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Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber. “Nothing to excess” was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel, “such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,” made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.
Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.
“You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?” began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.
“It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”
“I am no singer or harpist,” returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed. “I only know how to make Athens powerful.”
“Ah! you son of Miltiades,” urged the poet, “at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”
Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.
“The Dioscuri will save you?” demanded Simonides, laughing.
“Quite other gods,” rejoined the statesman; “your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”