The young Athenian could do nothing else than consent to a request so reasonable. Some irritation he felt, for there was no doubt in his mind that Hippocles had had something to do with the violence to which he had been subjected. The intention, however, had been manifestly friendly, and there might be something to tell which would change annoyance into gratitude.
A sailor now brought him some refreshment, and when this had been disposed of, another furnished him with some clothing. His own, it will be remembered, he had thrown away, when preparing to swim for his life. His toilet completed, he came up on deck and found Hippocles and his daughter seated near the stern. Both rose to greet him. He could not fail to observe that Hermione was pale and agitated. The frank friendliness of her old manner, which, blended as it had been with a perfect maidenly modesty, had been inexpressibly charming, had disappeared. She was now timid and hesitating. She could not lift her eyes when she acknowledged his greeting. He could even see that she trembled.
The young man stood astonished and perplexed. What was this strange reserve of which he had never before seen a trace? Was there anything in himself that had caused it? Had he—so he asked himself, being a modest young fellow and ready to lay the blame on his own shoulders—had he given any offence?
“Tell him the story, father,” she said, after an anxious pause during which her agitation manifestly increased, “tell him the story. I feel that I cannot speak.”
“My little girl has a confession to make. In a word, it is her doing that you are here to-day.”
“Her doing that I am here to-day,” echoed Callias, his astonishment giving a certain harshness to his voice.
The girl burst into tears. Callias stepped forward, and would have caught her hand. She drew back.
“Tell him, father, tell him all,” she whispered again in an agitated voice.
“Well then,” said her father, “if I must confess your misdeeds, I will speak. You know,” he went on addressing himself to the young Athenian, “you know how we vainly sought to persuade you to leave Athens. I had a better and stronger reason for speaking as I did than I could tell you. From private information, the source of which I could not divulge, if you had asked it, as you probably would have done, I had found out that you were in the most serious danger. Not only were you to be arrested—so much you know—but having been arrested, you were to be put out of the way. You talked of answering for yourself before the assembly, even of accusing your enemies and the men who murdered your friends. You never would have had the chance. There are diseases strangely sudden and fatal to which prisoners are liable, and there was only too much reason to fear that you would be attacked by one of them. There are other poisons, you know, besides the hemlock, which the state administers to the condemned, and an adverse verdict is not always wanted before they are given. Well; we were at our wits’ end. You were obstinate—pardon me for using the word—and I would not tell you the whole truth. Even if I had, it was doubtful, in the temper of mind you were in, whether you would have believed me. Then Hermione here came to the rescue. ‘We must save him,’ she cried, ‘against his will.’ ‘How can we do that?’ I asked; and I assure you that I had not the least idea of what she meant. ‘You must contrive to carry him off to some safe place.’ I was astonished. ‘What!’ I said, ‘a free citizen of Athens.’ ‘What will that help him, with the men who are plotting to take his life?’ she answered. Then she told me her plan. I need not describe it to you. It was carried out exactly. Now can you forgive her?”