Niobe got her philtre,—though whether it reconquered Procles is not contained in this history. Likewise, she heeded Dion’s injunction. There was something uncanny about the strange sailor; she hid away the half-daric, and related nothing of her adventure even to her confidant Cleopis.
* * * * * * *
Three days later Democrates was not drinking wine at his betrothal feast, but sending this cipher letter by a swift and trusty “distance-runner” to Sparta.
“Democrates to Lycon, greeting:—At Corinth I cursed you. Rejoice therefore; you are my only hope. I am with you whether your path leads to Olympus or to Hades. Tartarus is opened at my feet. You must save me. My words are confused, do you think? Then hear this, and ask if I have not cause for turning mad.
“Yesterday, even as Hermippus hung garlands on his house, and summoned the guests to witness the betrothal contract, Themistocles returned suddenly from Eubœa. He called Hermippus and myself aside. ‘Glaucon lives,’ he said, ‘and with the god’s help we’ll prove his innocence.’ Hermippus at once broke off the betrothal. No one else knows aught thereof, not even Hermione. Themistocles refuses all further details. ‘Glaucon lives,’—I can think of nothing else. Where is he? What does he? How soon will the awful truth go flying through Hellas? I trembled when I heard he was dead. But name my terrors now I know he is alive! Send Hiram. He, if any snake living, can find me my enemy before it is too late. And speed the victory of Mardonius! Chaire.”
“Glaucon lives.” Democrates had only written one least part of his terrors. Two words—but enough to make the orator the most miserable man in Hellas, the most supple of Xerxes’s hundred million slaves.