A Victor of Salamis
violet, something of the peace and majesty of the scene entered into her
own breast. The waves at the foot of the slope beat in monotonous music.
She did not wonder that Thetis, Galatea, and all the hundred Nereids loved
their home. Somewhere, far off on that shimmering plain, Glaucon the
Beautiful had fallen asleep; whether he waked in the land of Rhadamanthus,
whether he had been stolen away by Leucothea and the other nymphs to be
their playfellow, she did not know. She was not sad, even to think of him
crowned with green seaweed, and sitting under the sea-floor with
fish-tailed Tritons at their tables of pearl, while the finny shoals like
birds flitted above their heads. Thales the Sage made all life proceed out
of the sea. Perchance all life should return to it. Then she would find
her husband again, not beyond, but within the realms of great Oceanus.
With such beauty spreading out before her eyes the phantasy was almost
welcome.
The people had wandered homeward. Cleopis set the parasol on the dry grass
where it would shade her mistress and betook herself to the shelter of a
rock. If Hermione was pleased to meditate so long, she would not deny her
slave a siesta. So the Athenian sat and mused, now sadly, now with a gleam
of brightness, for she was too young to have her sun clouded always.
A speaker near by her called her out of her reverie.
“You sit long, _kyria_, and gaze forth as if you were Zeus in Olympus and
could look on all the world.”
Hermione had not exchanged a word with Democrates since that day she cast
scorn on him on that other hill slope at Munychia, but this did not make
his intrusion more welcome. With mortification she realized that she had
forgotten herself. That she lay on the sunny bank with her feet
outstretched and her hair shaken loose on her shoulders. Her feet she
instantly covered with her long himation. Her hands flew instantly to her
hair. Then she uprose, flushing haughtily.
“It has pleased my father, sir,” she spoke with frigid dignity, “to tell
me that you are some day perchance to be my husband. The fulfilment lies
with the gods. But to-day the strategus Democrates knows our customs too
well to thrust himself upon an Attic gentlewoman who finds herself alone
save for one servant.”
“Ah, _kyria_; pardon the word, it’s overcold; _makaira_, I’d say more
gladly,” Democrates was marvellously at his ease despite her frowns, “your
noble father will take nothing amiss if I ask you to sit again that we may
talk together.”
“I do not think so.” Hermione drew herself up at full height. But
Democrates deliberately placed himself in the path up the hillside. To
have run toward the water seemed folly. She could expect no help from
Cleopis, who would hardly oppose a man soon probably to be her master. As
the less of evils, Hermione did not indeed sit as desired, but stood
facing her unloved lover and hearkening.
“How long I’ve desired this instant!” Democrates looked as if he might
seize her hands to kiss them, but she thrust them behind her. “I know you
hate me bitterly because, touching your late husband, I did my duty.”
“Your duty?” Nestor’s eloquence was in her incredulous echo.
“If I have pained you beyond telling, do you think my act was a pleasant
one for me? A bosom friend to ruin, the most sacred bonds to sever, last
and not least, to give infinite sorrow to her I love?”
“I hardly understand.”
Democrates drew a step nearer.
“Ah! Hera, Artemis, Aphrodite the Golden—by what name shall I call my
goddess?” Hermione drew back a step. There was danger in his eyes. “I have
loved you, loved you long. Before Glaucon took you in marriage I loved
you. But Eros and Hymen hearkened to his prayers, not mine. You became his
bride. I wore a bright face at your wedding. You remember I was Glaucon’s
groomsman, and rode beside you in the bridal car. You loved him, he seemed
worthy of you. Therefore I trod my own grief down into my heart, and
rejoiced with my friends. But to cease loving you I could not. Truly they
say Eros is the strongest god, and pitiless—do not the poets say bloody
Ares begat him—”
“Spare me mythologies,” interposed Hermione, with another step back.
“As you will, but you shall hearken. I have desired this moment for two
years. Not as the weak girl given by her father, but as the fair goddess
who comes to me gladly, I do desire you. And I know you will smile on me
when you have heard me through.”
“Keep back your eloquence. You have destroyed Glaucon. That is enough.”
“Hear me.” Democrates cried desperately now. Hermione feared even to
retreat farther, lest he pass to violence. She summoned courage and looked
him in the eye.
“Say on, then. But remember I am a woman and alone save for Cleopis. If
you profess to love me, you will not forget that.”
But Democrates was passing almost beyond the limits of coherent speech.
“Oh, when you come to me, you will not know what a price I have paid for
you. In Homer’s day men wooed their wives with costly gifts, but I—have I
not paid for you with my soul? My soul, I say—honour, friendship, country,
what has weighed against Himeros, ‘Master Desire,’—the desire ever for
you!”
She hardly understood him, his speech flowed so thick. She knew he was on
the edge of reason, and feared to answer lest she drive beyond it.
“Do you hear the price I have paid? Do you still look on in cold hate,
lady? Ah, by Zeus, even in your coldest, most forbidding mood you are fair
as the Paphian when she sprang above the sea! And I will win you, lady, I
will win your heart, for they shall do you homage, even all Athens, and I
will make you a queen. Yes! the house of Athena on the Acropolis shall be
your palace if you will, and they will cry in the Agora, ‘Way, way for
Hermione, glorious consort of Democrates our king!’ ”
“Sir,” spoke Hermione, while her hands grew chill, for now she was sure he
raved, “I have not the joy to comprehend. There is no king in Athens,
please Athena, there never will be. Treason and blasphemy you speak all in
one.” She sought vainly with her eyes for refuge. None in sight. The hill
slope seemed empty save for the scattered brown boulders. Far away a goat
was wandering. She motioned to Cleopis. The old woman was staring now, and
doubtless thought Democrates was carrying his familiarities too far, but
she was a weak creature, and at best could only scream.
“Treason and blasphemy,” cried Democrates, dropping on his knees, his
frame shaking with dishonest passion, “yes! call them so now. They will be
blessed truth for me in a month, for me, for you. Hermes the Trickster is
a mighty god. He has befriended Eros. I shall possess Athens and possess
you. I shall be the most fortunate mortal upon earth as now I am most
miserable. Ah! but I have waited so long.” He sprang to his feet. “Tarry,
_makaira_, tarry! A kiss!”
Hermione screamed at last shrilly and turned to fly. Instantly Democrates
was upon her. In that fluttering white dress escape was hopeless.
“Apollo pursuing Daphne!”—his crazed shout as his arms closed around
her,—“but Daphne becomes no laurel this time. Her race is lost. She shall
pay the forfeit.”
She felt him seize her girdle. He swung her face to face. She saw his wide
eyes, his mad smile. His hot breath smote her cheek. Cleopis at last was
screaming.
“Mine,” he triumphed, while he forced her resisting head to his own,
“there is none to hinder!”
But even while the woman’s flesh crept back at his impure kiss, a giant
power came rending the twain apart. A man had sundered them, sprung from
the ground or from heaven belike, or from behind a boulder? He tore
Democrates’s hands away as a lion tears a lamb. He dashed the mad orator
prone upon the sod, and kicked him twice, as of mingled hatred and
contempt. All this Hermione only knew in half, while her senses swam. Then
she came to herself enough to see that the stranger was a young man in a
sailor’s loose dress, his features almost hidden under the dishevelled
hair and beard. All this time he uttered no word, but having smitten
Democrates down, leaped back, rubbing his hands upon his thigh, as if
despising to touch so foul an object. The orator groaned, staggered
upward. He wore a sword. It flew from its scabbard as he leaped on the
sailor. The stranger put forth his hand, snatched his opponent’s wrist,
and with lightning dexterity sent the blade spinning back upon the grass.
Then he threw Democrates a second time, and the latter did not rise again
hastily, but lay cursing. The fall had not been gentle.
But all this while Cleopis was screaming. People were hastening up the
hill,—fishermen from a skiff upon the beach, slaves who had been carrying
bales to the haven. In a moment they would be surrounded by a dozen. The
strange sailor turned as if to fly. He had not spoken one word. Hermione
herself at last called to him.
“My preserver! Your name! Blessed be you forever!”
The fisherfolk were very close. Cleopis was still screaming. The sailor
looked once into the lady’s eyes.
“I am nameless! You owe me nothing!” And with that he was gone up the hill
slopes, springing with long bounds that would have mocked pursuing, had
any attempted. But Cleopis quenched her outcry instantly; her screams had
been drowned by a louder scream from Hermione, who fell upon the
greensward, no marble whiter than her face. The nurse ran to her mistress.
Democrates staggered to his feet. Whatever else the chastisement had given
him, it had restored his balance of mind. He told the fisherfolk a glib
story that a sailor wandering along the strand had accosted Hermione, that
he himself had chased the villain off, but had tripped whilst trying to
follow. If the tale was not of perfect workmanship at all points, there
was no one with interest to gainsay it. A few ran up the hill slope, but
the sailor was nowhere in sight. Hermione was still speechless. They made
a litter of oars and sail-cloth and carried her to her mother. Democrates
oiled Cleopis’s palm well, that she should tell nothing amiss to Lysistra.
It was a long time before Hermione opened her eyes in her chamber. Her
first words were:—
“Glaucon! I have seen Glaucon!”
“You have had a strange dream, _philotata_,” soothed Lysistra, shifting
the pillows, “lie still and rest.”
But Hermione shook her shining brown head and repeated, many times:—
“No dream! No dream! I have seen Glaucon face to face. In that instant he
spoke and looked on me I knew him. He lives. He saved me. Ah! why does he
stay away?”
Lysistra, whose husband had not deemed it prudent to inform her of
Themistocles’s revelations, was infinitely distressed. She sent for the
best physicians of the city, and despatched a slave to the temple of
Asclepius at Epidaurus—not distant—to sacrifice two cocks for her
daughter’s recovery. The doctors looked wise and recommended heavy doses
of spiced wine, and if those did not suffice, said that the patient might
spend a night in the temple of the Healer, who would no doubt explain the
true remedy in a dream. A “wise woman” who had great following among the
slaves advised that a young puppy be tied upon Hermione’s temples to
absorb the disaffection of her brain. Lysistra was barely persuaded not to
follow her admonitions. After a few days the patient grew better,
recovered strength, took an interest in her child. Yet ever and anon she
would repeat over Phœnix’s cradle:—
“Your father lives! I have seen him! I have seen him!”
What, however, puzzled Lysistra most, was the fact that Cleopis did not
contradict her young mistress in the least, but maintained a mysterious
silence about the whole adventure.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE LOYALTY OF LAMPAXO