A Victor of Salamis
commenced the rugged way upward. Suddenly from the bastion of the
Acropolis above wafted new music. Low, melancholy at first, as the pipers
and harpers played in the dreamy Lydian mode, till, strengthening into the
bolder Æolic, the strains floated down, inviting, “Come up hither,” then
stronger still it pealed in the imperious crash of the Doric as the
procession mounted steadily. Now could be seen great Lamprus, Orpheus’s
peer, the master musician, standing on the balcony above the gate, beating
time for the loud choral.
A chorus amongst the marchers and a second chorus in the citadel joined
together, till the red crags shook,—singing the old hymn of the Homeridæ
to Athena, homely, rude, yet dear with the memory of ages:—
“Pallas Athena, gray-eyed queen of wisdom,
Thy praise I sing!
Steadfast, all holy, sure ward of our city,
Triton-born rule whom High Zeus doth bring
Forth from his forehead.
Thou springest forth valiant;
The clangour swells far as thy direful arms ring.
“All the Immortals in awed hush are bending,
Beautiful, terrible, thy light thou’rt sending
Flashed from thine eyes and thy pitiless spear.
Under thy presence Olympus is groaning,
Earth heaves in terrors, the blue deeps are moaning;
‘Wisdom, the All-Seeing Goddess is here!’
“Now the sea motionless freezes before thee;
Helios, th’ Sun-Lord, draws rein to adore thee;
Whilst thou, O Queen, puttest on divine might.
Zeus, the deep-councillor, gladly greets thee!
Hail, Holy Virgin—our loud pæan meets thee,
PALLAS, CHASTE WISDOM, DISPELLER OF NIGHT!”
Up the face of the Rock, up the long, statue-lined way, till through the
gate the vision burst,—the innumerable fanes and altars, the assembly of
singers and priests, the great temple in its pride of glittering marble.
Clearer, stronger sounded the choral, shot up through the limpid azure;
swaying, burning, throbbing, sobs and shouting, tears and transports, so
mounted new strains of the mighty chorus, lit through with the flames of
Homeric verse. Then stronger yet was the mingling of voices, earth, sky,
deep, beasts’ cry and gods’ cry, all voiced, as chorus answered to chorus.
Now the peplus was wafted on a wave of song toward the temple’s
dawn-facing portal, when from beneath the columns, as the tall valves
turned and the sun leaped into the cella, hidden voices returned the
former strains—mournful at first. Out of the adytum echoed a cry of
anguish, the lament of the Mother of Wisdom at her children’s deathly
ignorance, which plucks them down from the Mount of the Beautiful Vision.
But as the thousands neared, as its pæans became a prayer, as yearning
answered to yearning, lo! the hidden song swelled and soared,—for the
goddess looked for her own, and her own were come to her. And thus in
beneath the massy pediment, in through the wide-flung doors, floated the
peplus, while under its guardian shadow walked Hermione.
So they brought the robe to Athena.
* * * * * * *
Glaucon and his companions had watched the procession ascend, then
followed to see the sacrifice upon the giant altar. The King Archon cut
the throat of the first ox and made public prayer for the people. Wood
soaked in perfumed oil blazed upon the huge stone platform of the
sacrifice. Girls flung frankincense upon the roaring flames. The music
crashed louder. All Athens seemed mounting the citadel. The chief
priestess came from the holy house, and in a brief hush proclaimed that
the goddess had received the robe with all favour. After her came the
makers of the peplus, and Hermione rejoined her husband.
“Let us not stay to the public feast,” was her wish; “let these hucksters
and charcoal-burners who live on beans and porridge scramble for a bit of
burned meat, but we return to Colonus.”
“Good then,” answered Glaucon, “and these friends of course go with us.”
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.
“The goddess is surfeited with sacrifices this morning. She would forget
mine.”
Then he led the rest, elbowing the way through the increasing swarms of
young and old, and down into the half-deserted city. Democrates left them
in the Agora, professing great stress of duties.
“Strange man,” observed Cimon, as he walked away; “what has he this past
month upon his mind? That Persian spy, I warrant. But the morning wanes.
It’s a long way to Colonus. ‘Let us drink, for the sun is in the zenith.’
So says Alcæus—and I love the poet, for he like myself is always thirsty.”
The three went on to the knoll of Colonus where Glaucon dwelt. Cimon was
overrunning with puns and jests, but the others not very merry. The omen
of Glaucon’s thoughtlessness, or something else, made husband and wife
silent, yet it was a day when man or maid should have felt their spirits
rise. The sky had never been brighter, not in Athens. Never had the
mountains and sea spread more gloriously. From the warm olive-groves
sounded the blithesome note of the Attic grasshopper. The wind sweeping
over the dark cypresses by the house set their dark leaves to talking. The
afternoon passed in pleasure, friends going and coming; there was
laughter, music, and good stories. Hermione at least recovered part of her
brightness, but her husband, contrary to all custom, remained taciturn,
even melancholy. At last as the gentle tints of evening began to cover
hill and plain and the red-tiled roofs of the ample city, all the friends
were gone, saving only Cimon, and he—reckless fellow—was well able to
dispense with companionship, being, in the words of Theognis, “not
absolutely drunk, nor sober quite.” Thus husband and wife found themselves
alone together on the marble bench beneath the old cypress.
“Oh, _makaire_! dearest and best,” asked Hermione, her hands touching his
face, “is it the omen that makes you grow so sad? For the sun of your life
is so seldom under clouds that when it is clouded at all, it seems as deep
darkness.”
He answered by pressing back her hair, “No, not the omen. I am not a slave
to chance like that. Yet to-day,—the wise God knows wherefore,—there comes
a sense of brooding fear. I have been too happy—too blessed with
friendship, triumph, love. It cannot last. Clotho the Spinner will weary
of making my thread of gold and twine in a darker stuff. Everything lovely
must pass. What said Glaucus to Diomedes? ‘Even as the race of leaves, so
likewise are those of men; the leaves that now are, the wind scattereth,
and the forest buddeth forth more again; thus also with the race of men,
one putteth forth, another ceaseth.’ So even my joy must pass—”
“Glaucon,—take back the words. You frighten me.”
He felt her in his arms trembling, and cursed himself for what he had
uttered.
“A blight upon my tongue! I have frightened you, and without cause. Surely
the day is bright enough, surely Athena having been thus far good we can
trust her goodness still. Who knows but that it be many a year before our
sun comes to his setting!”
He kissed her many times. She grew comforted, but they had not been
together long when they were surprised by the approach of Themistocles and
Hermippus. Hermione ran to her father.
“Themistocles and I were summoned hither,” explained Hermippus, “by a
message from Democrates bidding us come to Colonus at once, on an urgent
matter touching the public weal.”
“He is not here. I cannot understand,” marvelled Glaucon; but while he
spoke, he was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs from a party of horsemen
spurring furiously and heading from the pass of Daphni.
CHAPTER XII
A TRAITOR TO HELLAS
Before the house six riders were reining,—five Scythian “bowmen” of the
constabulary of Athens, tow-headed Barbarians, grinning but mute; the
sixth was Democrates. He dismounted with a bound, and as he did so the
friends saw that his face was red as with pent-up excitement. Themistocles
advanced hastily.
“What’s this? Your hands seem a-quiver. Whom has that constable tied up
behind him?”
“Seuthes!” cried Glaucon, bounding back, “Seuthes, by every god, and
pinioned like a felon.”
“Ay!” groaned the prisoner, lashed to a horse, “what have I done to be
seized and tried like a bandit? Why should I be set upon by these
gentlemen while I was enjoying a quiet pot of wine in the tavern at
Daphni, and be haled away as if to crucifixion? _Mu! Mu!_ make them untie
me, dear Master Glaucon.”
“Put down your prisoner,” ordered Democrates, “and all you constables stay
without the house. I ask Themistocles, Hermippus, and Glaucon to come to
an inner room. I must examine this man. The matter is serious.”
“Serious?” echoed the bewildered athlete, “I can vouch for Seuthes—an
excellent Corinthian, come to Athens to sell some bales of wool—”
“Answer, Glaucon,” Democrates’s voice was stern. “Has he no letters from
you for Argos?”
“Certainly.”
“You admit it?”
“By the dog of Egypt, do you doubt my word?”
“Friends,” called Democrates, dramatically, “mark you that Glaucon admits
he has employed this Seuthes as his courier.”
“Whither leads this mummery?” cried the athlete, growing at last angry.
“If to nothing, I, Democrates, rejoice the most. Now I must bid you to
follow me.”
Seizing the snivelling Seuthes, the orator led into the house and to a
private chamber. The rest followed, in blank wonderment. Cimon had
recovered enough to follow—none too steadily. But when Hermione
approached, Democrates motioned her back.
“Do not come. A painful scene may be impending.”
“What my husband can hear, that can I,” was her retort. “Ah! but why do
you look thus dreadfully on Glaucon?”
“I have warned you, lady. Do not blame me if you hear the worst,” rejoined
Democrates, barring the door. A single swinging lamp shed a fitful light
on the scene—the whimpering prisoner, the others all amazed, the orator’s
face, tense and white. Democrates’s voice seemed metallic as he
continued:—
“Now, Seuthes, we must search you. Produce first the letter from Glaucon.”
The fat florid little Corinthian was dressed as a traveller, a gray
chalmys to his hips, a brimmed brown hat, and high black boots. His hands
were now untied. He tugged from his belt a bit of papyrus which Democrates
handed to Themistocles, enjoining “Open.”
Glaucon flushed.
“Are you mad, Democrates, to violate my private correspondence thus?”