“Withdraw them. Do you all stand at distance. For what happens I will be responsible.”
The two guards inside emerged yawning. Themistocles took the torch and entered the squalid hair-cloth pavilion. The sentries noticed he had a casket under his cloak.
“The prisoner sleeps,” said a hoplite, “in spite of his fetters.”
Themistocles set down the casket and carefully drew the tent-flap. With silent tread he approached the slumberer. The face was upturned; white it was, but it showed the same winsome features that had won the clappings a hundred times in the Pnyx. The sleep seemed heavy, dreamless.
Themistocles’s own lips tightened as he stood in contemplation, then he bent to touch the other’s shoulder.
“Democrates,”—no answer. “Democrates,”—still silence. “Democrates,”—a stirring, a clanking of metal. The eyes opened,—for one instant a smile.
“Ei, Themistocles, it is you?” to be succeeded by a flash of unspeakable horror. “O Zeus, the gyves! That I should come to this!”
The prisoner rose to a sitting posture upon his truss of straw. His fettered hands seized his head.
“Peace,” ordered the admiral, gently. “Do not rave. I have sent the sentries away. No one will hear us.”
Democrates grew calmer. “You are merciful. You do not know how I was tempted. You will save me.”