I.

Few young men in Athens had so many acquaintances as Lycon, yet he did not possess a single friend. He was courteous to all, but intimate with no one, had a care-free disposition, liked to try his luck at astragalsO or dice, always knew where the best Chian wine and the prettiest girls could be found, and was never226 unwilling to lend an acquaintance a few drachmae. So Lycon was universally esteemed, nay people even overlooked certain eccentricities which were contradictory to Attic custom. For instance, he never visited the gymnasium, and when some one spoke to him about it, he carelessly replied:

O A game like knuckle-bones.

“What should I do there? Oratory and subtleties of speech I don’t understand—and why train my body? I’m strong enough as I am, and have better uses for my time.”

As to Lycon’s appearance—he had handsome, though rather harsh black hair, manly, somewhat stern features, large heavy eyebrows, a short but thick beard, a broad-shouldered, strongly-built frame, and unusually large hands, from which he received the nickname Lycon ho makrocheir, Lycon with the big hand.

He was entered on the citizens’ list as Lycon, son of Megacles. But nobody had known this Megacles, and no one could tell where the house of Lycon’s parents stood, or had stood. All that was known about him was that, two years before, he had suddenly appeared in Athens—as he said, after a long residence in Bithynia where his father had died. Now and then it was whispered that he was “a spurious citizen,” and at one of the examinations to which these lists were occasionally subjected, he was questioned by the demarchs or district inspectors. To them Lycon stated that his father had been a ship’s captain and for many years had been absent from Athens; he had himself gone to sea with him, and the rough work on board227 had given him large, hard hands. One of the demarchs, a rich ship-owner, thought he could entrap Lycon by questioning him about the names of the various parts of a vessel. But the latter was at no loss for an answer. This resulted greatly to his advantage; the ship-owner declared himself satisfied, and Lycon’s name remained on the list.

Still, there were many strange things about him. For instance, he knew so little of the poets that, as the jester Stephanus said, he might easily have been persuaded that one of Pindar’s odes was written by Homer. But, if any one laughed at such stupendous ignorance, Lycon said:

“You are laughing at my pedagogue, not at me. It is his fault. He was so weak that he submitted to everything, and we played and quarrelled during the time we ought to have learned something useful.”

It was one of Lycon’s peculiarities that, though he never refused an invitation to a drinking-bout, he had no inclination to attend any of the great festivals to which strangers flocked from all parts of Hellas, the islands, and the new colonies, to see the processions, the performances at the theatre, or the torchlight races. On such days Lycon either remained at home in his little house in the Ceriadae suburb, or went away for a short journey, remaining absent until the strangers might be supposed to have left Athens. This singular conduct was not noticed by many, for on holidays most persons have enough to do to attend to their own affairs. But the few who did remark it marvelled.

228 Only one individual knew the cause of Lycon’s eccentricities. This was the artist Aristeides from Thebes, a quiet, thoughtful young man, who never said more than he meant. He enjoyed a high reputation for his powerful picture of the battle between the Persians and Macedonians, a painting containing hundreds of human figures; but his master-piece was the plundering of a captured city, in which a dying mother holds her delicate babe away from her breast, that it may not drink blood instead of milk.

This Aristeides once went on a pleasure excursion with Lycon—both on horseback, attended by a single slave—to the beautifully located Deceleia at the foot of Mt. Parnes. Wearied by the noon-tide heat, they sought shelter on the way in the wretched log-hut owned by a poor countryman, who received them kindly, gave them a bowl of fresh goat’s-milk, and offered them his rude bed; but it was so dirty that, after exchanging glances, they begged permission to lie on the hay stored in the shed opposite. The man led the way there. Lycon stretched himself comfortably upon the fragrant hay, yawned, and fell asleep. Aristeides also slept, but was roused soon after by a movement of Lycon and, turning over, suddenly felt broad awake.

Lycon’s robe had opened at the throat, baring his shoulder. On the sunburned skin appeared a large white scar, consisting of three marks which together formed a kappa.P

229

P Kappa, the letter K. This is an abbreviation of the word Klemma, theft. Slaves were usually branded on the forehead (or on the ears or hands.) The mark seems to have been stamped on the shoulder only by special favor, when the offence was trivial.

“A slave!” cried Aristeides, “and branded!”

At first he was almost stupefied; then he moved away from Lycon’s side and sat down on a log a short distance off.

“Now I understand everything,” he thought, “his fear of undressing in the gymnasium—his unknown origin—his large hands—his ignorance of the poets—and his absence during the great festivals.... So he is a fugitive slave, and has been punished for theft. Before his flight he probably robbed his master and of no inconsiderable sum. He was entered in the citizens’ list by bribery, and now the thievish, branded slave lives in Athens as a free citizen, and enjoys himself on his defrauded master’s money.”

Aristeides rose to go to the city magistrates, but ere he left the shed he started and listened.

Lycon was laughing in his sleep.

There was something so joyous and light-hearted in his laughter that Aristeides involuntarily paused.

“Look!” murmured Lycon, stretching out his arm as though pointing, “now fat Dryas is jumping!—The leather bottle is bursting—he’ll fall—plump! there he lies on his stomach in the water.”

And Lycon laughed again.

“No!” said Aristeides, “a man who laughs in his sleep like a child is not wicked.... Who knows whether freedom has not made him a different and a better man? Certainly nothing dishonorable is known230 about him, and he is universally respected.... Perhaps his master has made up his loss long ago. Perhaps he has himself repaid the stolen money; he has slaves who work for him. Besides, how does the matter concern me?”

The artist went nearer to the sleeper and looked at him.

A pleasant smile was hovering around Lycon’s mouth. “Take this!” he muttered, and his big hand made a gesture as if he were giving alms.

Aristeides felt a sudden inspiration.

“Had the gods desired to punish him,” he thought, “they would have made him betray himself to a foe, not to a friend.”

Glad to have found such a consolation to his mind, he carefully drew Lycon’s robe together and fastened it at the neck. His hand shook a little as he did so. If Lycon should suddenly open his eyes, what might he not do in his despair at seeing his secret discovered!

But Lycon slept on. Without rousing him, Aristeides went around into the shade behind the house, where the slaves were waiting with the horses. Beckoning to Lycon’s servant, he said:

“When your master wakes, tell him that a dream I had in my sleep compels me to return home at once. Beg him from me to go on as though I were still in his company.”

With these words he swung himself on the horse and rode away so fast that his slave could scarcely follow him.

231 From that hour Aristeides held aloof from Lycon, without attracting any special attention from the latter. But whenever, later, conversation turned upon Lycon’s eccentricities Aristeides found special gratification in going as near the truth as possible. He always said:

“There is a sign that explains them.”

Did he make the remark from a vague spite against Lycon or a child’s delight in playing with fire? He did not know himself, but he never said more.
II.

Lycon, who suspected no evil, continued his usual mode of life. One noon he went to the house of a freedman named Opasion, who usually had gay doings in his home, as he lived by entertaining young men. The little peristyle, scarcely ten feet long, was filled with a noisy, laughing party. Half a score of youths in mantles of every hue had formed a circle around two fighting quails.

“I’ll bet fifteen drachmae against you, Opasion,” shouted one voice.

“So will I,” added a second.

“Hegesias’ quail is braver. See, your bird is giving way, Opasion—it yields again. Ha! ha! ha! Now it’s outside of the circle.”

“Conquered, conquered!” shouted the whole party in chorus, joined by the freedman.

“Your bird lost, Opasion. Down with the money.”

232 The freedman, a short, stout fellow, with a foxy face, lifted a rumpled bird in the air and shrieked into its ear, as though trying to drown the shouts of victory. At the same time the other bird was borne away in triumph, and then carefully taken under its owner’s arm as if it were the most costly treasure.

Lycon walked carelessly on to the so-called banqueting hall found in every large house, but which usually offered only a very limited space. He cast a hurried glance around the room but saw no strange faces. Seven or eight young men whom he met every day were just breakfasting, reclining singly or in pairs upon leather-covered couches, before which stood small tables bearing numerous spots of grease and the marks of wet goblets.

At the back of the room a couple of half naked boys, slaves, were busily washing cups and dishes, and not far from them on a low chair without a back sat two young girls from fifteen to twenty years old. They were whispering eagerly together, and by the way they fixed their eyes on the young men reclining upon the couches, it was easy to guess the subject of the talk. Both were pretty, but their bold glances and careless laughter showed that they were women of free lives, accustomed to associate with men.

The older and larger of the two held in her hand a Phrygian double flute. Her back hair was covered by a blue kerchief and the locks on her brow were adorned with a clasp of polished steel. Her whole costume consisted of a saffron-yellow robe, originally233 fine and costly, now somewhat frayed, open at the left side to the hip and fastened up above the knee. The younger and prettier, who was evidently a juggler, as she rested her feet on a box containing short swords, balls, and small bows and arrows, wore on her head a red hood to confine her dark curls, and moreover was wrapped in a faded green mantle, which she drew closely around her. Whenever, during the conversation, she moved her hands this loose upper dress parted, showing that she had a totally different under-garment and a pair of short, parti-colored breeches, which surrounded her loins like a wide belt.

The young men paid no attention to the girls. Their talk turned upon the best way of getting hold of a father’s money during his life. Opinions seemed to vary greatly. The more experienced agreed in holding aloof from the matter themselves and having their fathers deceived by a cunning slave, while those less skilled preferred to beg the money from their mothers, on the threat of going to sea or enlisting in the light-armed troops.

“The old theme again!” said Lycon smiling, after having greeted and shaken hands with all present except Aristeides, who was busily cleansing his hands after the meal in the dough prepared for the purpose.

“Lycon speaks the truth,” cried a pale-faced young man with flabby features, afterwards known as the architect Deinocrates. “We must talk about something else. This subject doesn’t suit him.”

Lycon, who had neither father nor mother, understood234 the concealed sting, but kept silence in order not to enter deeper into the matter.

The talk ceased for a moment; the god Hermes—as the saying went in those days—passed through the room. Then a quick step echoed over the flags of the peristyle, and a tall young fellow with a light beard suddenly stood among them. He seemed to have just arrived from a journey, for dust lay thick amid the folds of his brown mantle, and he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat.

“Phorion!” cried seven or eight voices in a breath, “we greet you, welcome!”

The new-comer flung his cloak and hat to one of the boys who came hurrying up, pressed Aristeides’ hand, and lay down in the vacant place by his side.

“Where are you from, Phorion?” asked pallid Deinocrates.

“From Thessaly.”

Lycon, who was reclining alone upon a couch at the nearest table, forgot his barley cake and raised his head.

“From what city in Thessaly?”

“Methone in the province of Magnesia, on the Pagasaean Gulf.”

Aristeides’ eyes happened to rest on Lycon, who had turned deadly pale and was pressing his hand upon his breast.

“From which of the citizens did you receive hospitality? continued Deinocrates.

“From Simonides, dealer in grain.”

235 Lycon started so that he almost upset the little table in front of the couch.

“How strange!” exclaimed Deinocrates eagerly. “Simonides was my father’s host, too, and I have often heard him praise his cheerful temper and great fondness for the comic writers. He owns, if I remember rightly, many of old Magnes, the Icarian’s, comedies in the manuscripts, as the author himself revised them, and—especially in “the Harpers” knows the merriest scenes by heart.... You perceive I am acquainted with the man without having seen him.”

“Alas! he is no longer the same person!” said Phorion gravely. “Grief and sickness have prematurely aged him.... All his misery was brought upon him by a dishonest slave.”

Again Aristeides looked at Lycon, but this time not accidentally.

The perspiration stood in big drops on his brow, his cheeks were flushed, and he passed his great hand over his face as he was in the habit of doing when deeply moved.

“Made miserable by a dishonest slave!” exclaimed Deinocrates, “you must tell us about it.”

“The story is soon told,” replied Phorion. “But come here, boy. Push the tables aside, brush the bones and fruit-skins away, and bring wine, wine! I am dying of thirst.”

When everything was arranged, the slave brought a silver vessel and poured some wine into it from an ancient silver cup, the show-piece in Opasion’s house.

236 Phorion took the vessel. The flute-player rose, put her instrument to her lips, and began a subdued, solemn melody.

“Let this beaker,” said the young man, “be offered to the gods of my native city, with thanks for their gracious protection on my journey!”

Then he poured out some of the contents of the cup.

The notes of the flute sounded louder, but not so loud as to drown the noise of the wine falling on the smooth stones of the floor. Then the subdued melody followed. Phorion drank a few sips from the beaker and passed it to Aristeides, who also took a little, and so it went the round of the party, always accompanied by the music of the flute.

Lycon gazed with a strangely vacant glance at the preparations for the drinking-bout, and it was evidently a relief to him when Deinocrates asked the new-comer to continue his story.

“About five years ago,” resumed Phorion, “Simonides bought a young slave called Zenon.”

Hearing this name so suddenly, Lycon turned ghastly pale and, half falling back on his couch, made a groping movement with his hands, as though he had suddenly been plunged into the blackest darkness.

Aristeides pitied him, and, to force him to control himself, said:

“Are you ill, Lycon?”

Lycon passed his huge hand over his face; the muscles around his mouth quivered, and it was a moment237 ere he could mutter a few words which sounded as if he had taken too large a mouthful.

“So,” continued Phorion, “Simonides bought a young slave named Zenon. He hadn’t given much for him, because Zenon had robbed his former master, a physician in the neighboring city of Ormenium; he had been branded and fled to Poseidon’s altar in Methone. Nobody would buy him, but when he fell weeping at Simonides’ feet and promised to conquer his evil propensities, the latter was touched and bought him for less than a mina.Q For more than a year his conduct obtained his master’s approval and won his favor and confidence. One day Simonides was visited by a man from Hypata, with whom he had business relations. Zenon waited on the table and saw the stranger pay Simonides nearly a talent, partly in ready money and partly in drafts on well-known moneylenders in Athens, and noticed that this property was placed in a box where many bags of daricsR were already kept. The next morning the chest where the box had been placed was found broken open. The box had gone, and with it Zenon. Simonides sent mounted messengers to this city, but Zenon had already had the drafts cashed, the more easily because his master’s seal ring was in the chest.

“Simonides had the great robbery and an exact description of the thief’s personal appearance proclaimed in the market by the public heralds; but all his efforts238 were useless. Grief and worry over this great loss broke down his health. He was attacked by paralysis, his right side was benumbed, his mouth drawn awry, and for a time he was almost speechless. The once gay, jovial man is now a mere shadow of his former self. Though he is too proud to complain, I think the slaves take advantage of his condition and do what they choose. There is not the least sign of the order that formerly existed in the house. In the vestibule lay fragments of broken wine-jars, fruit-skins, faded garlands, and the handles of burnt torches. Yet not even to his best friend, Polycles the wine-dealer, has he mentioned their negligence. The only complaint that ever escaped the lips of the sick man, so deserted by his servants, was the wish: ‘If I only had a son! I could depend upon him.’”

Q Mina = equal to about $20.

R Persian gold coin, named for Darius, value a little over $5.

“By Heracles!” cried one of the reckless young fellows, “he’ll find that wish hard to get—weak as he is.”

“And why not?” replied Phorion gravely. “Of what consequence here is the mere tie of blood? Nothing is needed except a son’s affection. Yes,” he added warmly, “among those who have known Simonides in his days of happiness, why should there not be one person that would take pleasure in coming to the sick man’s help and making amends for the wrong others have done him?”

Opasion thrust his foxy face from behind one of the pillars, and noticing that the conversation had almost ceased, made a sign to the young girls.

239 The flute-player began a lively tune; the juggler threw off her shabby upper-robe and took from the box she used as a foot-stool nine short swords whose handles ended in a sharp point. These swords she stuck firmly into the cracks between the flag-stones, placing them in two rows, all with their keen two-edged blades in the air. Then she stepped between them and, after straightening her short breeches a little, walked on her hands, to the music of the flute, between the weapons, then rising turned somersaults over them so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow the movements of her slender, pliant body.

This was the dangerous sword-dance, always greatly admired.

The young men clapped their hands and shouted their plaudits.

“What ought not a man to be able to accomplish,” exclaimed Deinocrates, “when a woman can learn to leap so boldly between swords?”

Aristeides had not watched this scene; his eyes were fixed on Lycon. The latter had risen. He was a little paler than usual and stood gazing into vacancy with a strange look, as if he saw something far, far away. Something extraordinary seemed to be occupying his thoughts, and he repeatedly passed his huge hand over his face.

Then, apparently by chance, he approached Phorion. “I’m going to Thessaly in a few days,” he said in a tone which he endeavored to make as careless as possible, “and shall probably visit Methone. If you240 wish, Phorion I will carry your regards to Simonides.”

“Do so, and if you can, be his guest for a short time. Perhaps there is reason to report the servants’ conduct to the magistrates. His daughter Myrtale, according to his own account, is a child of seventeen who cannot rule slaves. But one thing you must know in advance—the door-keeper turns all strangers away; it is not easy to get into the house.”

“I shall get in,” said Lycon.
III.

A few days after Lycon might have been seen with a large travelling-hat on his head riding along the road between Halus and Iton in the province of Phthiotis in Thessaly. He had sold his house in Athens and all his slaves except one, a slender boy named Paegnion who, carrying a bundle suspended from a stick over his shoulders, accompanied him. He himself had a similar bundle fastened to his horse; in his hand he held a switch cut from the trunk of a vine and, when his cloak blew aside, the handle of a short sword appeared in his belt. Beside Paegnion walked a young slave from Halus, who was to take the hired horse back.

It was a pleasant summer morning when Lycon rode down the stony road over a spur of Mt. Othrys.

241 Before him on his left hand rose huge limestone cliffs, their sides overgrown with poplar, plane, and ash-trees, and their summits covered with thorny tragacanth bushes. Far below, one smiling valley lay beside another and through them all the river Amphrysus wound in glittering curves. The morning mists still rested on the wide landscape, revealing, ever and anon, a glimpse of distant cities at the foot of the mountains and undulating plains, with yellow grain-fields and luxuriant vineyards, interspersed here and there with clumps of fig-trees and groves of dwarf and stone oaks. Far at the right the white marble temples of a city glimmered against the dark-blue waters of a bay in the Pagasaean gulf. On the other side of the valley rose lofty hills, and beyond them—at the farthest point of view—the two snow-capped peaks of Pelion towered into the air.

Lycon let his gaze wander over the broad, sun-steeped landscape, and inhaled with pleasure the pure mountain air. Freedom had never seemed to him more alluring. The nearer he approached Methone, the more anxiously he asked himself whether he, who for years had lived as a free citizen, must again sink into a wretched, subservient bondman. He fancied he already felt on his neck the pressure of the wooden ring by which sweet-toothed slaves were prevented from raising their hands to their lips; he imagined he had fetters on his limbs and the heavy block dragging after him, and he shuddered at the thought of the smoking iron and its hissing on the skin.

242 Who told him he would escape this punishment? Had he not stolen a second time?

“By Zeus!” he muttered, “I’m afraid I have made the dog’s throw.”S

S The worst throw in a game of dice.

But, remembering how he had altered during the past few years, he suddenly exclaimed: “No, I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.”

He had incautiously uttered the last words aloud and, starting, looked around him. The strange slave had paid no heed; but it was important for him to know whether Paegnion had heard them.

He beckoned to the boy, bent down from his horse, and took him by the ear.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked curtly. “Tell the truth.”

“I believe so,” stammered Paegnion, somewhat bewildered by this sudden attack.

“Repeat my words.”

“I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.”

Lycon drew his short sword and placed its point against Paegnion’s bare breast. The lad uttered a loud shriek.

“Did you ever cut yourself with a knife?” asked Lycon. “Then think what you will feel if I thrust now. Well then! If you repeat one word of what I said, I will drive this sword into you, if it were at the altar of the gods. So guard your mouth.”

Without listening to Paegnion’s assurances, he gave243 the horse a light blow with his whip and continued his way down to the valley.

The next day Lycon was riding up the Street of the Bakers in Methone, at whose end was seen the sea with the ships where he had learned the nautical expressions that had proved so useful to him with the district inspector at Athens. Though no anxiety was apparent in his bearing, his heart beat faster than usual. There was no change in the little city; it seemed as though he had never been away, he recognized every house, every wall, every stone. He was obliged to wait a moment at the laurel-tree and statue of Hermes, outside of Simonides’ house, ere he could control his voice sufficiently to say to Paegnion: “Knock!”

Paegnion seized the copper ring on the door and rapped loudly. The door-keeper was not at his post. It was a long time before he came and drew the bolt, and he opened the door no wider than was necessary to thrust out his hand. Lycon recognized in him an old slave named Satyrus, who had a sullen face and lazy bearing.

At sight of the youth in travelling dress, he said harshly: “What do you want? My master is sick and receives no one.” With these words he slammed the door so that the whole house shook. Lycon signed to Paegnion, who knocked again. “My good fellow,” he called, “announce me to your master. Tell him I am Lycon the Athenian, son of Megacles, and that I bring a greeting and message from Phorion, who was his guest a short time ago.” The door-keeper went244 grumbling away. At last he returned, opened the door, and said in a milder tone:

“Come in, he’ll speak to you.”

Sending away the boy with the hired horse, Lycon entered the dwelling. Anxious as he felt, he noticed that the appearance of the vestibule agreed exactly with Phorion’s description. There was dirt and disorder in every corner.

While crossing the peristyle, Lycon addressed a few words to Paegnion. At the sound of his voice a young girl who was just gliding into the women’s apartment, stopped, turned her head, and fixed upon him a look of wonder and surprise, but ere he had time to notice her she had vanished through the door. He had only caught a glimpse of a blue robe and a pair of questioning dark eyes. Was it Myrtale, whom he had last seen as a child, and with whom he had often played in the garden and at Simonides’ country-seat?

Absorbed in these thoughts, Lycon had walked so rapidly towards the room usually occupied by the master of the house that old Satyrus, the door-keeper, found it hard to keep up with him.

“Queer!” he muttered, “though you are a stranger, one would suppose you knew the house.”

Lycon saw that he had been on the point of betraying himself, but he was quick-witted.

“Of course I know the house, my good fellow,” he replied smiling“—from my friend Phorion’s description.”

245
IV.

Simonides was just breakfasting. On seeing how weak and feeble he had become, Lycon could scarcely control his emotion, and it cut him to the heart when he saw the crooked mouth—the mark paralysis had stamped upon him for life.

“Thief!” he thought; “it is your work!” and he passed his big hand over his face to hide his tears. He longed to throw himself at his master’s feet and clasp his knees.

Simonides did not rise when Lycon entered, but gave him his hand and greeted him kindly.

“Welcome!” he said. “You are Phorion’s friend, I hear, and bring a greeting and message from him. How is his blind father? Does Praxagoras, the physician from Cos, think he will succeed in restoring his lost sight?”

Lycon could not answer; he knew nothing about Phorion’s father.

“How is his wife, who was so ill after the birth of her last child?”

Lycon knew nothing of Phorion’s wife either. He felt extremely uncomfortable, tried to turn the conversation into another channel and, by way of explanation, added carelessly:

“I know Phorion only in the market, the arcades, and other places where men daily meet in Athens. He has never spoken of his family.”

246 Simonides raised his head and looked intently at Lycon.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, apparently with some little disappointment. “I thought that you and Phorion were intimate friends. There is an old acquaintanceship between us, dating from the time when his father and I were both young.”

The conversation now took a different turn, as Simonides asked for news from Athens. This was a subject on which Lycon could talk, and the more freely because relieved from his worst fear. Simonides evidently had not recognized him. His long hair and thick beard, especially his heavy eyebrows, which he had had clipped very frequently to make them large and bushy, had entirely changed his appearance.

Simonides had offered his guest some refreshments after his journey. In the long time that elapsed before they were brought Lycon saw a confirmation of the bad condition of household affairs. He also noticed that two goblets stood on the little table; of course Simonides had had a companion at his meal, doubtless his daughter, Myrtale, who, according to the universal Hellenic custom, had left the room when the door-keeper announced a stranger. She was probably the young girl of whom he had caught a glimpse in the peristyle.

After the meal Simonides offered to let a slave called Conops show Lycon around the city. He called, but no one came. He rapped repeatedly on the floor with his cane: but no one seemed to hear—the247 veins on Lycon’s forehead swelled and his heavy eyebrows met in a frown.

“Wretches!” he muttered.

“Be not angry, Simonides,” he added warmly, clasping his hand in both his own, “be not angry if, though a stranger, I speak freely of things which do not concern me. Let me, I beg you, talk in your name to these sluggards. Imagine that I am your son and have returned from a long journey. Come! Lean on my arm, let us go about the house and see what the slaves are doing.”

Simonides fixed a puzzled glance upon Lycon.

“Stranger,” he said, “you speak singular words. You have not been half so long under my roof as the water-clock needs to run out, yet you seem to read the wishes of my soul. Who are you, young man? Your voice is strangely familiar, yet no ... you speak the Attic dialect so purely that Phorion, who was born in the city, has no better accent.”

With these words he rose slowly, by the help of his cane, and took Lycon’s arm.

“Another person,” he added, “might perhaps be angry with you or feel offended. I am neither. It is seldom, very seldom, that a careless youth has so much affection for a sick and feeble man. Come, my son—let me call you so—try whether you can help me to restore the discipline of the house, but do not suppose that the victory will be an easy one. Thistles which have grown all the year are not uprooted by the first jerk. If you could stay with me for a time—yet248 I will not urge you,” he added smiling faintly, “that you may not say you are drubbed into accepting the invitation. A resident of Athens will scarcely waste time on our little city.”

“Do you think so?” said Lycon, smiling. “I will gladly stay, if you believe that I can serve you.”

Simonides had difficulty in dragging himself onward. Fortunately the distance was not great; in ancient times the houses were small, supplied with numerous corners, it is true, but covering little space. Supported by Lycon’s arm, Simonides walked through the short colonnade outside of the men’s rooms; in the little peristyle of the women’s apartment, where he was forced to stop a moment to rest, no human being appeared and the small chambers occupied by the slaves,—half a score of dungeon-like cells,—all stood empty. The same state of affairs existed in the women’s work-room. In the door leading to the garden sat, or rather lay, one of the youngest slaves of the household, a light-haired boy seven or eight years old. He had leaned his head against the door-post and, overcome by the noonday heat, had fallen asleep.

“Look!” whispered Lycon, pointing to the boy, “fortune favors us. The sentinel is slumbering at his post. We shall come upon them unawares.”

Loud, merry talk reached them from the garden.

“Conops has slept on the bench long enough,” said a harsh voice, not without a shade of envy.

“How he snores!” added another.

“Only a swine-herd can snore like that.”

249 “Pour some wine into his mouth.”

“Tickle him on the nose with a straw.”

“Put a frog on his neck.”

The last proposal was greeted with shrill laughter.

Lycon pushed the sleeping boy away with his foot and, in the midst of the slaves’ noisy mirth, the master of the house and his guest suddenly stood among them.

A strange spectacle was presented to their eyes. On a roughly-made couch, which had been carried into the shade, lay the largest and strongest of the slaves, the swine-herd Conops, almost naked, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. Close around him stood those who had proposed to wake him, and behind this group some half nude boys, lying flat on the ground, were playing dice, while a couple of older slaves sitting at a table were quietly drinking a tankard of wine which they had forgotten to mix with water. Still farther away some young men were romping on a bench beneath some blossoming Agnus-castus trees with two slave-girls who, at the sight of the new-comers, started up with a loud shriek and, covering their faces with their hands, fled around the nearest corner of the house.

Lycon did not speak a word to the slaves, but as he turned slowly with Simonides to go back to the dwelling by the same path, he said as though continuing an interrupted conversation:

“My advice is this: Sell them all to the mines in Laurium—they will be cured of laziness there—and buy new ones, even if you have to pay more for them.”

250 He had spoken loud enough for the nearest slaves to hear every word.

Work in the mines of Laurium was considered the hardest slave-labor in Hellas. What terror and consternation therefore seized upon the pampered, idle slaves in Simonides’ house at the prospect so suddenly opened before them.

A low, but eager murmur instantly arose behind the retreating figures. Many were talking at the same time and in an angry tone.

“Do you hear?” said Lycon to Simonides, “the medicine is beginning to work.”

The old man pressed his hand.
V.

Lycon let himself be shown around the city by the boy he had found sleeping with his head against the door-post, and invented errands to many of the citizens but none of them recognized him.

Meantime his young slave, Paegnion, was sauntering idly about the house. He was tired, so he welcomed the event when some one unexpectedly spoke to him in the peristyle of the women’s apartment.

“What is your name, my lad?” asked a gay, musical voice from one of the little openings in the wall facing the peristyle.

Paegnion looked up. All he saw inside the small opening was a delicate white hand, which had drawn251 aside the Coan curtain, some shining braids of brown hair, a gold fillet, and a pair of mischievous black eyes, whose sparkle vied with the fillet.

“What is your name, my lad?” the voice repeated.

“Paegnion.”

“A pretty name! Are many boys in Athens called Paegnion as well as you?”

“Some, but not many.”

“Has your master a pretty name too?”

“He is called Lycon.”

“Has he no other name?”

Paegnion was silent.

“Well then!” said the gay voice in a strangely contemptuous tone, and the hand moved as though to close the curtain.

Paegnion feared the conversation was over.

“What do you mean?” he hastened to ask.

“I thought Attic youths were more clever than others—so clever that their masters could never conceal anything from them. Now I see that the Athenian lads are no brighter than our own.”

Paegnion felt a little nettled.

“I could answer you, if I chose,” he muttered roughly.

“And why don’t you choose, Paegnion?”

“Because I don’t want to be thrust through the breast with a long knife.”

“Empty threats! And you care for them? A boy like you isn’t easily killed.... No, say rather that you know nothing.”

252 And again the delicate hand moved as if to drop the curtain.

“But I do know something,” Paegnion hastened to reply. “He has, as you say, another name.”

“Who told you so?”

“He himself.”

“What did he say?”

“That I won’t tell.”

“Are you so timid, Paegnion? I thought the Attic boys were braver. Besides, what do you risk by telling me, a woman? I shall never see your master, never have a chance to speak to him—what do you fear?”

Paegnion reflected a moment.

“No!” he cried resolutely, “I dare not! He might find out.”

“That’s a pity! I thought you would earn some money. Look!” the young girl continued, holding out a number of small flat silver coins in a box and showing them to Paegnion, “here are twelve triobols.”

The lad gazed covetously at the glittering coins.

“Twelve triobols,” he repeated with a crafty smile, “and I am fifteen years old.”

“You shall have three more. But make haste, somebody might come. What did your master say?”

Paegnion looked around him.

“On the way here,” he whispered, advancing close to the wall, “my master rode for a time absorbed in thought; then he suddenly exclaimed: ‘No, I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.’”

253 “I knew it!” cried the girl and, forgetting the money, she clapped her hands so that the obols fell on the ground and rolled about in every direction.

Paegnion was not slow in picking up his treasure.

“The three triobols,” he then said, “the three triobols you promised me.”

The girl disappeared from the opening. A moment after a fold of the curtain was raised and, if Paegnion had had eyes for it, he might have seen a beautiful white arm bared to the shoulder, but the lad was more intent upon obols than arms.

At this moment the back door of the garden creaked on its rusty hinges, and Paegnion ran with all his might to the little guest-room at the corner of the house, which had been assigned to him and his master.

When Lycon—for it was he—was crossing the small courtyard on the way to the guest-room he saw that the household slaves, half a score in all, had assembled there. Some were carrying hay from a large cart into a barn, others were pouring water over the rude wheels, consisting of round wooden disks, to cleanse them from lumps of clay, and others were standing idle in the shade. But, whether busy or not, there was an air of malevolence about them and not one uttered a word. The prospect of forced labor in the Laurium mines rested like a dark cloud on every face.

The big swine-herd, Conops, held in his hand a bunch of dry leaves with which he was wiping the sweat from the heaving flanks of a mule.

254 Lycon passed quietly on to the guest-room, where he called to Conops in a curt, authoritative tone:

“Open the door. You see I am carrying something under my cloak.”

The huge fellow did not stir.

Lycon beckoned to the little boy and gave him his bundle.

“Don’t you know,” he then said to Conops, “that I am your master’s guest, and that you should obey a guest as you would your master himself?”

“Perhaps that is the custom in Athens,” replied Conops impudently, looking at the others. “In Methone slaves do what they choose.”

Lycon’s great hand suddenly fell upon Conops’ cheek. So violent was the blow that the swine-herd reeled several paces aside, struck his head against the stable-wall, and scratched one of his ears. Dizzy and confused as he was, he was servile enough to recognize in the hand that struck such a blow a superior power, which it would not do to defy.

“What a cuff!” he muttered, wiping away the blood which streamed from his ear upon his brown shoulder then, glancing at the others again, he added with evident admiration of the blow: “I never had such a knock before.”

“The door!” said Lycon curtly.

Conops opened it without a word.

Lycon now turned to the slaves and informed them that the order of the household must and should be restored. No one would be overburdened with work;255 but, if each did his share, there would seem to be less to be done. Then he represented to the slaves who had been born in Simonides’ house how shamefully they had behaved in consulting only their own convenience, while their master was ill and helpless, needing more than anything else careful attendance.

He soon succeeded in touching the hearts of the slaves and, when he perceived it, he added that Simonides would forgive and forget everything if within three days they would bring him the household instruments of punishment which they had thrown away and broken. If one of the older slaves fulfilled this demand, Simonides would make him overseer of the others, but should they persist in their negligence their master, with an Attic slave-dealer’s assistance, would sell them to the mines.
VI.

Early the next morning, while the dew was still sparkling on the leaves and in the grass, Simonides’ daughter, Myrtale, a girl of seventeen, came out of the women’s apartment into the garden. She had thrown over her head a red scarf with small white stars, from beneath which fell her thick dark-brown locks. Her figure, though not tall, was well developed, and its delicately-rounded outlines were fully displayed by the256 red robe she wore. The little Methonian bore no resemblance to the stately marble caryatides which as images of the Attic virgins adorned the vestibule of the Erechtheum; but her whole figure was so instinct with life and youth that no eye could help lingering on it with pleasure. Even the swine-herd, Conops, turned his clumsy head to watch her as she passed and among the slaves, who half neglected and half admired her, she was never called anything but hē pais, “the child.”

Myrtale, however, was a child who had a will of her own and a very determined one. Having early lost her mother, she had had no female companionship except her nurse, who indulged her in everything. She had been educated in a much freer manner than was usually the case with Hellenic maidens. She took her meals with her father, even when his friend Polycles, the wine-dealer, visited him. When Polycles noticed that the young girl did not lack intelligence he often asked her opinion, and this pleased Simonides, who spoiled his only child and treated her more like a son and heir than like a daughter.

Nay, when Simonides, during his days of health, read aloud the plays of Magnes, the Icarian, Myrtale, at that time a girl of thirteen or fourteen, was usually present and stimulated by the unbridled laughter of the two friends, understood much that had been previously incomprehensible, and caught many an allusion which the two men did not suspect that she could comprehend. In this way Myrtale had learned to257 know more of the world and life than other young girls who spent their days in a virgin chamber.T

T Part of the women’s apartment.

The slaves’ negligence, the only thing that could have shadowed her youth, disturbed her far less than it troubled her father, since she always had her faithful nurse with her and—thanks to the freedom granted her—enjoyed her life like a careless child, to whom the present moment is everything.

When Myrtale came out into the garden early that morning, she stood still for a time irresolute but, woman-like, not idle. Seeing how dark and wet the ground was and what big drops glittered in the grass, she instantly set to work to fasten up her dress that it might not be soiled by dampness. Then she tripped on through maples, ivy, and vines twined around poles which rested on stout posts, towards the most secluded part of the garden. When she reached the bee-hives and heard the buzzing of the insects, she paused a moment, laughed softly, and said to herself with a mischievous little smile:

“Now I know what to do—he shall be forced to confess everything.” Seeing some superb white lilies, she left her silver-embroidered sandals in the garden-path and skipped on her little bare feet into the wet grass. While gathering the flowers she felt as though ants were crawling on her and, raising her dress a little, looked over her shoulder at her ankles, carefully examining each. The pretty girl thought herself alone and258 unobserved, and there was something so bewitching in her whole appearance that it would have been a pity not to have had a witness.

But there was a witness.

Lycon, who had been unable to sleep all night, because each passing day brought the decision of his fate nearer, had gone out into the garden early and seated himself on a bench in the nearest thicket. From his green ambush not one of Myrtale’s movements escaped his notice. Had he been familiar with Homer, he would have thought that she resembled Danae, Acrisius’ daughter, and deserved the name of Callisphyrus, the maid with the beautiful calves. But Lycon knew nothing of Homer, so he contented himself with muttering:

“Is that Myrtale? How pretty she has grown.”

Yet he did not go to meet her. Of course she would have been frightened by the sight of a strange man. And what should he talk about? He had nothing to say to her.

While Myrtale was putting on her silver-wrought sandals, a black and white goat, with trailing tether, came running towards her. She glanced at the wet, rough-coated animal, then at her light dress and, drawing back, clapped her hands violently to frighten the creature away. But the goat did not understand. It merely stopped in its run and approached slowly, holding its head very high, evidently supposing the movement of her hands a challenge to play. With the mischievousness natural to this animal it suddenly made a259 couple of short, frolicsome leaps, lowered its head and sharp horns, and darted towards the young girl.

Without hesitation Myrtale pulled up the nearest flower-stake and defended herself against the goat. But the animal, now it was once in fighting mood, constantly renewed the attack and the young girl found it more and more difficult to keep the creature at bay. She was therefore more pleased than alarmed when the bushes rustled and Lycon sprang out and seized the goat’s tether.

Myrtale silently put back the flower-stake, and busied herself in tying up the plant.

For some time neither spoke.

“Are you Myrtale, Simonides’ daughter?” asked Lycon, as he watched the pretty Methonian with a pleasure he had never felt before.

Myrtale nodded assent.

“Are you Lycon, the Athenian, my father’s guest?” she inquired, without raising her eyes to the stranger’s face.

Lycon had scarcely time to reply, for the goat now renewed its attack upon him. He laughed:

“Come, my kid. You shall learn that I am not called Lycon with the big hand for nothing.”

Seizing one of the goat’s horns with one hand, and its little tail with the other, he lifted the mischievous animal from the ground so that its four legs hung loosely down. When he set it on the earth again the creature was thoroughly cowed. Bleating feebly, it260 unresistingly allowed itself to be dragged back to the grass-plot from which it had escaped.

At the beehives Myrtale managed to have Lycon pass tolerably near them. While the insects were buzzing most thickly around him, she suddenly exclaimed:

“A bee, a bee!” and laying her hand on Lycon’s neck added: “Don’t you feel any pain? It must have stung you. I saw it creep out from under your robe.”

Lycon denied feeling any hurt.

“Let me see your shoulder!” continued Myrtale. “An old woman from Hypata taught me two magic words with which the stings of wasps and bees can be instantly cured.”

“It is unnecessary,” replied Lycon curtly.

“Do as I beg you,” urged Myrtale.

“Girl!” cried Lycon impatiently, “you ask foolish things.... I will not do it.”

Myrtale’s eyes flashed, the color in her cheeks deepened, and she suddenly stopped.

“Zenon,” she said, raising her voice, “I, the daughter of your master Simonides, command you to do it.”

If the earth had opened at Lycon’s feet he could not have been more surprised and horrified than by these words.

“Merciful Gods!” he exclaimed, turning pale and clasping his hands, “how do you know?—Who has told you?”

261 “Silence!” said Myrtale sternly. “Neither my father nor the slaves recognized you, but I knew you at the first sound of your voice, though you now speak the Attic dialect. You are Zenon, do not deny it. Shall I call Conops and the others, and have your robe torn off? There is a kappa on your shoulder; I know it.”

“Oh, miserable man that I am!” exclaimed Lycon, wringing his hands, while his eyes filled with tears. “I have seen you to my destruction.” And falling at Myrtale’s feet, he clasped her knees, adding: “How shall I answer? What am I to say?”

“The truth.”

“Ah, I will conceal nothing, but tell you a secret which is the key of my soul. Know that I am not, as you suppose, slave-born. My parents were free and lived in Carystus at Eub?a. My father was overseer of the slaves in the marble quarries. During my childhood he lived comfortably; but afterwards he began to drink, became involved in debt, and with his wife and child was sold into slavery. Yet, with my free birth, I had obtained a different temper from that of a slave. The scourge humbled far more than it hurt me, and I could not laugh with the rest when the pain was over. Day and night I plotted to gain my freedom and, as I could not purchase it, I resolved to steal it. To be free I could have robbed the gods themselves. The first time I failed—I was caught and branded. The next I was more successful.... There—now you know my crime.”

262 And he then told her about his happy life in Athens, his deep repentance at Phorion’s description of Simonides’ illness, and his determination to restore the discipline of the household in order to obtain forgiveness.

Myrtale did not lose a single word, but while Lycon was kneeling before her she noticed that his tearful eyes were very handsome, and that a delicate odor of ointment rose from his hair. The power of trifles has always been great, especially with women. This perfume made a strange impression upon her. For a moment she forgot that Lycon was a slave, and compared him in her mind with the son of their neighbor the baker, who after having spent ten days in Athens went as foppishly clad and moved as stiffly as the Athenian dandies. She looked at Lycon’s broad shoulders and sinewy arms—and whatever the cause, she felt more kindly disposed.

“You are a strange person,” she said, gazing into Lycon’s eyes. “Who and what are you?... Half Athenian and half Methonian, half citizen and half slave, half Lycon and half Zenon. I will do as my father once did: I will trust you, though perhaps I am unwise.”

With these words she was hurrying towards the house, but Lycon seized a fold of her robe.

“Myrtale,” he said, “believe me, a good emotion induced me to return. Consider how free from care my life was in Athens, and what I have risked. Do not make me miserable—do not prematurely reveal263 my secret, so that your father will refuse me his forgiveness! He who has once been free is of no value as a slave.”

Myrtale noticed the shudder that ran through his limbs, and felt strangely moved. She read in Lycon’s eyes the anguish he was suffering and to console him said:

“Have no fear! Myrtale does not hate Lycon.... I have never forgotten how kind you were to me when I was a child. I still have the little cart you made for me.”

“And I,” said Lycon, deeply moved as he seized her arm and kissed it, “I did not suppose that little Myrtale would become such a girl—so good and so beautiful!”

Myrtale smiled.

“Now Lycon is forgetting Zenon!” she replied, and raising her light dress, ran off towards the house.

But Lycon was by no means cheerful. On the contrary he was very anxious at knowing his secret was in a woman’s keeping. “The sooner I speak to Simonides the better,” he thought.
VII.

Two days after, just as Lycon had breakfasted with the master of the house, Carion, the old slave, entered. Lycon was going to rise and leave the room, but Simonides264 took him by the arm and made him keep his place on the edge of the couch.

“Master,” said old Carion, “I have come to ask for myself and the rest of the slaves that you will forgive and forget. If you only will not sell us to the mines, we will obey you in everything and, as a token of our submission, we bring you the household implements of punishment, all of them, and in good condition.”

Simonides could scarcely believe his ears, and turned to his guest in speechless surprise. Lycon laughed in his sleeve.

At a sign from Carion, two young slaves entered and laid at their master’s feet large and small whips, iron collars, fetters, stocks, branding irons, neck-wheels, and the so-called “tree,” which served as a pillory and at the same time inflicted the torture of sitting in a doubled up position. Bringing in all these articles consumed time enough to enable Simonides to regain his composure.

Without showing his satisfaction in the presence of the slaves, he replied that he would grant their petition and forgive what had happened. No one should suffer oppression, but if any one did wrong he would be punished. Carion, the first who had given an example of obedience, would be made overseer of the others, and in token that he himself was ready to forget what had happened, each of them would be received that evening as if he were entering his master’s house for the first time. He should be led to the hearth by the265 overseer and there receive figs, dried grapes, nuts, and small pastry cakes, in token that there was an abundance in the house and he would lack nothing.

Simonides then ordered the slaves to carry the instruments of punishment to the room intended for them.

Scarcely was he alone with Lycon ere, with overflowing affection, he pressed him to his breast.

“By all the gods of friendship!” he exclaimed, “tell me by what magic you have accomplished this?”

Lycon now mentioned the chastisement he had given Conops, and the demand he had made of the slaves in their master’s name under the penalty of labor in the mines.

Simonides grasped Lycon’s hand and pressed it in both his own.

“Though a stranger,” he said, “you have fulfilled my dearest wish and restored order to my household. May the gods bless you for it! To my dying day I shall remember this time as a happy hour. But tell me, my son, is there nothing you desire, nothing I can do for you?”

Lycon averted his face. Now, in this decisive moment, which he had anticipated during so many days and nights, he could not force himself to utter a single word.

“My son,” persisted Simonides, “there is something that weighs upon your heart. Do not deny it. By Zeus, I want to see only happy faces to-day. So, tell me what it is.”

266 Lycon sprang from the couch and threw himself at Simonides’ feet.

“Pardon, Master!” he faltered, “I am not worthy to be your guest.”

“What fire-brand are you casting into my bosom,” cried Simonides, half-raising himself on the couch as, seized by a dark foreboding, he gazed with dilated eyes at the kneeling figure.

Lycon turned deadly pale. Grasping a fold of Simonides’ robe, he said in a voice almost choked with emotion:

“Master ... don’t you know me?... I am your slave Zenon.”

“Wonder-working Gods!” exclaimed Simonides doubtfully, “what am I compelled to hear!”

“Mercy, Master, mercy!”

Simonides, uttering a fierce cry, kicked Lycon away with his foot.

“Thief,” he shouted, trembling with rage, “miserable thief, you have stolen my money and my health, what do you seek in my house? Have you come here to rob me a second time?... For two years I have not suffered your name to be spoken in my hearing.... Begone, begone from my sight, you source of my misery—you destroyer of the happiness of my life!”

And as Lycon still lingered, Simonides pointed to the door of the peristyle, shouting imperatively: “Go, go, I command you!”

Lycon left the room with drooping head, without casting a glance behind. He no longer had a hope.

267 At the same moment the curtain at the door of a side-chamber stirred slightly, and soon after Myrtale entered and silently seated herself on the edge of the couch at her father’s feet. She was very pale, and through the folds of her thin dress the rapid rising and falling of her bosom showed that she was struggling for breath. Simonides scarcely seemed to notice her and, without moving or looking up, she waited patiently for him to speak.

At last he broke the silence.

“Do you know who Lycon is?” he asked.

“Yes, I know.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“It was his business to confess, not mine.”

“What do you advise, Myrtale?”

“To wait until to-morrow.”

“Why?”

“To let Lycon sentence himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of two things will happen—either he will run away during the night and then his solicitude for himself will be greater than his repentance, or he will stay, and then his repentance will be deep enough to make him prefer to suffer everything rather than not obtain your forgiveness.”

Simonides drew Myrtale towards him and stroked her pretty brown hair.

“Polycles is right,” he said, “your name ought to have been MetisU and not Myrtale.... But will not268 Lycon take advantage of the night to steal from me again?”

U Prudence, ingenuity.

Myrtale made no reply, but the lines around her mouth expressed so much wrath and scorn that Simonides in surprise looked at her more closely. A glittering streak ran from her eyes down over her cheeks.

“So you trust him?” he asked.

“I do trust him,” replied Myrtale so earnestly that her father remained silent a long time.

“Was I too severe?” he said at last.

Myrtale did not answer.

“Remember, child, that the service he has rendered to me is nothing in comparison to the crime he committed. If his own sin had not made me ill, I should never have needed his assistance.”

The next morning, while Lycon was uncertain whether he ought to go to Simonides or wait for the latter’s orders, a boy entered and said:

“Simonides asks Lycon to come to him.”

This message showed he was not to be treated as a slave.

“I will come,” Lycon hastily replied, and when the lad had gone he fairly leaped into the air in his delight.

Before he had left the guest-room he remembered that during his restless sleep he had had a dream. In his childhood he had often seen a little boy, the son of poor parents, known by the name of unlucky Knemon, because he looked so doleful that everybody slapped and pushed him because he really seemed to invite269 cuffs. This boy had appeared to him in the dream. Lycon tried to push him aside—but at the same moment the lad was transformed and Eros himself stood smiling before him, a garland of roses on his hair. Gazing intently at Lycon he shook his finger at him. Lycon thought of Myrtale and murmured: “I accept the omen.”

This dream now returned to his mind.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yesterday I was a doleful, unlucky Lycon; I invited a beating—so Simonides kicked me.... Would a dog get so many blows if it did not crouch before its master? Well, I will be braver to-day.”

With these words he took up the two bundles he had brought with him from Athens.

“What have you there?” asked Simonides, as he saw Lycon enter with a package under each arm.

“Not my property, but yours,” replied Lycon.

Simonides understood that the parcels contained the ready money and articles of value Lycon had brought with him from Athens.

“Put them there,” he said, pointing to a small cabinet.

Lycon laid the bundles down.

“Tell me,” Simonides continued, “what did you think about your position in the city?”

“Nothing—by Zeus!” said Lycon, as though amused by his own freedom from anxiety. “I had so much to do in becoming acquainted with people and things in Athens, that I forgot both past and future270 and, when I heard Phorion speak of your illness and your servants’ laziness and negligence, I was so busy in selling my house and slaves to hasten to your assistance that not until during the journey here did I find an opportunity to think of scourges, fetters, and branding-irons—in short of all that might await me.”

“Did it not occur to you to run away during the night?”

“Certainly,” replied Lycon; “but I said to myself: ‘Then it would have been better not to come at all.’ So I stayed.”

“Were you not afraid of being enslaved again?”

“No,” said Lycon quietly; “you would not do that. You know that a man who has lived for years as a free citizen cannot become a bondsman.”

“Well, by Hera!” exclaimed Simonides laughing, “you are a strange mortal. Yesterday you were all humility, and to-day you dictate what I am to do. Yet I like Lycon better to-day than yesterday! Take one of my slaves with you, look about the city and return at dinner time; by that time I shall have considered what will serve you best.”
VIII.

Accompanied by the gigantic Conops, who had volunteered his services, Lycon went to the market. It was a little open square, one side occupied by the council-hall, a pretty new pillared building, another by271 an ancient temple of Poseidon, one of the noteworthy objects in the city, a third by an arcade used for a shelter in rainy weather, and the fourth by the houses of the citizens.

Though it was still early in the day, the place was crowded. Lycon found entertainment in looking about him for, although only in miniature, this market-place was an image of the one in Athens.

Country people, standing in booths made of interwoven green branches, were selling fresh cheese, eggs, honey, oil, fruit, and green vegetables; one or two potters were loudly praising their painted jars; bakers’ wives were half concealed behind huge piles of bread and cakes, and young flower-girls sat among their bright-hued, fragrant wares, busily making wreaths. Freemen, as well as male and female slaves, wandered among the booths, bargaining here and there, while youths in light mantles, with embroidered fillets around their hair, jested with the prett............