“Pity, by our old-time friendship!”
The admiral’s tall form straightened.
“Themistocles the Friend is dead; Themistocles the Just is here,—drink.”
“But you promised escape?” The prisoner’s whisper was just audible.
“Ay, truly, from the court-martial before the roaring camp in the morning, the unmasking of all your accomplices, the deeper shame of every one-time friend, the blazoning of your infamy in public evidence through Hellas, the soldiers howling for your blood, the stoning, perchance the plucking [pg 444]in pieces. By the gods Olympian, by the gods Infernal, do your past lovers one last service—drink!”
That was not all Themistocles said, that was all Democrates heard. In his ears sounded, even once again, the song of the Furies,—never so clearly as now.
“With scourge and with ban
We prostrate the man
Who with smooth-woven wile
And a fair-facèd smile