"We may accept them at a true valuation," the captain decided.
He summoned a jeweller of Corinth, who examined the rings with care, and announced his readiness to take them at a sum sufficient to make up the total of the Phœnician's offer.
"Phradates wins!" shouted the spectators, cheering the Tyrian with all the enthusiasm that they had shown to his rival a moment before.
The Theban stood silent. He had nothing more to offer. He raged inwardly at his defeat, for he felt that his honor was involved. While he stood hesitating, nobody seemed to notice a young Macedonian soldier of athletic figure and fresh complexion who had stopped on the outskirts of the crowd and stood listening, with his head slightly inclined to one side.
Suddenly Chares strode forward and threw his sword upon the scales. The weight of the steel caused the balance to sway decisively toward him.
"I bid fifteen talents!" he cried. "Let my sword make up the weight of gold that is lacking."
Phradates laughed mockingly. "Let me have the girl," he said. "It is time to end this child's play. There is no place in the world where a sword is worth three talents."
"Except here," a voice behind him said quietly.
Phradates turned, and his eyes met those of the soldier who had been lingering on the edge of the ring of spectators.
"Here!" the Phœnician exclaimed angrily. "And who is there here to give such a price for it?"