“A new Athenian!” spoke he, lightly, “and I fear Xerxes will have been chased away before he has a chance to prove his valour. But fear not, there will be more brave days in store.”
Hermione shook her head, ill-pleased.
“Blessed be Hera, my babe is too young to know aught of [pg 257]wars. And if we survive this one, will not just Zeus spare us from further bloodshed?”
Democrates, without answering, approached the nurse, and Phœnix—for reasons best known to himself—ceased lamenting and smiled up in the orator’s face.
“His mother’s features and eyes,” cried Democrates. “I swear it—ay, by all Athena’s owls—that young Hermes when he lay in Maia’s cave on Mt. Cylene was not finer or lustier than he. His mother’s face and eyes, I say.”
“His father’s,” corrected Hermione. “Is not his name Phœnix? In him will not Glaucon the Beautiful live again? Will he not grow to man’s estate to avenge his murdered father?” The lady spoke without passion, but with a cold bitterness that made Democrates cease from smiling. He turned away from the babe.
“Forgive me, dear lady,” he answered her, “I am wiser at ruling the Athenians than at ruling children, but I see nothing of Glaucon about the babe, though much of his beautiful mother.”
“You had once a better memory, Democrates,” said Hermione, reproachfully.
“I do not understand your Ladyship.”
“I mean that Glaucon has been dead one brief year. Can you forget his face in so short a while?”