“Impossible. Is the forger Democrates or I?”
“Some god has done this thing in malice, jealous of my great joy.”
“I fear Hermes no longer strides so frequently about Athens. The hand and seal are yours,—and still you do not confess?”
“If I must die,” Glaucon was terribly pale, but his voice was steady, “it is not as a perjurer!”
Themistocles turned his back with a groan.
“I can do nothing for you. This is the saddest hour in my life.” He was silent, but Democrates sprang to the athlete’s side.
“Have I not prayed each god to spare me this task?” he spoke. “Can I forget our friendship? Do not brave it to the end. Pity at least your friends, your wife—”
He threw back his cloak, pointing to a sword.
“Ai,” cried the accused, shrinking. “What would you have me do?”
“Save the public disgrace, the hooting jury, the hemlock, the corpse flung into the Barathrum. Strike this into your breast and end the shame.”