He beckoned to the boy, bent down from his horse, and took him by the ear.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked curtly. “Tell the truth.”
“I believe so,” stammered Paegnion, somewhat bewildered by this sudden attack.
“Repeat my words.”
“I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.”
Lycon drew his short sword and placed its point against Paegnion’s bare breast. The lad uttered a loud shriek.
“Did you ever cut yourself with a knife?” asked Lycon. “Then think what you will feel if I thrust now. Well then! If you repeat one word of what I said, I will drive this sword into you, if it were at the altar of the gods. So guard your mouth.”
Without listening to Paegnion’s assurances, he gave the horse a light blow with his whip and continued his way down to the valley.
The next day Lycon was riding up the Street of the Bakers in Methone, at whose end was seen the sea with the ships where he had learned the nautical expressions that had proved so useful to him with the district inspector at Athens. Though no anxiety was apparent in his bearing, his heart beat faster than usual. There was no change in the little city; it seemed as though he had never been away, he recognized every house, every wall, every stone. He was obliged to wait a moment at the laurel-tree and statue of Hermes, outside of Simonides’ house, ere he could control his voice sufficiently to say to Paegnion: “Knock!”
Paegnion seized the copper ring on the door and rapped loudly. The door-keeper was not at his post. It was a long time before he came and drew the bolt, and he opened the door no wider than was necessary to thrust out his hand. Lycon recognized in him an old slave named Satyrus, who had a sullen face and lazy bearing.