“I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.”
Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.
“Master Simonides is overkind,” had ventured the athlete; “but I am sure his praise is only polite compliment.”
“What misunderstanding!” ran on the poet. “How you pain me! I truly desired to ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many people are gladdened just by looking on you?”
“How dare I answer? If ‘no,’ I contradict you—very rude. If ‘yes,’ I praise myself—far ruder.”
“Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of Periander, all met in one body;” but seeing the athlete’s confusion more profound than ever, the Cean cut short. “Heracles! if my tongue wounds you, lo! it’s clapped back in its sheath; I’ll be revenged in an ode of fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will conquer, neither [pg 18]I nor any sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear Athenian?”
“I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides,” said the athlete, half childishly, half in deep seriousness.
“Well you may be. The gods are usually ‘just’ to such as you. It’s we graybeards that Tyche, ‘Lady Fortune,’ grows tired of helping.”
“Perhaps!” Glaucon passed his hand across his eyes with a dreamy gesture. “Yet sometimes I almost say, ‘Welcome a misfortune, if not too terrible,’ just to ward off the god’s jealousy of too great prosperity. In all things, save my father’s anger, I have prospered. To-morrow I can appease that, too. Yet you know Solon’s saying, ‘Call no man fortunate till he is dead.’ ”
Simonides was charmed at this frank confession on first acquaintance. “Yes, but even one of the Seven Sages can err.”