The Thracian darted out. Hiram simply stood with hands folded.
“It is well, Excellency, the lad is gone. I have many things to say in confidence to your Nobility. At Lacedæmon my Lord Lycon was gracious enough to give certain commands for me to transmit to you.”
“Commands? To me? Earth and gods! am I to be commanded by an adder like you? You shall pay for this on the rack.”
“Your slave thinks otherwise,” observed Hiram, humbly. “If your Lordship will deign to read this letter, it will save your slave many words and your Lordship many cursings.”
He knelt again before he offered a papyrus. Democrates would rather have taken fire, but he could not refuse. And thus he read:—
“Lycon of Lacedæmon to Democrates of Athens, greeting:—Can he who Medizes in the summer Hellenize in the spring? I know your zeal for Themistocles. Was it for this we plucked you back from exposure and ruin? Do then as Hiram bids you, or repay the money you clutched so eagerly. Fail not, or rest confident all the documents you betrayed shall go to Hypsichides the First Archon, your enemy. Use then your eloquence on Attic juries! But you will grow wise; what need of me to threaten? You will hearken to Hiram.
“From Sparta, on the festival of Bellerophon, in the ephorship of Theudas.—Chaire!”
Democrates folded the papyrus and stood long, biting his whitened lips in silence. Perhaps he had surmised the intent of the letter the instant Hiram extended it.
“What do you desire?” he said thickly, at last.
“Let my Lord then hearken—” began the Phœnician, to be interrupted by the sudden advent of Bias.