eated Hermione. But she
thanked Phormio many times, would not let him refuse her money, and bade
him come often again and bring her all the Agora gossip about the war.
"For we are friends," she concluded; "you and I are the only persons who
hold Glaucon innocent in all the world. And is that not tie enough?"

So Phormio came frequently, glad perhaps to escape the discipline of his
spouse. Now he brought a rumour of Xerxes's progress, now a bit of Bias's
tattling about his master. The talebearing counted for little, but went to
make Hermione's conviction like adamant. Every night she would speak over
Phoenix as she held him whilst he slept.

"Grow fast, _makaire_, grow strong, for there is work for you to do! Your
father cries, 'Avenge me well,' even from Hades."

* * * * * * *

After the departure of the fleet Athens seemed silent as the grave. On the
streets one met only slaves and graybeards. In the Agora the hucksters'
booths were silent, but little groups of white-headed men sat in the
shaded porticos and watched eagerly for the appearing of the archon before
the government house to read the last despatch of the progress of Xerxes.
The Pnyx was deserted. The gymnasia were closed. The more superstitious
scanned the heavens for a lucky or unlucky flight of hawks. The
priestesses sang litanies all day and all night on the Acropolis where the
great altar to Athena smoked with victims continually. At last, after the
days of uncertainty and wavering rumour, came surer tidings of battles.

"Leonidas is fighting at Thermopylae. The fleets are fighting at
Artemisium, off Euboea. The first onsets of the Barbarians have failed, but
nothing is decided."

This was the substance, and tantalizingly meagre. And the strong army of
Sparta and her allies still tarried at the Isthmus instead of hasting to
aid the pitiful handful at Thermopylae. Therefore the old men wagged their
heads, the altars were loaded with victims, and the women wept over their
children.

So ended the first day after news came of the fighting. The second was
like it--only more tense. Hermione never knew that snail called time to
creep more slowly. Never had she chafed more against the iron custom which
commanded Athenian gentlewomen to keep, tortoise-like, at home in days of
distress and tumult. On the evening of the second day came once more the
dusty courier. Leonidas was holding the gate of Hellas. The Barbarians had
peris