People at length were passing up and down the strand. The coast was waking. The gray bar was becoming silver. Friends passed, deep in talk,—perchance for the last time. Glaucon lay still a moment longer, and as he rested caught a voice so familiar he felt all the blood surge to his forehead,—Democrates’s voice.
“I tell you, Hiram,—I told you before,—I have no part in the ordering of the fleet. Were I to interfere with ever so good a heart, it would only breed trouble for us all.”
So close were the twain, the orator’s trailing chiton almost fell on Glaucon’s face. The latter marvelled that his own heart did not spring from its prison in his breast, so fierce were its beatings.
“If my Lord would go to Adeimantus and suggest,”—the other’s Greek came with a marked Oriental accent.
“Harpy! Adeimantus is no Medizer. He is pushed to bay now, and is sure to fight. Have you Barbarians no confidence? Has not the king two triremes to our one? Only fools can demand more. Tell Lycon, your master, I have long since done my uttermost to serve him.”
“Yet remember, Excellency.”
“Begone, scoundrel. Don’t threaten again. If I know your power over me, I can also promise you not to go down to Orchus alone, but take excellent pains to have fair company.”
“I am sorry to bear such tidings to Lycon, Excellency.”
“Away with you!”
“Do not raise your voice, kyrie,” spoke Hiram, never more blandly, “here is a man asleep.”