Themistocles flung himself into a chair. The admiral was in a rare condition for him,—truly at a loss to divine the best word and question.
“Sit also, Simonides,” his order, “and you, once Alcmæonid and now outlaw, tell why, after these confessions, I should believe any other part of your story?”
“I do not ask you to believe,”—Glaucon stood like a [pg 289]statue,—“I shall not blame you if you do the worst,—yet you shall hear—”
The admiral made an impatient gesture, commanding “Begin,” and the fugitive poured out his tale. All the voyage from Phaleron he had been nerving himself for this ordeal; his composure did not desert now. He related lucidly, briefly, how the fates had dealt with him since he fled Colonus. Only when he told of his abiding with Leonidas Themistocles’s gaze grew sharper.
“Tell that again. Be careful. I am very good at detecting lies.”
Glaucon repeated unfalteringly.
“What proof that you were with Leonidas?”
“None but my word. Euboulus of Corinth and the Spartans alone knew my name. They are dead.”
“Humph! And you expect me to accept the boast of a traitor with a price upon his head?”
“You said you were good at detecting lies.”