ny against
you."

Democrates shivered. The late spring sun was warm. He felt no heat. A mere
charge of treason he was almost prepared now to endure. If Mistress
Fortune helped him, he might refute it, but to be branded before Hellas as
the destroyer of his bosom friend, and that by guile the like whereof
Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion conjoined had never wrought--what wonder his
knees smote together? Why had he not foreseen that Agis would fall into
Lycon's hands? Why had he trusted that lying tale from Artemisium? And
worst of all, worse than the howls of the people who would tear his body
asunder like dogs, not waiting the work of the hemlock, was the thought of
Hermione. She hated him now. How she would love him, though he sat on
Xerxes's throne, if once her suspicion rose to certainty! He saw himself
ruined in life and in love, and blazoned as infamous forever.

Lycon was wise enough to sit some moments, letting his utterance do its
work. He was confident, and rightly. Democrates looked on him at last. The
workings of the Athenian's face were terrible.

"I am your slave, Spartan. Had you bought me for ten minae and held the
bill of sale, I were not yours more utterly. Your wish?"

Lycon chose his words and answered slowly.

"You must serve Persia. Not for a moment, but for all time. You must place
that dreadful gift of yours at our disposal. And in return take what is
promised,--the lordship of Athens."

"No word of that," groaned the wretched man, "what will you do?"

"Aristeides is soon going to Sparta to press home his demands that the
Lacedaemonians march in full force against Mardonius. I can see to it that
his mission succeeds. A great battle will be fought in Boeotia. _We_ can
see to it that Mardonius is so victorious that all further resistance
becomes a dream."

"And my part in this monster's work?"

The demands and propositions with which Lycon answered this despairing
question will unfold themselves in due place and time. Suffice it here,
that when he let the Athenian go his way Lycon was convinced that
Democrates had bound himself heart and soul to forward his enterprise. The
orator was no merry guest for his Corinthian hosts that night. He returned
to his old manner of drinking unmixed wine. "Thirsty as a Macedonian!"
cried his companions, in vain endeavour to drive him into a laugh. They
did not know that once more the chorus of the Furies was singing about his
ears, and he could not still it