“Your Excellency does not mean—”
“Democrates!” cried the trembling navarch.
“And why not Democrates?” The words came from the released prisoner, who had been so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon’s elbow. He spoke in a changed voice now; again the navarch was startled.
“Is Themistocles on the Nausicaä?” asked the stranger, whilst Cimon gazed on him spellbound, asking if he himself were growing mad.
“Yes—but your voice, your face, your manner—my head is dizzy.”
The stranger touched him gently on the hand.
“Have I so changed, you quite forget me, Cimon?”
The son of Miltiades was a strong man. He had looked on Hiram’s tortures with a laugh. To his own death he would have gone with no eyelash trembling. But now the rest saw him blench; then with a cry, at once of wonder and inexpressible joy, his arms closed round the tattered outlaw’s neck. Treason or no treason—what matter! He forgot all save that before him was his long-time comrade.
“My friend! My boyhood’s friend!” and so for many times they kissed.
The Nausicaä had followed the chase at easy distance, ready with aid in case the Bozra resisted. Themistocles was in his cabin with Simonides, when Cimon and Glaucon came to him. The admiral heard his young navarch’s report, then took the unopened packet and requested Cimon and the poet to withdraw. As their feet sounded on the ladder in the companionway, Themistocles turned on the outlaw, it seemed, fiercely.