“Give ear again, Democrates. Your crimes against Athens and Hellas were wrought under sore temptation. The money you stole from the public chest, if not returned already, I will myself make good. So much is forgiven.”
“You are a true friend, Themistocles.” The prisoner’s voice was husky, but the admiral’s eyes flashed like flint-stones struck by the steel.
“Friend!” he echoed. “Yes, by Zeus Orcios, guardian of oaths and friendship, you had a friend. Where is he now?”
Democrates lay on the turf floor of the tent, not even groaning.
“You had a friend,”—the admiral’s intensity was awful. “You blasted his good name, you sought his life, you sought his wife, you broke every bond, human or divine, to destroy him. At last, to silence conscience’ sting, you thought you [pg 443]did a deed of mercy in sending him in captivity to a death in life. Fool! Nemesis is not mocked. Glaucon has lain at death’s door. He has saved Hellas, but at a price. The surgeons say he will live, but that his foot is crippled. Glaucon can never run again. You have brought him misery. You have brought anguish to Hermione, the noblest woman in Hellas, whom you—ah! mockery—professed to hold in love! You have done worse than murder. Yet I have promised you shall escape this night. Rise up.”
Democrates staggered to his feet clumsily, only half knowing what he did. Themistocles was extending the silver cup. “Escape. Drink!”
“What is this cup?” The prisoner had turned gray.
“Hemlock, coward! Did you not bid Glaucon to take his life that night in Colonus? The death you proffered him in his innocency I proffer you now in your guilt. Drink!”
“You have called me friend. You have said you loved me. I dare not die. A little time! Pity! Mercy! What god can I invoke?”
“None. Cerberus himself would not hearken to such as you. Drink.”