No further. Glaucon smote him so that he reeled. The athlete’s tone was terrible.
“Villain! You shall not tempt me.” Then he turned to the rest, and stood in his white agony, yet beautiful as ever, holding out his arms.
“O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn silently against me?” No answer. “And [pg 137]you, Hermippus?” No answer again. “And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the world?” The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to Democrates.
“And you I deemed more than comrade, for we were boys at school together, were flogged with the same rod, and drank from the same cup, had like friends, foes, loves, hates; and have lived since as more than brothers,—do you too turn utterly away?”
“I would it were otherwise,” came the sullen answer. Again Democrates pointed to the sword, but Glaucon stood up proudly.
“No. I am neither traitor, nor perjurer, nor coward. If I must perish, it shall be as becomes an Alcmæonid. If you have resolved to undo me, I know your power over Athenian juries. I must die. But I shall die with unspotted heart, calling the curse of the innocent upon the god or man who plotted to destroy me.”
“We have enough of this direful comedy,” declared Democrates, pale himself. “Only one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves, and hale the traitor to prison.”
He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione. She had her back against the door before the orator could open.
“Hold,” she commanded, “for you are doing murder!”
Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone out of them. Athena Promachos, “Mistress of Battles,” must have stood in that awful beauty when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread moment of her power over the will of the orator? Glaucon was still standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having ended in mute resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.