“Verily, the man is mad,” reflected the poet; “he lives in his own bright world, sufficient to himself. May Zeus never send storms to darken it! For to bear disaster his soul seems never made.”
* * * * * * *
At the tent Manes, the athlete’s body-servant, came running to his master, with a small box firmly bound.
“A strange dark man brought this only a moment since. It is for Master Glaucon.”
On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price thereof Simonides wisely set at two minæ. Nothing betrayed the identity of the giver save a slip of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain hand. “To the Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly served.”
Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect lustre.
“Themistocles was wrong,” he remarked; “the Oriental [pg 20]was not ungrateful. But what ‘slave’ or ‘lad’ was this that Glaucon succoured?”
“Perhaps,” insinuated Simonides, “Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?”
“Don’t chatter foolishness,” commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.
“Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it,” he declared lightly. “A fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm.” The mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates.