“Even when that friend has wronged you?”
“Silence! What do you mean?”
Even in the flickering lamplight Democrates could see the Spartan’s evil smile.
“Of course—Hermione.”
“Silence, by the infernal gods! Who are you, Cyclops, for her name to cross your teeth?”
“I’m not angry. Yet you will thank me to-morrow. The pentathlon will be merely a pleasant flute-playing before the great war-drama. You will see more of the ‘Cyprian’ at Athens—”
Democrates heard no more. Forth from that wine-house he ran into the sheltering night, till safe under the shadow of the black cypresses. His head glowed. His heart throbbed. He had been partner in foulest treason. Duty to friend, duty to country,—oath or no oath,—should have sent him to Leonidas. What evil god had tricked him into that interview? Yet he did not denounce the traitor. Not his oath held him back, but benumbing fear,—and what sting lay back of Lycon’s hints and threats the orator knew best. And how if Lycon made good his boast and killed Glaucon on the morrow?