A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

rooms of the Cyprian in Alopece. Its contents were pertinent and ran thus:—

      “Democrates to the stranger calling himself a prince of Cyprus, greeting:—Know that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and grows suspicious of your identity. Leave Athens to-[pg 114]morrow or all is lost. The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for your flight by ship from the havens. May our paths never cross again!—Chaire.”

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

      “With scourge and with ban

      We prostrate the man,

      Who with smooth-woven wile,

      And a fair-facèd smile

      Hath planted a snare for his friend.

      Though fleet, we shall find him;

      Though strong, we shall bind him,

      Who planted a snare for his friend.”

      Democrates approached the bust of Hermes standing in one corner. The brazen face seemed to wear a smile of malignant gladness at the fulfilment of his will.

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

      The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates took comfort. Hermes was a great god and [pg 115]would help him. When the song of the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back Hermione’s face and asking one triumphant question:—

      “She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?”