“Retire,” commanded Democrates, with a flourish; “leave me to concert with this excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross villany.”
The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied.
“Courage, master,”—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his throat,—“the woman’s tale is true metal. Critias shall sleep snug and sweetly to-night, if perchance too soundly.”
“What will you do?” shrieked the wretched man.
“The thing is marvellously simple, master. The night is not yet old. Hasdrubal and his crew of Carthaginians are here and by the grace of Baal can serve you. This cackling hen will guide us to the house. Heaven has put your enemy off his guard. He and Phormio will never wake to feel their throats cut. Then a good stone on each foot takes the corpses down in the harbour.”
But Democrates dashed his hand in negation.
“No, by the infernal gods, not so! No murder. I cannot bear the curse of the Furies. Seize him, carry him to the ends of the earth, to hardest slavery. Let him never cross my path again. But no bloodshed—”
Hiram almost lost his never failing smile, so much he marvelled.
“But, your Lordship, the man is a giant, mighty as Melkarth.[12] Seizing will be hard. Sheol is the safest prison.”
“No.” Democrates was still shaking. “His ghost came to me a thousand times, though yet he lived. It would hound me mad if I murdered him.”