“Indeed we are not unaware,” he answered.
“Oh, Nikander, the trophies of Miltiades will not let me rest. Such trophies must be won again. May the gods let me win them!”
Nikander did not reply but Theria saw him search the man’s face, as if anxiously measuring him for some great need.
“Have you news, Themistokles—fresh news?”
“No, only straws, but plenty of them. I keep a clever slave down at the Piræus who has no other business than to listen to stories of the ship-merchants and traders. Sailors know the way of the winds—the winds of the future. They push in at every shore. The Great King they tell us is now warring against Egypt, but our turn is next. Oh, it is surely the next. Nikander, the armies which Darius brought against us seven years agone were but a handful to those which his son Xerxes will bring.”
“I believe that,” said Nikander. “Ay, and the Delphian Council believe it, too.”
“Good!” exclaimed the Athenian.
“It is not good. Do you know, Themistokles, what this belief breeds in the Council? Fear; only fear! ‘Hellas cannot withstand the Persian.’ That is what they are whispering here in Delphi. ‘Hellas is doomed.’”
Themistokles’s face took on a horror which startled the listening girl.
“Nikander,” he cried, “you will not allow Delphi to shirk. The Oracle must stand by Athens!”