“The brat will never boast of his father,” quoth Dion, rolling his eyes. “He left the world in a way, I wager five minæ, the mother hopes she can hide from her darling, but the babe’s of right good stock, an Alcmæonid, and the grandfather is that Hermippus—”
“Hermippus?” The stranger seemed to catch the word out of Dion’s mouth. A donkey had broken loose at the upper end of the Agora; he turned and stared at it and its pursuers intently.
“If you’re Athenian,” went on the soothsayer, “the story’s an old one—of Glaucon the Traitor.”
The stranger turned back again. For a moment Dion saw he was blinking, but no doubt it was dust. Then he suddenly began to fumble in his girdle.
“What do you want, girl?” he demanded of Niobe, nigh fiercely.
“Two obols.”
“Take two drachmæ. I was once a friend to that Glaucon, and traitor though he has been blazed, his child is yet dear to me. Let me take him.”
Without waiting her answer he thrust the coin into her hands, and caught the child out of them. Phœnix looked up into the strange, bearded face, and deliberated an instant whether to crow or to weep. Then some friendly god decided him. He laughed as sweetly, as musically, as ever one can at his most august age. With both chubby hands he plucked at the black beard and held tight. The strange sailor answered laugh with laugh, and released himself right gayly. Then whilst Niobe and Dion watched and [pg 347]wondered they saw the sailor kiss the child full fifty times, all the time whispering soft words in his ear, at which Phœnix crowed and laughed yet more.
“An old family servant,” threw out Dion, in a whisper.
“Sheep!” retorted the nurse, “do you call yourself wise? Do you think a man with that face and those long hands ever felt the stocks or the whip? He’s gentleman born, by Demeter!”