Part 3 (2/2)
”You say he is waiting at Hegias's inn?”
”Yes, master. It's by the temple of Bellerophon, just as you begin to enter the city.”
”Good! I don't want to ask the way. Now catch this obol and be off.”
The boy s.n.a.t.c.hed the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
”The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,” was his reflection, as he strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in h.e.l.las is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a s.h.i.+mmer of white from some tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the road as from an inn.
”Hegias's inn,” grumbled the Athenian. ”Zeus grant it have no more fleas than most inns of Corinth!”
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A squalid scene revealed itself,-a white-washed room, an earthen floor, two clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,-but a tall, lean man in Oriental dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.
”Fair greetings, Hiram,” spoke the orator, no wise amazed, ”and where is your master?”
”At service,” came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had not seen the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
”Hail, Democrates.”
”Hail, Lycon.”
Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to ”fetch the n.o.ble Athenian some good Thasian wine.”
”You will join me?” urged the orator.
”Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till after the victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I'll enjoy 'the gentleman's disease'-a jolly drunkenness.”
”Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?”
”Good Democrates, what G.o.d has tricked you into believing your fine Athenian has a chance?”
”I have seven minae staked on Glaucon.”
”Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?”
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. ”I am not here to quarrel about the pentathlon,” he said emphatically.
”Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.” The Spartan's huge paws closed significantly: ”Here's the wine. Sit and drink. And you, Hiram, get to your corner.”
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian deliberately waited his host's first move.
”The wine is good, Democrates?” began Lycon.
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