“How can I tell? I have run to and fro, seeing yet not seeing whither I went. I know I passed the Acharnican gate, and the watch stared at me. Doubtless I ran hither because here they said the Babylonian lived, and he has been ever in my head. I shudder to go over the scene at Colonus. I wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!”
“Constables—fetters!” howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be silenced by an angry gesture from her helpmeet.
“Nevertheless, try to tell what you can,” spoke Phormio, mildly, and Glaucon, with what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce coherent often, his story came at last. He sat silent while Phormio clutched his own head. Then Glaucon darted around wild and hopeless eyes.
“Ai! you believe me guilty. I almost believe so myself. All my best friends have cast me off. Democrates, my friend from youth, has wrought my ruin. My wife I shall never see again. I am resolved—” He rose. A desperate purpose made his feet steady.
“What will you do?” demanded Phormio, perplexed.
“One thing is left. I am sure to be arrested at dawn if not before. I will go to the ‘City-House,’ the public prison, and give myself up. The ignominy will soon end. Then welcome the Styx, Hades, the never ending night—better than this shame!”
He started forth, but Phormio’s hand restrained him. “Not so fast, lad! Thank Olympus, I’m not Lampaxo. You’re too young a turbot for Charon’s fish-net. Let me think a moment.”
The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo decided him.
“Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!”
“I’m resolved,” cried Phormio, striking his thigh. “Only an honest man could get such hatred from my wife. If they’ve not tracked you yet, they’re not likely to find you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is master of the Solon, and owes a good turn—”