CHAPTER III
THE HAND OF PERSIA
The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence. What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began girding up his cloak.
“You leave us, philotate?” cried Glaucon. “Would I not have all my friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow? Bid your ugly Bias keep away!”
“A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence,” said the orator, smiling.
“Declare his name.”
“Declare her name,” cried Simonides, viciously.
“Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name is Athens.”