“By all the gods of friendship!” he exclaimed, “tell me by what magic you have accomplished this?”
Lycon now mentioned the chastisement he had given Conops, and the demand he had made of the slaves in their master’s name under the penalty of labor in the mines.
Simonides grasped Lycon’s hand and pressed it in both his own.
“Though a stranger,” he said, “you have fulfilled my dearest wish and restored order to my household. May the gods bless you for it! To my dying day I shall remember this time as a happy hour. But tell me, my son, is there nothing you desire, nothing I can do for you?”
Lycon averted his face. Now, in this decisive moment, which he had anticipated during so many days and nights, he could not force himself to utter a single word.
“My son,” persisted Simonides, “there is something that weighs upon your heart. Do not deny it. By Zeus, I want to see only happy faces to-day. So, tell me what it is.”
Lycon sprang from the couch and threw himself at Simonides’ feet.
“Pardon, Master!” he faltered, “I am not worthy to be your guest.”
“What fire-brand are you casting into my bosom,” cried Simonides, half-raising himself on the couch as, seized by a dark foreboding, he gazed with dilated eyes at the kneeling figure.
Lycon turned deadly pale. Grasping a fold of Simonides’ robe, he said in a voice almost choked with emotion: