The appeal brought an answer from her father, who had been standing silent; and in infinite distress kindly, cautious, charitable Hermippus began:—
“Dear Glaucon, Hermione is wrong; we were never more your friends. We are willing to believe the best and not the worst. Therefore tell all frankly. You have been a victim of great temptation. The Isthmian victory has turned your head. The Persian was subtle, plausible. He promised I know not what. You did not realize all you were doing. You had confederates here in Athens who are more guilty. We can make allowances. Tell only the truth, and the purse and influence of Hermippus of Eleusis shall never be held back to save his son-in-law.”
“Nor mine, nor mine,” cried Themistocles, snatching at every straw; “only confess, the temptation was great, others were more guilty, everything then may be done—”
Glaucon drew himself together and looked up almost proudly. Slowly he was recovering strength and wit.
“I have nothing to confess,” he spoke, “nothing. I know nothing of this Persian spy. Can I swear the god’s own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—”
Themistocles shook his head wearily.
“How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?”
“Never. Never!”
“Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?”
“A forgery.”