“It is unnecessary,” replied Lycon curtly.
“Do as I beg you,” urged Myrtale.
“Girl!” cried Lycon impatiently, “you ask foolish things.... I will not do it.”
Myrtale’s eyes flashed, the color in her cheeks deepened, and she suddenly stopped.
“Zenon,” she said, raising her voice, “I, the daughter of your master Simonides, command you to do it.”
If the earth had opened at Lycon’s feet he could not have been more surprised and horrified than by these words.
“Merciful Gods!” he exclaimed, turning pale and clasping his hands, “how do you know?—Who has told you?”
“Silence!” said Myrtale sternly. “Neither my father nor the slaves recognized you, but I knew you at the first sound of your voice, though you now speak the Attic dialect. You are Zenon, do not deny it. Shall I call Conops and the others, and have your robe torn off? There is a kappa on your shoulder; I know it.”
“Oh, miserable man that I am!” exclaimed Lycon, wringing his hands, while his eyes filled with tears. “I have seen you to my destruction.” And falling at Myrtale’s feet, he clasped her knees, adding: “How shall I answer? What am I to say?”
“The truth.”