He extended his right hand. On the second finger was a huge beryl signet. Democrates bent over it. “Two seated Sphynxes and a winged cherub flying above,—the seal of the royal Achæmenians of Persia! You are sent by Xerxes himself. You are—” The Prince raised a warning finger. “Hush, Athenian. Think what you will, but do not name me, though soon my name shall fly through all the world.” “So be it,” rejoined Democrates, his hands clutching the broken coin as at a last reprieve from death. “But be warned, even though I bear you no good-will. Themistocles is suspicious. Sicinnus his agent, a sly cat, is searching for you. The other day Themistocles, in the boat at Peiræus, was fain to have you questioned. If detected, I cannot save you.” The Prince shrugged his shoulders. “Good Democrates, I come of a race that trusts in the omnipotence of God and does the right. Duty requires me in Athens. What Ahura-Mazda and Mithra his glorious vicegerent will, that shall befall me, be I in Hellas or in safe Ecbatana. The decree of the Most High, written among the stars, is good. I do not shun it.” The words were spoken candidly, reverently. Democrates drew toward the door, and the others did not strive to detain him. “As you will,” spoke the Athenian; “I have warned you. Trust then your God. I have sold myself this once, but do not call me friend. Necessity is a sharp goad. May our paths never cross again!” “Until you again have need,” said the Prince, not seeking to wring from the other any promise. Democrates muttered a sullen farewell and went down the dark stairs. The light in Phormio’s house was out. No one seemed to be watching. On the way homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans, and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction. Only when Democrates thought of Glaucon and Hermione he was fain to grit his teeth, while many times it returned to him, “They think it was _Glaucon_ who has been twice now to visit the Babylonish carpet-seller.” * * * * * * * As the door had closed behind the orator, the Prince had strode across the rugs to the window—and spat forth furiously as in extreme disgust. “Fool, knave, villain! I foul my lips by speaking to his accursed ears!” The tongue in which he uttered this was the purest “Royal Persian,” such as one might hear in the king’s court. The beautiful “mute,” mute no longer, glided across the chamber and laid both hands upon his shoulder with a gracious caress. “And yet you bear with these treacherous creatures, you speak them fair?” was the remark in the same musical tongue.