“Glaucon! Glaucon!” she adjured, “do not throw your life away. They shall not murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is lost.”
“Fly!” spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. “No, I will brave them to the end.”
“For my sake, fly,” she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman, Glaucon moved toward her.
“How? Whither?”
“To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all Athens knows you are innocent.”
As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the latch. Her husband’s face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed. Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm and leaped forward.
“After the traitor! Not too late!—”
For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on his shoulder—Cimon’s.
“You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To me Glaucon is still a friend. I’ll not see him dragged to death before my eyes. When we follow even a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair play. You shall not pursue him yet.”
“Blessing on you!” cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing Cimon’s cloak. “Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!”