“Thanks be to Hermes and to you all. I have told my guide already I will be grateful. Where is he?”
“In the kitchen behind, your Lordship. We were singularly favoured. Hib had the cord around his arms before he wakened. He could scarcely struggle despite his power. The fishmonger awoke before Hasdrubal could nip him. For a moment we feared his outcries would rouse the street. But again the gods blessed us. No one stirred, and we soon throttled him.”
“Take the light,” ordered Democrates. “Come.”
Accompanied by Hiram, the orator entered the kitchen, a small square room. The white-washed ceiling was blacked around the smoke-hole, a few pots and pans lay in the corners, a few dying embers gleamed on the hearth. But Democrates had eyes only for two objects,—human figures tightly bound lying rigid as faggots in the further corner.
“Which is he?” asked Democrates again, stepping softly as though going to danger.
“The further one is Phormio, the nearer is my Lord’s enemy. Your Excellency need not fear to draw close. He is quite secure.”
“Give me the candle.”
Democrates held the light high and trod gently over to the prostrate men. Hiram spoke rightly that his victim was secure. They had lashed him hand and foot, using small chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been thrust into his mouth and tied with twine under the ears. Democrates stood an instant looking down, then very deliberately knelt beside the prisoner and moved the candle closer. He could see now the face hidden half by the tangled black hair and beard and the gag—but who could doubt it?—the deep blue eye, the chiselled profile, the small, fine lips, yes, and the godlike form visible in its comeliness despite the bands. He was gazing upon the man who two years ago had called him “bosom-friend.”
The prisoner looked straight upward. The only thing he could move was his eyes, and these followed Democrates’s least motion. The orator pressed the candle closer yet. He even put out his hand, and touched the face to brush away the hair. A long look—and he was satisfied. No mistake was possible. Democrates arose and stood over the prisoner, then spoke aloud.
“Glaucon, I have played at dice with Fortune. I have conquered. I did not ruin you willingly. There was no other way. A man must first be a friend to himself, and then friendly to others. I have cast in my lot with the Persians. It was I who wrote that letter which blasted you at Colonus. Very soon there will be a great battle fought in Bœotia. Lycon and I will make it certain that Mardonius [pg 370]conquers. I am to be tyrant of Athens. Hermione shall be my wife.” The workings of the prisoner’s face made Democrates wince; from Glaucon’s throat came rattlings, his eyes were terrible. But the other drove recklessly forward. “As for you, you pass this night out of my life. How you escaped the sea I know not and care less. Hasdrubal will take you to Carthage, and sell you into the interior of Libya. I wish you no misery, only you go where you shall never see Hellas again. I am merciful. Your life is in my hands. But I restore it. I am without blood guiltiness. What I have done you would have done, had you loved as I—had you been under necessity as I. Eros is a great god, but Anangkë, Dame Necessity, is yet mightier. So to-night we part—farewell.”