“All Hellas knows your patriotism!” cried Democrates, satirically.
“Even so. I have silenced my fiercest abusers. If I have not yet urged in our assembly that we should fight Mardonius, it is merely because—it is not yet prudent.”
“Excellent scoundrel,” declared the other, writhing on his seat, “you are no Spartan, but long-winded as a Sicilian.”
“Patience, philotate, a Spartan must either speak in apothegms or take all day. I have not advised a battle yet because I was not certain of your aid.”
“Ay, by Zeus,” broke out Democrates, “that ointment I sniffed a long way off. I can give you quick answer. Fly back to Sparta, swift as Boreas; plot, conspire, earn Tartarus, to your heart’s content—you’ll get no more help from me.”
“I expected that speech.” Lycon’s coolness drove his victim almost frantic.
“In the affair of Tempē I bent to you for the last time,” Democrates charged desperately. “I have counted the cost. Perhaps you can use against me certain documents, but I am on a surer footing than once. In the last year I have done such service to Hellas I can even hope to be forgiven, should these old mistakes be proved. And if you drive me to bay, be sure of this, I will see to it that all the dealings betwixt the Barbarian and your noble self are expounded to your admiring countrymen.”
“You show truly excellent courage, dear Democrates,” cried Lycon, in pseudo-admiration. “That speech was quite worthy of a tragic actor.”
“If we’re in the theatre, let the chorus sing its last strophe and have done. You disgust me.”
“Peace, peace,” ordered Lycon, his hand still on the Athenian’s shoulder, “I will make all the haste I can, but obstinacy is disagreeable. I repeat, you are needed, sorely needed, by Mardonius to enable him to complete the conquest of Hellas. You shall not call the Persians ungrateful—the tyranny of Athens under the easy suzerainty of the king, is that no dish to whet your appetite?”