“Master ... don’t you know me?... I am your slave Zenon.”
“Wonder-working Gods!” exclaimed Simonides doubtfully, “what am I compelled to hear!”
“Mercy, Master, mercy!”
Simonides, uttering a fierce cry, kicked Lycon away with his foot.
“Thief,” he shouted, trembling with rage, “miserable thief, you have stolen my money and my health, what do you seek in my house? Have you come here to rob me a second time?... For two years I have not suffered your name to be spoken in my hearing.... Begone, begone from my sight, you source of my misery—you destroyer of the happiness of my life!”
And as Lycon still lingered, Simonides pointed to the door of the peristyle, shouting imperatively: “Go, go, I command you!”
Lycon left the room with drooping head, without casting a glance behind. He no longer had a hope.
At the same moment the curtain at the door of a side-chamber stirred slightly, and soon after Myrtale entered and silently seated herself on the edge of the couch at her father’s feet. She was very pale, and through the folds of her thin dress the rapid rising and falling of her bosom showed that she was struggling for breath. Simonides scarcely seemed to notice her and, without moving or looking up, she waited patiently for him to speak.
At last he broke the silence.
“Do you know who Lycon is?” he asked.