Cimon assented readily. Democrates hesitated, and while hesitating was seized by the cloak by none other than Agis, who gave a hasty whisper and vanished in the swirling multitude before Democrates could do more than nod.
“He’s an uncanny fox,” remarked Cimon, mystified; “I suppose you know his reputation?”
“The servant of Athens must sometimes himself employ strange servants,” evaded the orator.
“Yet you might suffer your friends to understand—”
“Dear son of Miltiades,” Democrates’s voice shook in the slightest, “the meaning of my dealings with Agis I pray Athena you may never have cause to know.”
“Which means you will not tell us. Then by Zeus I swear the secret no doubt is not worth the knowing.” Cimon stopped suddenly, as he saw a look of horror on Hermione’s face. “Ah, lady! what’s the matter?”
“Glaucon,” she groaned, “frightful omen! I am terrified!”
Glaucon’s hands dropped at her cry. He himself paled slightly. In one of his moods of abstraction he had taken the small knife from his belt and begun to pare his nails,—to do which after a sacrifice was reputed an infallible means of provoking heaven’s anger. The friends were grave and silent. The athlete gave a forced laugh.
“The goddess will be merciful to-day. To-morrow I will propitiate her with a goat.”
“Now, now, not to-morrow,” urged Hermione, with white lips, but her husband refused.