?"

"Gone, and ten of our best rowers are dead."

Themistocles drew down the helmet, covering his face.

"Euge! Since the choice is to grapple or fly, we had better grapple."

The governor shifted again the steering paddles. The head of the Nausicaae fell away toward her attacker, but no signal was given to quicken the oars. The Barbarian, noting what her opponent did, but justly fearing the handiness of the Greeks, slackened also. The two ships drifted slowly together. Long before they closed in unfriendly contact the arrows of the Phoenician pelted over the Nausicaae like hail. Rowers fell as they sat on the upper benches; on the poop the proreus lay with half his men. Glaucon never counted how many missiles dinted his helmet and buckler. The next instant the two ships were drifting without steerage-way. The grappling-irons dashed down upon the Athenian, and simultaneously the brown Phoenician boarders were scrambling like cats upon her decks.

"Swords, men!" called Themistocles, never less daunted than at the pinch, "up and feed them with iron!"

Three times the Phoenicians poured as a flood over the Nausicaae. Three times they were flung back with loss, but only to rage, call on their gods, and return with tenfold fury. Glaucon had hurled one sheaf of javelins, and tore loose another, eye and arm aiming, casting mechanically. In the lulls he saw how wind and sea were sweeping the two ships landward, until almost in arrow-shot of the rocky point where sat Xerxes and his lords. He saw the king upon his ivory throne and all his mighty men around him. He saw the scribes standing near with parchment and papyrus, inscribing the names of this or that ship which did well or ill in behalf of the lord of the Aryans. He saw the gaudy dresses of the eunuchs, the litters, and from them peering forth the veiled women. Did Artazostra think now the Hellenes were mad fools to look her brother's power in the face? From the shores of Attica and of Salamis, where the myriads rejoiced or wept as the scattered battle changed, the cries were rising, falling, like the throb of a tragic chorus,—a chorus of Titans, with the actors gods.

"Another charge!" shouted Ameinias, through the din, "meet them briskly, lads!"

Once more the hoarse Semitic war-shout, the dark-faced Asiatics dropping upon the decks, the whir of javelins, the scream of dying men, the clash of steel on steel. A frantic charge, but stoutly met. Themistocles was in the thickest melee. With his own spear he dashed two Tyrians overboard, as they sprang upon the poop. The band that had leaped down among the oar benches were hewn in pieces by the seamen. The remnant of the attackers recoiled in howls of despair. On the Phoenician's decks the Greeks saw the officers laying the lash mercilessly across their men, but the disheartened creatures did not stir. Now could be seen Ariamenes, the high admiral himself, a giant warrior in his purple and gilded armour, going up and down the poop, cursing, praying, threatening,—all in vain. The Nausicaae's people rose and cheered madly.

"Enough! They have enough! Glory to Athens!"

But here Ameinias gripped Themistocles's arm. The chief turned, and all the Hellenes with him. The cheer died on their lips. A tall trireme was bearing down on them in full charge even while the Nausicaae drifted. They were as helpless as the Sidonian they had sent to death. One groan broke from the Athenians.

"Save, Athena! Save! It is Artemisia! The queen of Halicarnassus!"

The heavy trireme of the amazon princess was a magnificent sight as they looked on her. Her oars flew in a flashing rhythm. The foam leaped in a cataract over her ram. The sun made fire of the tossing weapons on her prow. A yell of triumph rose from the Phoenicians. On the Nausicaae men dropped sword and spear, moaned, raved, and gazed wildly on Themistocles as if he were a god possessing power to dash the death aside.

"To your places, men!" rang his shout, as he faced the foe unmoved, "and die as Athenians!"

Then even while men glanced up at the sun to greet Helios for the last time, there was a marvel. The threatening beak shot around. The trireme flew past them, her oars leaping madly, her people too intent on escape even to give a flight of javelins. And again the Athenians cheered.

"The Perseus! Cimon has saved us."

Not three ships' lengths behind the Halicarnassian raced the ship of the son of Miltiades. They knew now why Artemisia had veered. Well she might; had she struck the Nausicaae down, her own broadside would have swung defenceless to the fleet pursuer. The Perseus sped past her consort at full speed, Athenian cheering Athenian as she went.

"Need you help?" called Cimon, from his poop, as Themistocles waved his sword.

"None, press on, smite the Barbarian! Athena is with us!"

"Athena is with us! Zeus is with us!"

The Nausicaae's crew were lifted from panic to mad enthusiasm. Still above them towered the tall Phoenician, but they could have scaled Mt. Caucasus at that instant.

"Onward! Up and after them," rang Ameinias's blast, "she is our own, we will take her under the king's own eye."

The javelins and arrows were pelting from the Barbarian. The Athenians mocked the shower as they leaped the void from bulwark to bulwark. Vainly the Phoenicians strove to clear the grapples. Too firm! Their foes came on to their decks with long leaps, or here and there ran deftly on projecting spars, for what athlete of Hellas could not run the tight rope? In an instant the long rowers' deck of the Tyrian was won, and the attackers cheered and blessed Athena. But this was only storming the first outpost. Like castles forward and aft reared the prow and poop, whither the sullen defenders retreated. Turning at bay, the Phoenicians swarmed back into the waist, waiting no scourging from their officers. Now their proud admiral himself plunged into the melee, laying about with a mighty sword worthy of Ajax at Troy, showing he was a prince of the Aryans indeed. It took all the steadiness of Ameinias and his stoutest men to stop the rush, and save the Athenians in turn from being driven overboard. The rush was halted finally, though this was mere respite before a fiercer breaking of the storm. The two ships were drifting yet closer to the strand. Only the fear of striking their own men kept the Persians around the king from clouding the air with arrows. Glaucon saw the grandees near Xerxes's throne brandishing their swords. In imagination he saw the monarch leaping from his throne in agony as at Thermopylae.

"Back to the charge," pealed Ariamenes's summons to the Tyrians; "will you be cowards and dogs beneath the very eyes of the king?"

The defenders answered with a second rush. Others again hurled darts from the stern and foreship. Then out of the maelstrom of men and weapons came a truce. Athenian and Tyrian drew back, whilst Themistocles and Ariamenes were fighting blade to blade. Twice the giant Persian almost dashed the Hellene down. Twice Themistocles recovered poise, and paid back stroke for stroke. He had smitten the helmet from Ariamenes's head and was swinging for a master-blow when his foot slipped on the bloody plank. He staggered. Before he could recover, the Persian had brought his own weapon up, and flung his might into the downward stroke.

"The admiral—lost!" Athenians shuddered together, but with the groan shot a javelin. Clear through the scales of the cuirass it tore, and into the Persian's shoulder,—Glaucon's cast, never at the Isthmus truer with hand or eye. The ponderous blade turned, grazed the Athenian's corselet, clattered on the deck. The Persian sprang back disarmed and powerless. At sight thereof the Phoenicians flung down their swords. True Orientals, in the fate of their chief they saw decreeing Destiny,—what use to resist it?

"Yield, my Lord, yield," called Glaucon, in Persian, "the battle is against you, and no fault of yours. Save the lives of your men."

Ariamenes gave a toss of his princely head, and with his left hand plucked the javelin from his shoulder.

"A prince of the Aryans knows how to die, but not how to yield," he cast back, and before the Athenians guessed his intent he sprang upon the bulwark. There in the sight of his king he stood and bowed his head and with his left arm made the sign of adoration.

"Seize him!" shouted Ameinias, divining his intent, but too late. The Persian leaped into the water. In his heavy mail he sank like lead. The wave closed over him, as he passed forever from the sight of man.

There was stillness on the Tyrian for a moment. A groan of helpless horror was rising from the Barbarians on the shore. Then the Phoenicians fell upon their knees, crying in their harsh tongue, "Quarter! Quarter!" and embracing and kissing the feet of the victors. Thanks to the moment of quietness given them, the Athenians' blood had cooled a little; they gathered up the weapons cast upon the deck; there was no massacre.

Themistocles mounted the poop of the captured flag-ship, and Glaucon with him. The wind was wafting them again into the centre of the channel. For the first time for many moments they were able to look about them, to ask, "How goes the battle?" Not the petty duel they had fought, but the great battle of battles which was the life-struggle of Hellas. And behold, as they gazed they pressed their hands upon their eyes and looked and looked again, for the thing they saw seemed overgood for truth. Where the great Barbarian line had been pushing up the strait, were only bands of scattered ships, and most of these turning their beaks from Salamis. The waves were strewn with wrecks, and nigh every one a Persian. And right, left, and centre the triumphant Hellenes were pressing home, ramming, grappling, capturing. Even whilst the fight raged, pinnaces were thrusting out from Salamis—Aristeides's deed, they later heard—crowded with martial graybeards who could not look idly on while their sons fought on the ships, and who speedily landed on Psyttaleia to massacre the luckless Persians there stationed. The cheers of the Barbarians were ended now; from the shores came only a beastlike howling which drowned the paeans of the victors. As the Nausicaae's people looked, they could see the once haughty Phoenicians and Cilicians thrusting back against the land, and the thousands of footmen running down upon the shore to drag the shattered triremes up and away from the triumphant Hellenes.

The Nausicaae's people in wondering gaze stood there for a long time as if transfixed, forgetful how their ship and its prize drifted, forgetful of weariness, forgetful of wounds. Then as one man they turned to the poop of the captured Tyrian, and to Themistocles. He had done it—their admiral. He had saved Hellas under the eyes of the vaunting demigod who thought to be her destroyer. They called to Themistocles, they worshipped as if he were the Olympian himself.



CHAPTER XXX

THEMISTOCLES GIVES A PROMISE

After the Nausicaae had returned that night to Salamis, after the old men and the women had laughed and wept over the living,—they were too proud to weep over the dead,—after the prudent admirals had set the fleet again in order, for Xerxes might tempt fate again in the morning with his remaining ships, Themistocles found himself once more in his cabin. With him was only Glaucon the Alcmaeonid. The admiral's words were few and pointed.

"Son of Conon, last night you gave me the thought whereby I could save Hellas. To-day your javelin saved me from death. I owe you much. I will repay in true coin. To-morrow I can give you back to your wife and all your friends if you will but suffer me."

The younger man flushed a little, but his eyes did not brighten. He felt Themistocles's reservation.

"On what terms?"

"You shall be presented to the Athenians as one who, yielding for a moment to overmastering temptation, has atoned for one error by rendering infinite service."

"Then I am to be 'Glaucon the Traitor' still, even if 'Glaucon the Repentant Traitor'?"

"Your words are hard, son of Conon; what may I say? Have you any new explanation for the letter to Argos?"

"The old one—I did not write it."

"Let us not bandy useless arguments. Do you not see I shall be doing all that is possible?"

"Let me think a little."

The younger Athenian held down his head, and Themistocles saw his brows knitting.

"Son of Neocles," said Glaucon, at length, "I thank you. You are a just man. Whatever of sorrow has or will be mine, you have no part therein, but I cannot return—not to Hermione and my child—on any terms you name."

"Your purpose, then?"

"To-day the gods show mercy to Hellas, later they may show justice to me. The war is far from ended. Can you not let me serve on some ship of the allies where none can recognize me? Thus let me wait a year, and trust that in that year the sphinx will find her riddle answered."

"To wait thus long is hard," spoke the other, kindly.

"I have done many hard things, Themistocles."

"And your wife?"

"Hera pity her! She bade me return when Athens knew me innocent. Better that she wait a little longer, though in sorrow, when I can return to her even as she bade me. Nevertheless, promise one thing."

"Name it."

"That if her parents are about to give her to Democrates or any other, you will prevent."

Themistocles's face lightened. He laid a friendly hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I do not know how to answer your cry of innocency, philotate, but this I know, in all Hellas I think none is fairer in body or soul than you. Have no fear for Hermione, and in the year to come may Revealer Apollo make all of your dark things bright."

Glaucon bowed his head. Themistocles had given everything the outlaw could ask, and the latter went out of the cabin.



BOOK III

THE PASSING OF THE PERSIAN



CHAPTER XXXI

DEMOCRATES SURRENDERS

Hellas was saved. But whether forever or only for a year the gods kept hid. Panic-stricken, the "Lord of the World" had fled to Asia after the great disaster. The eunuchs, the harem women, the soft-handed pages, had escaped with their master to luxurious Sardis, the remnant of the fleet fled back across the AEgean. But the brain and right arm of the Persians, Mardonius the Valiant, remained in Hellas. With him were still the Median infantry, the Tartar horse-archers, the matchless Persian lancers,—the backbone of the undefeated army. Hellas was not yet safe.

Democrates had prospered. He had been reelected strategus. If Themistocles no longer trusted him quite so freely as once, Aristeides, restored now to much of his former power, gave him full confidence. Democrates found constant and honourable employment through the winter in the endless negotiations at Sparta, at Corinth, and elsewhere, while the jealous Greek states wrangled and intrigued, more to humiliate some rival than to advance the safety of Hellas. But amongst all the patriot chiefs none seemed more devoted to the common weal of Hellas than the Athenian orator.

Hermippus at least was convinced of this. The Eleusinian had settled at Troezene on the Argive coast, a hospitable city that received many an outcast Athenian. He found his daughter's resistance to another marriage increasingly unreasonable. Was not Glaucon dead for more than a year? Ought not any woman to bless Hera who gave her so noble, so eloquent, a husband as Democrates—pious, rich, trusted by the greatest, and with the best of worldly prospects?

"If you truly desire any other worthy man, makaira," said Hermippus, once, "you shall not find me obstinate. Can a loving father say more? But if you are simply resolved never to marry, I will give you to him despite your will. A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness."

"He ruined Glaucon," said Hermione, tearfully.

"At least," returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel things, "he has never been a traitor to his country."

Hermione's answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phoenix in the cradle. Here old Cleopis found her, took her in her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphaeus chasing Arethusa—a song more fit for Phoenix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the world and himself.

It was a tedious, jangling conference held at the Isthmus city. Mardonius had tempted the Athenians sorely. In the spring had come his envoys proffering reparation for all injuries in the wars, enlarged territory, and not slavery, but free alliance with the Great King, if they would but join against their fellow-Hellenes. The Athenians had met the tempter as became Athenians. Aristeides had given the envoys the answer of the whole people.

"We know your power. Yet tell it to Mardonius, that so long as Helios moves in the heavens we will not make alliance with Xerxes, but rather trust to the gods whose temples he has burned."

Bravely said, but when the Athenians looked to Sparta for the great army to hasten north and give Mardonius his death-stroke, it was the old wearisome tale of excuses and delay. At the conference in Corinth Aristeides and Democrates had passed from arguments to all but threats, even such as Themistocles had used at Salamis. It was after one of these fruitless debates that Democrates passed out of the gathering at the Corinthian prytaneum, with his colleagues all breathing forth their wrath against Dorian stupidity and evasiveness.

Democrates himself crossed the city Agora, seeking the house of the friendly merchant where he was to sup. He walked briskly, his thoughts more perhaps on the waiting betrothal feast at Troezene, than on the discussion behind him. The Agora scene had little to interest, the same buyers, booths, and babel as in Athens, only the citadel above was the mount of Acro-Corinthus, not the tawny rock of Athena. And in late months he had begun to find his old fears and terrors flee away. Every day he was growing more certain that his former "missteps"—that was his own name for certain occurrences—could have no malign influence. "After all," he was reflecting, "Nemesis is a very capricious goddess. Often she forgets for a lifetime, and after death—who knows what is beyond the Styx?"

He was on such noble terms with all about him that he could even give ear to the whine of a beggar. The man was sitting on the steps between the pillars of a colonnade, with a tame crow perched upon his fist, and as Democrates passed he began his doggerel prayer:—

"Good master, a handful of barley bestow On the child of Apollo, the sage, sable crow."

The Athenian began to fumble in his belt for an obol, when he was rudely distracted by a twitch upon his chiton. Turning, he was little pleased to come face to face with no less a giant than Lycon.

"There was an hour, philotate," spoke the Spartan, with ill-concealed sneer, "when you did not have so much silver to scatter out to beggars."

Time had not mended Lycon's aspect, nor taken from his eye that sinister twinkle which was so marked a foil to his brutishness.

"I did not invite you, dear fellow," rejoined the Athenian, "to remind me of the fact."

"Yet you should have gratitude, and you have lacked that virtue of late. It was a sorry plight Mardonius's money saved you from two years since, and nobly have you remembered his good service."

"Worthy Lacedaemonian," said Democrates, with what patience he could command, "if you desire to go over all that little business which concerned us then, at least I would suggest not in the open Agora." He started to walk swiftly away. The Spartan's ponderous strides easily kept beside him. Democrates looked vainly for an associate whom he could approach and on some pretext could accompany. None in sight. Lycon kept fast hold of his cloak. For practical purposes Democrates was prisoner.

"Why in Corinth?" he threw out sullenly.

"For three reasons, philotate," Lycon grinned over his shoulder, "first, the women at the Grove of Aphrodite here are handsome; second, I am weary of Sparta and its black broth and iron money; third, and here is the rose for my garland, I had need to confer with your noble self."

"Would not Hiram be your dutiful messenger again?" queried the other, vainly watching for escape.

"Hiram is worth twenty talents as a helper;"—Lycon gave a hound-like chuckle,—"still he is not Apollo, and there are too many strings on this lyre for him to play them all. Besides, he failed at Salamis."

"He did! Zeus blast his importunity and yours likewise. Where are you taking me? I warn you in advance, you are 'shearing an ass,'—attempting the impossible,—if you deceive yourself as to my power. I can do nothing more to prevent the war from being pressed against Mardonius. It is only your Laconian ephors that are hindering."

"We shall see, philotate, we shall see," grunted the Spartan, exasperatingly cool. "Here is Poseidon's Temple. Let us sit in the shaded portico."

Democrates resigned himself to be led to a stone seat against the wall. The gray old "dog-watcher" by the gate glanced up to see that no dogs were straying into the holy house, noted only two gentlemen come for a chat, and resumed his siesta. Lycon took a long time in opening his business.

"The world has used you well of late, dear fellow."

"Passing well, by Athena's favour."

"You should say by Hermes's favour, but I would trust you Athenians to grow fat on successful villany and then bless the righteous gods."

"I hope you haven't left Sparta just to revile me!" cried Democrates, leaping up, to be thrust back by Lycon's giant paw.

"Ai! mix a little honey with your speech, it costs nothing. Well, the length and breadth of my errand is this, Mardonius must fight soon, and must be victorious."

"That is for your brave ephors to say," darted Democrates. "According to their valiant proposals they desire this war to imitate that with Troy,—to last ten years."

"Indeed—but I always held my people surpassed in procrastination, as yours in deceiving. However, their minds will change."

"Aristeides and Themistocles will bless you for that."

Lycon shrugged his great shoulders.

"Then I'll surpass the gods, who can seldom please all men. Still it is quite true."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Dear Democrates, you know what's befallen in Sparta. Since Leonidas died, his rivals from my own side of the royal house have gathered a great deal more of power. My uncle Nicander is at present head of the board of ephors, and gladly takes my advice."

"Ha!" Democrates began to divine the drift.

"It seemed best to me after the affair at Salamis to give the lie to my calumniators, who hinted that I desired to 'Medize,' and that it was by my intriguing that the late king took so small a force to Thermopylae."

"All Hellas knows your patriotism!" cried Democrates, satirically.

"Even so. I have silenced my fiercest abusers. If I have not yet urged in our assembly that we should fight Mardonius, it is merely because—it is not yet prudent."

"Excellent scoundrel," declared the other, writhing on his seat, "you are no Spartan, but long-winded as a Sicilian."

"Patience, philotate, a Spartan must either speak in apothegms or take all day. I have not advised a battle yet because I was not certain of your aid."

"Ay, by Zeus," broke out Democrates, "that ointment I sniffed a long way off. I can give you quick answer. Fly back to Sparta, swift as Boreas; plot, conspire, earn Tartarus, to your heart's content—you'll get no more help from me."

"I expected that speech." Lycon's coolness drove his victim almost frantic.

"In the affair of Tempe I bent to you for the last time," Democrates charged desperately. "I have counted the cost. Perhaps you can use against me certain documents, but I am on a surer footing than once. In the last year I have done such service to Hellas I can even hope to be forgiven, should these old mistakes be proved. And if you drive me to bay, be sure of this, I will see to it that all the dealings betwixt the Barbarian and your noble self are expounded to your admiring countrymen."

"You show truly excellent courage, dear Democrates," cried Lycon, in pseudo-admiration. "That speech was quite worthy of a tragic actor."

"If we're in the theatre, let the chorus sing its last strophe and have done. You disgust me."

"Peace, peace," ordered Lycon, his hand still on the Athenian's shoulder, "I will make all the haste I can, but obstinacy is disagreeable. I repeat, you are needed, sorely needed, by Mardonius to enable him to complete the conquest of Hellas. You shall not call the Persians ungrateful—the tyranny of Athens under the easy suzerainty of the king, is that no dish to whet your appetite?"

"I knew of the offer before."

"A great pity you are not more eager. Hermes seldom sends such chances twice. I hoped to have you for 'my royal brother' when they gave me the like lordship of Lacedaemon. However, the matter does not end with your refusal."

"I have said, 'Do your worst.' "

"And my worst is—Agis."

For an instant Lycon was dismayed. He thought he had slain his victim with one word. Democrates dropped from his clutch and upon the pavement as though stricken through the heart by an arrow. He was pallid as a corpse, at first he only groaned.

"Eu! eu! good comrade," cried the Spartan, dragging him up, half triumphant, half sympathetic, "I did not know I was throwing Zeus's thunderbolts."

The Athenian sat with his head on his hands. In all his dealings with the Spartan he had believed he had covered the details of the fate of Glaucon. Lycon could surmise what he liked, but the proof to make the damning charges good Democrates believed he had safe in his own keeping. Only one man could have unlocked the casket of infamy—Agis—and the mention of his name was as a bolt from the blue.

"Where is he? I heard he was killed at Artemisium." Lycon hardly understood his victim's thick whispers.

"Wounded indeed, philotate, taken prisoner, and sent to Thebes. There friends of mine found he had a story to tell—greatly to my advantage. It is only a little time since he came to Sparta."

"What lies has he told?"

"Several, dear fellow, although if they are lies, then Aletheia, Lady Truth, must almost own them for her children. At least they are interesting lies; as, for example, how you advised the Cyprian to escape from Athens, how you gave Agis a letter to hide in the boots of Glaucon's messenger, of your interviews with Lampaxo and Archias, of the charming art you possess of imitating handwritings and seals."

"Base-born swine! who will believe him?"

"Base born, Democrates, but hardly swinish. He can tell a very clear story. Likewise, Lampaxo and Archias must testify at the trial, also your slave Bias can tell many interesting things."

"Only if I consent to produce him."

"When did a master ever refuse to let his slave testify, if demanded, unless he wished to blast his own cause with the jury? No, makaire, you will not enjoy the day when Themistocles arrays the testimony against you."

Democrates shivered. The late spring sun was warm. He felt no heat. A mere charge of treason he was almost prepared now to endure. If Mistress Fortune helped him, he might refute it, but to be branded before Hellas as the destroyer of his bosom friend, and that by guile the like whereof Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion conjoined had never wrought—what wonder his knees smote together? Why had he not foreseen that Agis would fall into Lycon's hands? Why had he trusted that lying tale from Artemisium? And worst of all, worse than the howls of the people who would tear his body asunder like dogs, not waiting the work of the hemlock, was the thought of Hermione. She hated him now. How she would love him, though he sat on Xerxes's throne, if once her suspicion rose to certainty! He saw himself ruined in life and in love, and blazoned as infamous forever.

Lycon was wise enough to sit some moments, letting his utterance do its work. He was confident, and rightly. Democrates looked on him at last. The workings of the Athenian's face were terrible.

"I am your slave, Spartan. Had you bought me for ten minae and held the bill of sale, I were not yours more utterly. Your wish?"

Lycon chose his words and answered slowly.

"You must serve Persia. Not for a moment, but for all time. You must place that dreadful gift of yours at our disposal. And in return take what is promised,—the lordship of Athens."

"No word of that," groaned the wretched man, "what will you do?"

"Aristeides is soon going to Sparta to press home his demands that the Lacedaemonians march in full force against Mardonius. I can see to it that his mission succeeds. A great battle will be fought in Boeotia. We can see to it that Mardonius is so victorious that all further resistance becomes a dream."

"And my part in this monster's work?"

The demands and propositions with which Lycon answered this despairing question will unfold themselves in due place and time. Suffice it here, that when he let the Athenian go his way Lycon was convinced that Democrates had bound himself heart and soul to forward his enterprise. The orator was no merry guest for his Corinthian hosts that night. He returned to his old manner of drinking unmixed wine. "Thirsty as a Macedonian!" cried his companions, in vain endeavour to drive him into a laugh. They did not know that once more the chorus of the Furies was singing about his ears, and he could not still it by the deepest wine-cup. They did not know that every time he closed his eyes he was seeing the face of Glaucon. That morning he had mocked at Nemesis. That night he heard the beating of her brazen wings.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE STRANGER IN TROEZENE

Despite exile, life had moved pleasantly for Hermippus's household that spring. The Troezenians had surpassed all duties to Zeus Xenios—the stranger's god—in entertaining the outcast Athenians. The fugitives had received two obols per day to keep them in figs and porridge. Their children had been suffered to roam and plunder the orchards. But Hermippus had not needed such generosity. He had placed several talents at interest in Corinth; likewise bonds of "guest-friendship" with prominent Troezenians made his residence very agreeable. He had hired a comfortable house, and could enjoy even luxury with his wife, daughter, young sons, and score of slaves.

Little Phoenix grew marvellously day by day, as if obeying his mother's command to wax strong and avenge his father. Old Cleopis vowed he was the healthiest, least tearful babe, as well as the handsomest, she had ever known,—and she spoke from wide experience. When he was one year old, he was so active they had to tie him in the cradle. When the golden spring days came, he would ride forth upon his nurse's back, surveying the Hellas he was born to inherit, and seeming to find it exceeding good.

But as spring verged on summer, Hermione demanded so much of Cleopis's care that even Phoenix ceased to be the focus of attention. The lordly Alcmaeonid fell into the custody of one Niobe, a dark-haired lass of the islands, who treated him well, but cared too much for certain young "serving-gentlemen" to waste on her charge any unreciprocated adoration. So on one day, just as the dying grass told the full reign of the Sun King, she went forth with her precious bundle wriggling in her arms, but her thoughts hardly on Master Phoenix. Procles the steward had been cold of late, he had even cast sly glances at Jocasta, Lysistra's tiring-woman. Mistress Niobe was ready—since fair means of recalling the fickle Apollo failed—to resort to foul. Instead, therefore, of going to the promenade over the sea, she went—burden and all—to the Agora, where she was sure old Dion, who kept a soothsayer's shop, would give due assistance in return for half a drachma.

The market was just thinning. Niobe picked her way amongst the vegetable women, fought off a boy who thrust on her a pair of geese, and found in a quiet corner by a temple porch the booth of Dion, who grinned with his toothless gums in way of greeting. He listened with paternal interest to her story, soothed her when she sniffled at Procles's name, and made her show her silver, then began pulling over his bags and vials of strange powders and liquids.

"Ah, kind Master Dion," began Niobe, for the sixth time, "if only some philtre could make Procles loath that abominable Jocasta!"

"Eu! eu!" muttered the old sinner, "it's hard to say what's best,—powder of toad's bone or the mixture of wormwood and adder's fat. The safest thing is to consult the god—"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, my holy cock here, hatched at Delphi with Apollo's blessings on him." Dion pointed with his thumb to the small coop at his feet. "The oracle is simple. You cast before him two piles of corn; if he picks at the one to right we take toad's bone, to left the adder's fat. Heaven will speak to us."

"Excellent," cried Niobe, brightening.

"But, of course, we must use only consecrated corn, that's two obols more."

Niobe's face fell. "I've only this half-drachma."

"Then, philotata," said Dion, kindly but firmly, "we had better wait a little longer."

Niobe wept. "Ai! woe. 'A little longer' and Jocasta has Procles. I can't ask Hermione again for money. Ai! ai!"

Two round tears did not move Dion in the slightest. Niobe was sobbing, at her small wits' end, when a voice sounded behind her.

"What's there wrong, lass? By Zeus, but you carry a handsome child!"

Niobe glanced, and instantly stopped weeping. A young man dressed roughly as a sailor, and with long black hair and beard, had approached her, but despite dress and beard she was quite aware he was far handsomer than even Procles.

"I beg pardon, kyrie,"—she said "kyrie" by instinct,—"I'm only an honest maid. Dion is terribly extortionate." She cast down her eyes, expecting instant succour from the susceptible seaman, but to her disgust she saw he was admiring only the babe, not herself.

"Ah! Gods and goddesses, what a beautiful child! A girl?"

"A boy," answered Niobe, almost sullenly.

"Blessed the house in Troezene then that can boast of such a son."

"Oh, he's not Troezenian, but one of the exiles from Athens," volunteered Dion, who kept all the tittle-tattle of the little city in stock along with his philtres.

"An Athenian! Praised be Athena Polias, then. I am from Athens myself. And his father?"

"The brat will never boast of his father," quoth Dion, rolling his eyes. "He left the world in a way, I wager five minae, the mother hopes she can hide from her darling, but the babe's of right good stock, an Alcmaeonid, and the grandfather is that Hermippus—"

"Hermippus?" The stranger seemed to catch the word out of Dion's mouth. A donkey had broken loose at the upper end of the Agora; he turned and stared at it and its pursuers intently.

"If you're Athenian," went on the soothsayer, "the story's an old one—of Glaucon the Traitor."

The stranger turned back again. For a moment Dion saw he was blinking, but no doubt it was dust. Then he suddenly began to fumble in his girdle.

"What do you want, girl?" he demanded of Niobe, nigh fiercely.

"Two obols."

"Take two drachmae. I was once a friend to that Glaucon, and traitor though he has been blazed, his child is yet dear to me. Let me take him."

Without waiting her answer he thrust the coin into her hands, and caught the child out of them. Phoenix looked up into the strange, bearded face, and deliberated an instant whether to crow or to weep. Then some friendly god decided him. He laughed as sweetly, as musically, as ever one can at his most august age. With both chubby hands he plucked at the black beard and held tight. The strange sailor answered laugh with laugh, and released himself right gayly. Then whilst Niobe and Dion watched and wondered they saw the sailor kiss the child full fifty times, all the time whispering soft words in his ear, at which Phoenix crowed and laughed yet more.

"An old family servant," threw out Dion, in a whisper.

"Sheep!" retorted the nurse, "do you call yourself wise? Do you think a man with that face and those long hands ever felt the stocks or the whip? He's gentleman born, by Demeter!"

"War makes many changes," rejoined Dion. "Ai! is he beside himself or a kidnapper? He is walking off with the babe."

The stranger indeed had seemed to forget them all and was going with swift strides up the Agora, but just before Niobe could begin her outcry he wheeled, and brought his merry burden back to the nurse's arms.

"You ought to be exceeding proud, my girl," he remarked almost severely, "to have such a precious babe in charge. I trust you are dutiful."

"So I strive, kyrie, but he grows very strong. One cannot keep the swaddling clothes on him now. They say he will be a mighty athlete like his father."

"Ah, yes—his father—" The sailor looked down.

"You knew Master Glaucon well?" pressed Dion, itching for a new bit of gossip.

"Well," answered the sailor, standing gazing on the child as though something held him fascinated, then shot another question. "And does the babe's lady-mother prosper?"

"She is passing well in body, kyrie, but grievously ill in mind. Hera give her a release from all her sorrow!"

"Sorrow?" The man's eyes were opening wider, wider. "What mean you?"

"Why, all Troezene knows it, I'm sure."

"I'm not from Troezene. My ship made port from Naxos this morning. Speak, girl!"

He seized Niobe's wrist in a grip which she thought would crush the bone.

"Ai! Let go, sir, you hurt. Don't stare so. I'm frightened. I'll tell as fast as I can. Master Democrates has come back from Corinth. Hermippus is resolved to make the kyria wed him, however bitterly she resists. It's taken a long time for her father to determine to break her will, but now his mind's made up. The betrothal is in three days, the wedding ten days thereafter."

The sailor had dropped her hand. She shrank at the pallor of his face. He seemed struggling for words; when they came she made nothing of them.

"Themistocles, Themistocles—your promise!"

Then by some giant exercise of will he steadied. His speech grew more coherent.

"Give me the child," he commanded, and Niobe mutely obeyed. He kissed Phoenix on both cheeks, mouth, forehead. They saw that tears were running down his bronzed face. He handed back the babe and again held out money,—a coin for both the slave girl and the soothsayer,—gold half-darics, that they gaped at wonderingly.

"Say nothing!" ordered the sailor, "nothing of what I have said or done, or as Helios shines this noon, I will kill you both."

Not waiting reply, he went down the Agora at a run, and never looked back. It took some moments for Dion and Niobe to recover their equanimity; they would have believed it all a dream, but lo! in their hands gleamed the money.

"There are times," remarked the soothsayer, dubiously at last, "when I begin to think the gods again walk the earth and work wonders. This is a very high matter. Even I with my art dare not meddle with it. It is best to heed the injunction to silence. Wagging tongues always have troubles as their children. Now let us proceed with my sacred cock and his divination."

Niobe got her philtre,—though whether it reconquered Procles is not contained in this history. Likewise, she heeded Dion's injunction. There was something uncanny about the strange sailor; she hid away the half-daric, and related nothing of her adventure even to her confidant Cleopis.

* * * * * * *

Three days later Democrates was not drinking wine at his betrothal feast, but sending this cipher letter by a swift and trusty "distance-runner" to Sparta.

"Democrates to Lycon, greeting:—At Corinth I cursed you. Rejoice therefore; you are my only hope. I am with you whether your path leads to Olympus or to Hades. Tartarus is opened at my feet. You must save me. My words are confused, do you think? Then hear this, and ask if I have not cause for turning mad.

"Yesterday, even as Hermippus hung garlands on his house, and summoned the guests to witness the betrothal contract, Themistocles returned suddenly from Euboea. He called Hermippus and myself aside. 'Glaucon lives,' he said, 'and with the god's help we'll prove his innocence.' Hermippus at once broke off the betrothal. No one else knows aught thereof, not even Hermione. Themistocles refuses all further details. 'Glaucon lives,'—I can think of nothing else. Where is he? What does he? How soon will the awful truth go flying through Hellas? I trembled when I heard he was dead. But name my terrors now I know he is alive! Send Hiram. He, if any snake living, can find me my enemy before it is too late. And speed the victory of Mardonius! Chaire."

"Glaucon lives." Democrates had only written one least part of his terrors. Two words—but enough to make the orator the most miserable man in Hellas, the most supple of Xerxes's hundred million slaves.



CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT BEFELL ON THE HILLSIDE

Once more the Persians pressed into Attica, once more the Athenians,—or such few of them as had ventured home in the winter,—fled with their movables to Salamis or Peloponnesus, and an embassy, headed by Aristeides, hastened to Sparta to demand for the last time that the tardy ephors make good their promise in sending forth their infantry to hurl back the invader. If not, Aristeides spoke plainly, his people must perforce close alliance with Mardonius.

Almost to the amazement of the Athenian chiefs, so accustomed were they to Dorian doltishness and immobility, after a ten days' delay and excuses that "they must celebrate their festival the Hyacinthia," the ephors called forth their whole levy. Ten thousand heavy infantrymen with a host of lightly armed "helots"(11) were started northward under the able lead of Pausanias, the regent for Leonidas's young son. Likewise all the allies of Lacedaemon—Corinthians, Sicyonians, Elians, Arcadians—began to hurry toward the Isthmus. Therefore men who had loved Hellas and had almost despaired for her took courage. "At last we will have a great land battle, and an end to the Barbarian."

All was excitement in the Athenian colony at Troezene. The board of strategi met and voted that now was the time for a crowning effort. Five thousand men-at-arms should march under Aristeides to join against Mardonius in Boeotia. By sea Themistocles should go with every available ship to Delos, meet the allied squadrons there, and use his infallible art in persuading the sluggish Spartan high admiral to conduct a raid across the AEgean at Xerxes's own doors. Of the ten strategi Democrates had called loudest for instant action, so loudly indeed that Themistocles had cautioned him against rashness. Hermippus was old, but experienced men trusted him, therefore he was appointed to command the contingent of his tribe. Democrates was to accompany Aristeides as general adjutant; his diplomatic training would be invaluable in ending the frictions sure to arise amongst the allies. Cimon would go with Themistocles, and so every other man was sent to his place. In the general preparation private problems seemed forgotten. Hermippus and Democrates both announced that the betrothal of Hermione had been postponed, pending the public crisis. The old Eleusinian had not told his daughter, or even his wife, why he had seemed to relax his announced purpose of forcing Hermione to an unwelcome marriage. The young widow knew she had respite—for how long nothing told her, but for every day her agony was postponed she blessed kind Hera. Then came the morning when her father must go forth with his men. She still loved him, despite the grief he was giving her. She did him justice to believe he acted in affection. The gay ribbons that laced his cuirass, the red and blue embroidery that edged his "taxiarch's" cloak, were from the needle of his daughter. Hermione kissed him as she stood with her mother in the aula. He coughed gruffly when he answered their "farewell." The house door closed behind him, and Hermione and Lysistra ran into one another's arms. They had given to Hellas their best, and now must look to Athena.

Hermippus and Aristeides were gone, Democrates remained in Troezene. His business, he said, was more diplomatic than military, and he was expecting advices from the islands which he must take to Pausanias in person. He had a number of interviews with Themistocles, when it was observed that every time he came away with clouded brow and gruff answers to all who accosted. It began to be hinted that all was not as well as formerly between the admiral and the orator, that Democrates had chosen to tie too closely to Aristeides for the son of Neocles's liking, and that as soon as the campaign was decided, a bitter feud would break out betwixt them. But this was merest gossip. Outwardly Democrates and Themistocles continued friends, dined together, exchanged civilities. On the day when Themistocles was to sail for Delos he walked arm in arm with Democrates to the quay. The hundreds of onlookers saw him embrace the young strategus in a manner belying any rumour of estrangement, whilst Democrates stood on the sand waving his good wishes until the admiral climbed the ladder of the Nausicaae.

It was another day and landscape which the stranger in Hellas would have remembered long. The haven of Troezene, noblest in Peloponnesus, girt by its two mountain promontories, Methana and the holy hill Calauria, opened its bright blue into the deeper blue of the Saronic bay. Under the eye of the beholder AEgina and the coasts of Attica stood forth, a fit frame to the far horizon. Sun, sea, hills, and shore wrought together to make one glorious harmony, endless variety, yet ordered and fashioned into a divine whole. "Euopis," "The Fair-Faced," the beauty-loving dwellers of the country called it, and they named aright.

Something of the beauty touched even Hermione as she stood on the hill slope, gazing across the sea. Only Cleopis was with her. The young widow had less trembling when she looked on the Nausicaae than when one year before the stately trireme had sailed for Artemisium. If ill news must come, it would be from the plains of Boeotia. Most of Themistocles's fleet was already at Delos. He led only a dozen sail. When his squadron glided on into the blue deep, the haven seemed deserted save for the Carthaginian trader that swung at her cables close upon the land. As Hermione looked and saw the climbing sun change the tintings of the waters, here spreading a line of green gold amidst the blue, here flashing the waves with dark violet, something of the peace and majesty of the scene entered into her own breast. The waves at the foot of the slope beat in monotonous music. She did not wonder that Thetis, Galatea, and all the hundred Nereids loved their home. Somewhere, far off on that shimmering plain, Glaucon the Beautiful had fallen asleep; whether he waked in the land of Rhadamanthus, whether he had been stolen away by Leucothea and the other nymphs to be their playfellow, she did not know. She was not sad, even to think of him crowned with green seaweed, and sitting under the sea-floor with fish-tailed Tritons at their tables of pearl, while the finny shoals like birds flitted above their heads. Thales the Sage made all life proceed out of the sea. Perchance all life should return to it. Then she would find her husband again, not beyond, but within the realms of great Oceanus. With such beauty spreading out before her eyes the phantasy was almost welcome.

The people had wandered homeward. Cleopis set the parasol on the dry grass where it would shade her mistress and betook herself to the shelter of a rock. If Hermione was pleased to meditate so long, she would not deny her slave a siesta. So the Athenian sat and mused, now sadly, now with a gleam of brightness, for she was too young to have her sun clouded always.

A speaker near by her called her out of her reverie.

"You sit long, kyria, and gaze forth as if you were Zeus in Olympus and could look on all the world."

Hermione had not exchanged a word with Democrates since that day she cast scorn on him on that other hill slope at Munychia, but this did not make his intrusion more welcome. With mortification she realized that she had forgotten herself. That she lay on the sunny bank with her feet outstretched and her hair shaken loose on her shoulders. Her feet she instantly covered with her long himation. Her hands flew instantly to her hair. Then she uprose, flushing haughtily.

"It has pleased my father, sir," she spoke with frigid dignity, "to tell me that you are some day perchance to be my husband. The fulfilment lies with the gods. But to-day the strategus Democrates knows our customs too well to thrust himself upon an Attic gentlewoman who finds herself alone save for one servant."

"Ah, kyria; pardon the word, it's overcold; makaira, I'd say more gladly," Democrates was marvellously at his ease despite her frowns, "your noble father will take nothing amiss if I ask you to sit again that we may talk together."

"I do not think so." Hermione drew herself up at full height. But Democrates deliberately placed himself in the path up the hillside. To have run toward the water seemed folly. She could expect no help from Cleopis, who would hardly oppose a man soon probably to be her master. As the less of evils, Hermione did not indeed sit as desired, but stood facing her unloved lover and hearkening.

"How long I've desired this instant!" Democrates looked as if he might seize her hands to kiss them, but she thrust them behind her. "I know you hate me bitterly because, touching your late husband, I did my duty."

"Your duty?" Nestor's eloquence was in her incredulous echo.

"If I have pained you beyond telling, do you think my act was a pleasant one for me? A bosom friend to ruin, the most sacred bonds to sever, last and not least, to give infinite sorrow to her I love?"

"I hardly understand."

Democrates drew a step nearer.

"Ah! Hera, Artemis, Aphrodite the Golden—by what name shall I call my goddess?" Hermione drew back a step. There was danger in his eyes. "I have loved you, loved you long. Before Glaucon took you in marriage I loved you. But Eros and Hymen hearkened to his prayers, not mine. You became his bride. I wore a bright face at your wedding. You remember I was Glaucon's groomsman, and rode beside you in the bridal car. You loved him, he seemed worthy of you. Therefore I trod my own grief down into my heart, and rejoiced with my friends. But to cease loving you I could not. Truly they say Eros is the strongest god, and pitiless—do not the poets say bloody Ares begat him—"

"Spare me mythologies," interposed Hermione, with another step back.

"As you will, but you shall hearken. I have desired this moment for two years. Not as the weak girl given by her father, but as the fair goddess who comes to me gladly, I do desire you. And I know you will smile on me when you have heard me through."

"Keep back your eloquence. You have destroyed Glaucon. That is enough."

"Hear me." Democrates cried desperately now. Hermione feared even to retreat farther, lest he pass to violence. She summoned courage and looked him in the eye.

"Say on, then. But remember I am a woman and alone save for Cleopis. If you profess to love me, you will not forget that."

But Democrates was passing almost beyond the limits of coherent speech.

"Oh, when you come to me, you will not know what a price I have paid for you. In Homer's day men wooed their wives with costly gifts, but I—have I not paid for you with my soul? My soul, I say—honour, friendship, country, what has weighed against Himeros, 'Master Desire,'—the desire ever for you!"

She hardly understood him, his speech flowed so thick. She knew he was on the edge of reason, and feared to answer lest she drive beyond it.

"Do you hear the price I have paid? Do you still look on in cold hate, lady? Ah, by Zeus, even in your coldest, most forbidding mood you are fair as the Paphian when she sprang above the sea! And I will win you, lady, I will win your heart, for they shall do you homage, even all Athens, and I will make you a queen. Yes! the house of Athena on the Acropolis shall be your palace if you will, and they will cry in the Agora, 'Way, way for Hermione, glorious consort of Democrates our king!' "

"Sir," spoke Hermione, while her hands grew chill, for now she was sure he raved, "I have not the joy to comprehend. There is no king in Athens, please Athena, there never will be. Treason and blasphemy you speak all in one." She sought vainly with her eyes for refuge. None in sight. The hill slope seemed empty save for the scattered brown boulders. Far away a goat was wandering. She motioned to Cleopis. The old woman was staring now, and doubtless thought Democrates was carrying his familiarities too far, but she was a weak creature, and at best could only scream.

"Treason and blasphemy," cried Democrates, dropping on his knees, his frame shaking with dishonest passion, "yes! call them so now. They will be blessed truth for me in a month, for me, for you. Hermes the Trickster is a mighty god. He has befriended Eros. I shall possess Athens and possess you. I shall be the most fortunate mortal upon earth as now I am most miserable. Ah! but I have waited so long." He sprang to his feet. "Tarry, makaira, tarry! A kiss!"

Hermione screamed at last shrilly and turned to fly. Instantly Democrates was upon her. In that fluttering white dress escape was hopeless.

"Apollo pursuing Daphne!"—his crazed shout as his arms closed around her,—"but Daphne becomes no laurel this time. Her race is lost. She shall pay the forfeit."

She felt him seize her girdle. He swung her face to face. She saw his wide eyes, his mad smile. His hot breath smote her cheek. Cleopis at last was screaming.

"Mine," he triumphed, while he forced her resisting head to his own, "there is none to hinder!"

But even while the woman's flesh crept back at his impure kiss, a giant power came rending the twain apart. A man had sundered them, sprung from the ground or from heaven belike, or from behind a boulder? He tore Democrates's hands away as a lion tears a lamb. He dashed the mad orator prone upon the sod, and kicked him twice, as of mingled hatred and contempt. All this Hermione only knew in half, while her senses swam. Then she came to herself enough to see that the stranger was a young man in a sailor's loose dress, his features almost hidden under the dishevelled hair and beard. All this time he uttered no word, but having smitten Democrates down, leaped back, rubbing his hands upon his thigh, as if despising to touch so foul an object. The orator groaned, staggered upward. He wore a sword. It flew from its scabbard as he leaped on the sailor. The stranger put forth his hand, snatched his opponent's wrist, and with lightning dexterity sent the blade spinning back upon the grass. Then he threw Democrates a second time, and the latter did not rise again hastily, but lay cursing. The fall had not been gentle.

But all this while Cleopis was screaming. People were hastening up the hill,—fishermen from a skiff upon the beach, slaves who had been carrying bales to the haven. In a moment they would be surrounded by a dozen. The strange sailor turned as if to fly. He had not spoken one word. Hermione herself at last called to him.

"My preserver! Your name! Blessed be you forever!"

The fisherfolk were very close. Cleopis was still screaming. The sailor looked once into the lady's eyes.

"I am nameless! You owe me nothing!" And with that he was gone up the hill slopes, springing with long bounds that would have mocked pursuing, had any attempted. But Cleopis quenched her outcry instantly; her screams had been drowned by a louder scream from Hermione, who fell upon the greensward, no marble whiter than her face. The nurse ran to her mistress. Democrates staggered to his feet. Whatever else the chastisement had given him, it had restored his balance of mind. He told the fisherfolk a glib story that a sailor wandering along the strand had accosted Hermione, that he himself had chased the villain off, but had tripped whilst trying to follow. If the tale was not of perfect workmanship at all points, there was no one with interest to gainsay it. A few ran up the hill slope, but the sailor was nowhere in sight. Hermione was still speechless. They made a litter of oars and sail-cloth and carried her to her mother. Democrates oiled Cleopis's palm well, that she should tell nothing amiss to Lysistra. It was a long time before Hermione opened her eyes in her chamber. Her first words were:—

"Glaucon! I have seen Glaucon!"

"You have had a strange dream, philotata," soothed Lysistra, shifting the pillows, "lie still and rest."