f Phormio the Athenian has Medized?"

"Hear my story, _mu! mu!_" groaned Lampaxo. "It's a terrible thing to
accuse one's own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a
merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private."

"Woman,"--Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,--"Medizing is
treason. On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell
everything, then rely on my wisdom."

"Certainly, _kyrie_, certainly," gasped Lampaxo, and so she began a
recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared
not bid her hasten.

The good woman commenced by reminding the strategus how he had visited her
and her brother Polus to question them as to the doings of the Babylonish
carpet merchant, and how it had seemed plain to them that Glaucon was
nothing less than a traitor. Next she proceeded to relate how her husband
had enabled the criminal to fly by sea, and her own part therein--for she
loudly accused herself of treason in possessing a guilty knowledge of the
outlaw's manner of escape. As for Bias, he had just now gone on a message
to Megara, but Democrates would surely castigate his own slave. "Still,"
wound up Lampaxo, "the traitor seemed drowned, and his treason locked up
in Phorcys's strong box, and so I said nothing about him. More's the
pity."

"The more reason for concealing nothing now."

"Zeus strike me if I keep back anything. It's now about ten days since
_he_ returned."

" 'He?' Whom do you mean?"

"It's not overeasy to tell, _kyrie_. He calls himself Critias, and wears a
long black beard and tangled hair. Phormio brought him home one
evening--said he was the _proreus_ of a Melian trireme caulking at
Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiraeus and an old friend. I
told Phormio we had enough these days to fill our own bellies, but my
husband would be hospitable. I had to bring out my best honey cakes. Your
Lordship knows I take just pride in my honey cakes."

"Beyond doubt,"--Democrates's hand twitched with impatience,--"but tell of
the stranger."

"At once, _kyrie_; well, we all sat down to sup. Phormio kept pressing
wine on the fellow as if we had not only one little jar of yellow Rhodian
in the cellar. All the time the sailor barely spoke a few words of island
Doric, but my heart misgave. He seemed so refined, so handsome. And near
the roots of his hair it was not so dark--as if dyed and needing renewal.
Trust a woman's eyes for that. When