“They sang that song the night I wedded Hermione. Oh, if I could drink the Lethe water and forget!”
“Come,” commanded Phormio, pulling upon his arm. “The sun will shine again to-morrow.”
Thus the twain went forward, Glaucon saying not a word. He hardly knew how they passed the Itonian Gate and crossed the long stretch of open country betwixt the city and its havens. No pursuit as yet—Glaucon was too perplexed to reason why. At last he knew they entered Phaleron. He heard the slapping waves, the creaking tackle, the shouting sailors. Torches gleamed ruddily. A mer[pg 149]chantman was loading her cargo of pottery crates and oil jars,—to sail with the morning breeze. Swarthy shipmen ran up and down the planks betwixt quay and ship, balancing their heavy jars on their heads as women bear water-pots. From the tavern by the mooring came harping and the clatter of cups, while two women—the worse for wine—ran out to drag the newcomers in to their revel. Phormio slapped the slatterns aside with his staff. In the same fearful waking dream Glaucon saw Phormio demanding the shipmaster. He saw Brasidas—a short man with the face of a hound and arms to hug like a bear—in converse with the fishmonger, saw the master at first refusing, then gradually giving reluctant assent to some demand. Next Phormio was half leading, half carrying the fugitive aboard the ship, guiding him through a labyrinth of bales, jars, and cordage, and pointing to a hatchway ladder, illumined by a swinging lantern.
“Keep below till the ship sails; don’t wipe the charcoal from your face till clear of Attica. Officers will board the vessel before she puts off; yet have no alarm, they’ll only come to see she doesn’t violate the law against exporting grain.” Phormio delivered his admonitions rapidly, at the same time fumbling in his belt. “Here—here are ten drachmæ, all I’ve about me, but something for bread and figs till you make new friends,—in which there’ll be no trouble, I warrant. Have a brave heart. Remember that Helios can shine lustily even if you are not in Athens, and pray the gods to give a fair return.”
Glaucon felt the money pressed within his palm. He saw Phormio turning away. He caught the fishmonger’s hard hand and kissed it twice.
“I can never reward you. Not though I live ten thousand years and have all the gold of Gyges.”
“Phui!” answered Phormio, with a shrug; “don’t detain me, it’s time I was home and was unlashing my loving wife.”
And with that he was gone. Glaucon descended the ladder. The cabin was low, dark, unfurnished save with rude pallets of straw, but Glaucon heeded none of these things. Deeper than the accusation by Democrates, than the belief therein by Themistocles and the others, the friendship of the fishmonger touched him. A man base-born, ignorant, uncivil, had believed him, had risked his own life to save him, had given him money out of his poverty, had spoken words of fair counsel and cheer. On the deck above the sailors were tumbling the cargo, and singing at their toil, but Glaucon never heard them. Flinging himself on a straw pallet, for the first time came the comfort of hot tears.
* * * * * * *
Very early the Solon’s square mainsail caught the breeze from the warm southwest. The hill of Munychia and the ports receded. The panorama of Athens—plain, city, citadel, gray Hymettus, white Pentelicus—spread in a vista of surpassing beauty—so at least to the eyes of the outlaw when he clambered to the poop. As the ship ran down the low coast, land and sea seemed clothed with a robe of rainbow-woven light. Far, near,—islands, mountains, and deep were burning with saffron, violet, and rose, as the Sun-God’s car climbed higher above the burning path it marked across the sea. Glaucon saw all in clear relief,—the Acropolis temple where he had prayed, the Pnyx and Areopagus, the green band of the olive groves, even the knoll of Colonus,—where he had left his all. Never had he loved Athens more than now. Never had she seemed fairer to his eyes than now. He was a Greek, and to a Greek death was only by one stage a greater ill than exile.