“Your price?” the words slipped forth involuntarily.
“Themistocles’s private memoranda for the battle-order of your new fleet.”
“Avert it, gods! The ship will reach Corinth, I warn you—” Democrates’s gestures became menacing, as again he rose, “I will set you in Themistocles’s hand as soon—”
“But not to-night.” The Prince rose, smiled, held out his hand. “Unbar the door for his Excellency, Hiram. And you, noble sir, think well of all I said at Corinth on the certain victory of my master; think also—” the voice fell—“how Democrates the Codrid could be sovereign of Athens under the protection of Persia.”
“I tyrant of Athens?” the orator clapped his hand behind his back; “you say enough. Good evening.”
He was on the threshold, when the slave-boy touched his master’s hand in silent signal.
“And if there be any fair woman you desire,”—how gliding the Cyprian’s voice!—“shall not the power of Xerxes the great give her unto you?”
Why did Democrates feel his forehead turn to flame? Why—almost against will—did he stretch forth his hand to the Cyprian? He went down the stair scarce feeling the steps beneath him. At the bottom voices greeted him from across the darkened street.
“A fair evening, Master Glaucon.”
“A fair evening,” his mechanical answer; then to himself; as he walked away, “Wherefore call me Glaucon? I have somewhat his height, though not his shoulder. Ah,—I know it, I have chanced to borrow his carved walking-stick. Impudent creatures to read the name!”