“The omen!” he almost cried, “the omen! Not Zeus [pg 113]but Hermes the Guileful sent it. He will be with me. She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine? I will do the deed to the uttermost. The god is with me.”
He flung the casket upon the table and spread its fateful contents again before him. His hand flew over the papyrus with marvellous speed and skill. He knew that all his faculties were at his full command and unwontedly acute.
Bias was surprised at his sport by a sudden clapping of his master’s hands.
“What is it, kyrie?”
“Go to Agis. He keeps the gaming-house in the Ceramicus. You know where. Tell him to come hither instantly. He shall not lack reward. Make your feet fly. Here is something to speed them.”
He flung at the boy a coin. Bias opened eyes and mouth in wonder. It was not silver, but a golden daric.
“Don’t blink at it, sheep, but run. Bring Agis,” ordered the master,—and Bias’s legs never went faster than on that afternoon.
Agis came. Democrates knew his man and had no difficulty in finding his price. They remained talking together till it was dark, yet in so guarded a tone that Bias, though he listened closely, was unable to make out anything. When Agis went away, he carried two letters. One of these he guarded as if holding the crown jewels of the Great King; the second he despatched by a discreet myrmidon to the rooms of the Cyprian in Alopece. Its contents were pertinent and ran thus:—
“Democrates to the stranger calling himself a prince of Cyprus, greeting:—Know that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and grows suspicious of your identity. Leave Athens to-[pg 114]morrow or all is lost. The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for your flight by ship from the havens. May our paths never cross again!—Chaire.”
After Agis was gone the old trembling came again to Democrates. He had Bias light all the lamps. The room seemed full of lurking goblins,—harpies, gorgons, the Hydra, the Minotaur, every other foul and noxious shape was waiting to spring forth. And, most maddening of all, the chorus of Æschylus, that Song of the Furies Democrates had heard recited at the Isthmus, rang in the miserable man’s ears:—