“And wherefore miserable, good friend?” The Cyprian half led, half compelled the visitor to a seat on the divan. “Is it such to be enrolled from this day among the benefactors of my most gracious lord and king?”
“Don’t goad me!” Democrates wrung his hands. “I am desperate. Take these papyri, read, pay, then let me never see your face again.” He flung the two rolls in the Prince’s lap and sat in abject misery.
The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an inner chamber and silently take station at his master’s side, following the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the Prince spoke.
“Well—you bring what purports to be private memoranda of Themistocles on the equipment and arraying of the Athenian fleet. Yet these are only copies.”
“Copies; the originals cannot stay in my possession. It were ruin to give them up.”
The Prince turned to Hiram.
“And do you say, from what you know of these things, these memoranda are genuine?”
“Genuine. That is the scanty wisdom of the least of your Highness’s slaves.”
The Oriental bowed himself, then stood erect in a manner that reminded Democrates of some serpent that had just coiled and uncoiled.
“Good,” continued the emissary; “yet I must ask our good Athenian to confirm them with an oath.”