d my power."

He held up the clay and eyed it as a miser might his gold.

"What a little lump! Not very hard. I can dash it on the floor and it
dissolves in dust. And yet, and yet--all Elysium, all Tartarus, are pent up
for me in just this bit of clay."

He picked at it with his finger and broke a small piece from the edge.

"A little more, the stamp is ruined. I could not use it. Better if it were
ruined. And yet,--and yet,--"

He laid the clay upon the table and sat watching it wistfully.

"O Father Zeus!" he broke out after silence, "if I were not compelled by
fear! Sicinnus is so sharp, Themistocles so unmerciful! It would be a
terrible death to die,--and every man is justified in shunning death."

He looked at the inanimate lump as if he expected it to answer him.

"Ah, I am all alone. No one to counsel me. In every other trouble when has
it been as this? Glaucon? Cimon? Themistocles?--What would they advise?"--he
ended with a laugh more bitter than a sob. "And I must save myself, but at
such a price!"

He pressed his hands over his eyes.

"Curses on the hour I met Lycon! Curses on the Cyprian and his gold! It
would have been better to have told Glaucon and let him save me now and
hate me forever after. But I have sold myself to the Cyprian. The deed
cannot be taken back."

But as he said it, he arose, took the charmed bit of clay, replaced in the
box, and locked the coffer. His hand trembled as he did it.

"I cannot do this thing. I have been foolish, wicked,--but I must not be
driven mad by fear. The Cyprian must quit Athens to-morrow. I can throw
Sicinnus off the scent. I shall never be the worse."

He walked with the box toward the cupboard, but stopped halfway.

"It is a dreadful death to die;"--his thoughts raced and were half
uttered,--"hemlock!--men grow cold limb by limb and keep all their faculties
to the end. And the crows in the Barathrum, and the infamy upon my
father's name! When was a son of the house of Codrus branded 'A Traitor to
Athens'? Is it wickedness to save one's own life?"

Instead of going to the cupboard he approached the window. The sun beat
hotly, but as he leaned forth into the street he shivered as on a winter's
morn. In blank wretchedness he watched the throng beneath the window,
pannier-laden asses, venders of hot sausage with their charcoal stoves and
trays, youths going to and from the gymnasium, slaves returning from
market. How long he stood thus, wretched, helpl