The boy snatched the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
“The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,” was his reflection, as he strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in Hellas is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a shimmer of white from some tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the road as from an inn.
“Hegias’s inn,” grumbled the Athenian. “Zeus grant it have no more fleas than most inns of Corinth!”
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A squalid scene revealed itself,—a white-washed room, an earthen floor, two clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,—but a tall, lean man in Oriental dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.
“Fair greetings, Hiram,” spoke the orator, no wise amazed, “and where is your master?”
“At service,” came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had not seen the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
“Hail, Democrates.”
“Hail, Lycon.”