deprecation.

"But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not
Homer call them so many times 'godlike'?"

"Poetry doesn't win the pentathlon," retorted the king; then suddenly he
seized the athlete's right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked.
Glaucon did not wince. The king dropped the arm with a "_Euge!_" then
extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, "Open."

One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions approached, Athenian
and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon's
forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king's
brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.

"_Euge!_" cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, "He will do."

Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance,
he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately
turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on
mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.

"I hate Lycon. Grind his bones."

Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little
poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet
modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near
his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.

"Master Simonides is overkind," had ventured the athlete; "but I am sure
his praise is only polite compliment."

"What misunderstanding!" ran on the poet. "How you pain me! I truly
desired to ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many
people are gladdened just by looking on you?"

"How dare I answer? If 'no,' I contradict you--very rude. If 'yes,' I
praise myself--far ruder."

"Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of
Periander, all met in one body;" but seeing the athlete's confusion more
profound than ever, the Cean cut short. "Heracles! if my tongue wounds
you, lo! it's clapped back in its sheath; I'll be revenged in an ode of
fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will conquer, neither I nor any
sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear
Athenian?"

"I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides," said the
athlete, half childishly, half in deep seriousness.

"Well you may be. The gods are usually 'just' to such as you. It's we
graybeards that Tyche, 'Lady Fortune,' grows