Phormio as well as Glaucon had heard the avowal of Democrates on the night of the seizure. There was no longer any doubt of the answer to the great riddle. But disheartening, benumbing beyond all personal anguish was the dread for Hellas. The sacrifice at Thermopylæ vain. The glory of Salamis vain. Hellas and Athens enslaved. The will of [pg 375]Xerxes and Mardonius accomplished not because of their valour, but because of their enemies’ infamy.
“O gods, if indeed there be gods!” Glaucon was greatly doubting that at last; “if ye have any power, if justice, truth, and honour weigh against iniquity, put that power forth, or never claim the prayers and sacrifice of men again.”
Glaucon was past dreading for himself. He prayed that Hermione might be spared a long life of tears, and that Artemis might slay her quickly by her silent arrows. To follow his thoughts in all their dark mazes were profitless. Suffice it that the night which had brooded over his soul from the hour he fled from Colonus was never so dark as now. He was too despairing even to curse.
The last hope fled when they heard the rattling of the cables weighing anchor. Soon the soft slap of the water around the bow and the regular heaving motion told that the Bozra was under way. The sea-mouse creaked and groaned through all her timbers and her lading. The foul bilge-water made the hold stifling as a charnel-house. Lampaxo, Hib being absent, began to howl and moan.
“O Queen Hera! O Queen Hera, I die for a breath of air—I, the most patriotic woman in Athens!”
“Silence, goodwife,” muttered Phormio, twisting desperately on the filthy straw under him. “Have I not enough to fret about without the addition of your pipings?” And he muttered underbreath the old saw of Hesiod:—
“He who doth a woman trust,
Doth trust a den of thieves.”
“Silence below there, you squealing sow,” ordered Hib, from the hatchway. “Must I tan your hide again?”
Lampaxo subsided. Phormio tugged vainly at his feet in the stocks. Glaucon said nothing. A terrible hope had [pg 376]come to him. If he could not speedily die, at least he would soon go mad, and that would rescue him from his most terrible enemy—himself.