“A man almost his peer, the noble patriot Democrates. Ask Phormio’s wife, Lampaxo; ask—” Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. “This will be a notable day for Athens!”
“Our good friend surely thinks so!” rejoined the potter, dryly; “but since he won’t trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate. Yonder rides Themistocles now to take command.”
The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels were prancing Cimon, Democrates, Glau[pg 118]con, and many another youth of the noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as Agis.
“Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a ‘steward’ of the procession to-day,” wondered Crito.
“You’ll be enlightened to-morrow,” said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, “Ah, me,—I wish I could afford to serve in the cavalry. It’s far safer than tugging a spear on foot. But there’s one young man out yonder on whose horse I’d not gladly be sitting.”
“Phui,” complained Clearchus, “you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to take her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as handsome as her husband.”
“She needn’t ‘draw up her eyebrows,’ ”[6] growled the juror, viciously; “they’re marks of disloyalty even in her. Can’t you see she wears shoes of the Theban model, laced open so as to display her bare feet, though everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She’s no better than Glaucon.”
“Hush,” ordered Clearchus, rising, “you have spoken folly enough. Those trumpets tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march ourselves.”
* * * * * * *
Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,—what words call down light on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the artist,—his pencil may not limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and [pg 119]glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the sculptor’s marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The festival of the Panathenæa was the crown of Athens.