“Athenian? And still to me a stranger? Ah! an instant. Your voice is familiar. Where have I heard it before?”
“The last time,” rejoined the stranger, his tones rising, “it was a certain night at Colonus. Democrates and Hermippus were with you—likewise—”
Themistocles leaped back three steps.
“The sea gives up its dead. You are Glaucon son of—”
“Conon,” completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral was not so calm.
“Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What prevents that I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?”
“Nothing hinders! nothing”—Glaucon’s voice mounted [pg 288]to shrillness—“save that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.”
“A loyal son you have been!” darted Themistocles, his lips curling. “Where did you escape the sea?”
“I was washed on Astypalæa.”
“Where have you been since?”