A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians’s democracy was sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play on their two hundred hearts better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the note changed from despair to incitement, and when at last he called, “And can we cross the Ægean as never trireme crossed and pluck back Hellas from her fate?” thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing their brawny arms into the air.
“We can!”
Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was still with him.
* * * * * * *
Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders must be written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding him at all hazards to keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in privy council with Themistocles in the state cabin. At the same time a prisoner was passed aboard the Nausicaä, not gently bound,—Hiram, a precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the rest of the Bozra’s people found a quicker release. The penteconter’s people decided their fate with a yell.
“Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!”
So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung overboard, “because we lack place and wood to crucify you,” called the Nausicaä’s governor, as he pushed the last pair off into the leaden sea,—for the day was distant when the destruction of such Barbarian rogues would weigh even on tender consciences.
So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and the Bozra bore away to join the remaining fleet, another deed was done in sight of all three ships. For whilst Themistocles was with Cimon, Simonides and Sicinnus had taken Glaucon to the Nausicaä’s forecastle. Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight. The Alcmæonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman’s dress, and stood forth in all his godlike beauty.
Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and [pg 398]kissed him once more, whilst the rowers clapped their hands.
“Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again. Io! Io! pæan!”