s,--and possibly Democrates knew on what vessel the carpet-seller had
taken flight.

BOOK II

THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN

CHAPTER XV

THE LOTUS-EATING AT SARDIS

When Glaucon awoke to consciousness, it was with a sense of absolute
weakness, at the same moment with a sense of absolute rest. He knew that
he was lying on pillows "softer than sleep," that the air he breathed was
laden with perfume, that the golden light which came through his
half-closed eyelids was deliciously tempered, that his ears caught a
musical murmur, as of a plashing fountain. So he lay for long, too
impotent, too contented to ask where he lay, or whence he had departed.
Athens, Hermione, all the thousand and one things of his old life, flitted
through his brain, but only as vague, far shapes. He was too weak even to
long for them. Still the fountain plashed on, and mingling with the
tinkling he thought he heard low flutes breathing. Perhaps it was only a
phantasy of his flagging brain. Then his eyes opened wider. He lifted his
hand. It was a task even to do that little thing,--he was so weak. He
looked at the hand! Surely his own, yet how white it was, how thin; the
bones were there, the blue veins, but all the strength gone out of them.
Was this the hand that had flung great Lycon down? It would be mere sport
for a child to master him now. He touched his face. It was covered with a
thick beard, as of a long month's growth. The discovery startled him. He
strove to rise on one elbow. Too weak! He sank back upon the cushions and
let his eyes rove inquiringly. Never had he seen tapestries the like of
those that canopied his bed. Scarlet and purple and embroidered in gold
thread with elaborate hunting scenes,--the dogs, the chariots, the slaying
of the deer, the bearing home of the game. He knew the choicest looms of
Sidon must have wrought them. And the linen, so cool, so grateful,
underneath his head--was it not the almost priceless fabric of Borsippa? He
stirred a little, his eyes rested on the floor. It was covered with a rug
worth an Athenian patrician's ransom,--a lustrous, variegated sheen,
showing a new tint at each change of the light. So much he saw from the
bed, and curiosity was wakened. Again he put forth his hand, and touched
the hanging curtains. The movement set a score of little silver bells that
dang