The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phœnician had been several days in Trœzene, occupied in a manner he and his superior discreetly kept to themselves. The orator had a bandage above one eye, where a heavy sandal had kicked him. He was exceedingly pale, and sat in the arm-chair propped with pillows. That he had awaited Hiram eagerly, betrayed itself by the promptness with which he cut short the inevitable salaam.
“Well, my dear rascal, have you found him?”
“May it please your Excellency to hearken to even the least of your slaves?”
“Do you hear, fox?—have you found him?”
“My Lord shall judge for himself.”
“Cerberus eat you, fellow,—though you’d be a poisonous mouthful,—tell your story in as few words as possible. I know that he is lurking about Trœzene.”
“Compassion, your Lordship, compassion,”—Hiram seemed washing his hands in oil, they waved so soothingly—“if your Benignity will grant it, I have a very worthy woman here who, I think, can tell a story that will be interesting.”
“In with her, then.”
The person Hiram escorted into the room proved to be no more nor less than Lampaxo. Two years had not removed [pg 361]the wrinkles from her cheek, the sharpness from her nose, the rasping from her tongue. At sight of her Democrates half rose from his seat and held out his hand affably, the demagogue’s instinct uppermost.
“Ah! my good dame, whom do I recognize? Are you not the wife of our excellent fishmonger, Phormio? A truly sterling man, and how, pray, is your good husband?”