“Here,” said Polycles, beckoning to Lycon to approach the bed.
“Is it true,” asked Simonides, “that you have saved the citizens in the flooded streets, besides numerous slaves?”
“Not my boat only, all the small craft.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Simonides with a faint smile, “you will now and in the future be regarded as one of the benefactors of the city, a sort of demi-god—and as it is not seemly for a demi-god to be a bondsman, I shall give you your liberty. Polycles, who knows everything that concerns you, has added the necessary codicil to my last will, which he and the physician have signed as witnesses.”
Lycon knelt beside the couch, clasped Simonides’ hand, and covered it with kisses. “I thank you,” he faltered, overwhelmed by emotion. “You have fulfilled my dearest wish. I have obtained my freedom—and this time I did not steal it.”
Soon after the curtain at the door was pushed aside and Myrtale entered, followed by the old housekeeper. She held a glass cup in her hands and seemed to have eyes only for her sick father. The physician poured a few drops from a little flask into the smoking potion, and Simonides drank a few mouthfuls. “How it revives me!” he said, while Myrtale was straightening the embroidered pillows under his head and shoulders. “Are those lamps which shine so? It seems as though I saw the sun in the midst of the night.”
“Do you feel better, old friend?” asked Polycles.
A glimmer of his former mirthful spirit sparkled in Simonides’ small brown eyes.
“That fellow yonder,” he whispered, pointing to the physician, “has given me too many drops. He didn’t make me well, but drunk.”
Then, with an unexpectedly sudden movement, he seized Myrtale’s arm. His mouth and chin projected so that he was almost unrecognizable, and a corpse-like hue overspread his face as swiftly as though an unseen hand had caused it by gliding lightly over it.