And then, when at last he was drained dry, she left him, pursued another gilded youth from Crete, and went over to him; now she loved him, and he put faith in it. Neglected not only by Charicleia but by the toadies, for they too had now gone over to the Cretan whom she loved, Deinias sought out Agathocles, who had long known that things were going badly with him. Though overcome with shame at first, nevertheless he told the whole story—his passion, his desperate straits, the woman’s disregard, the Cretan rival—and in conclusion said that he would not remain alive if he could not have Charicleia. Agathocles thought it unseasonable at that moment to remind Deinias that he used never to be glad to see him, and him only, of all his friends, but used always to give preference to his toadies in those days. So he sold all that he had, the house that he had inherited in Samos, and came back bringing him the price, three talents. When Deinias received this, it was at once patent to Charicleia that in some way he had once more become handsome. Again the maid, and the notes, and reproof because he had not come for a long while; and the toadies came running up to dangle a line for him, seeing that Deinias was still good for a meal.

But when he had promised to come to her, had actually come, in the early hours of the night, and was inside the house, Demonax, the husband of Charicleia, whether through accidental detection of him or through arrangement with his wife—both stories are told—springing out upon him as if from ambush, gave orders to lock the outer door and to seize Deinias, threatening him with burning and scourging and coming at him with drawn sword, as an adulterer.

Perceiving what a calamitous situation he was in, Deinias seized a bar that lay near and killed not only Demonax himself, striking him on the temple, but also Charicleia, not with one blow in her case, but by striking her first with the bar again and again and afterwards with the sword of Demonax. The servants stood speechless in the meantime, dazed by the suddenness of the thing; then they tried to seize him, but when he made at them too with the sword, they fled, and Deinias made good his escape in spite of his monstrous deed.

The time that remained until dawn he spent with Agathocles in going over all that had happened and considering what would come of it in future. At dawn the magistrates appeared, for by then the thing had been noised abroad; they arrested Deinias, who himself did not deny that he had committed the murders, and brought him before the Salariae’ who then administered Asia. He sent im to the Emperor, and before long Deinias was committed to the island of Gyaros, one of the Cyclades, condemned by the Emperor to live there in perpetual exile.

Agathocles alone of all his friends kept with him, sailed with him to Italy, went to the trial with him, and failed him in nothing. Moreover, when at length Deinias went into exile, he did not desert his comrade even then, but of his own accord sentenced himself to live in Gyaros and share his exile; and when they were completely in want of necessities, he joined the purple-fishers, dived with them, brought home what he earned by this, and so supported Deinias. Besides, when the latter fell ill, he took care of him for a very long time, and when he died, did not care to return again to his own country, but remained there in the island, ashamed to desert his friend even after his death.

There you have the deed of a Greek friend which took place not long ago; I hardly think five years have passed since Agathocles died in Gyaros.

TOXARIS I do wish, Mnesippus, you had told this story without taking an oath, so that I might have been able to disbelieve it, for this Agathocles whom you have described is very much of a Scythian friend. However, I have no fear that you will be able to name any other like him.

MNESIPPUS Listen then, Toxaris, to the tale of another, Euthydicus of Chalcis. It was repeated to me by Simylus, the sea-captain of Megara, who took his solemn oath that he himself had seen the deed. He said that he was making a voyage from Italy to Athens at about the season of the setting of the Pleiades, carrying a miscellaneous collection of assengers, among whom was Euthydicus, and with im Damon, also of Chalcis, his comrade. They were of the same age, but Euthydicus was vigorous and strong, while Damon was pale and sickly, just convalescing, it seemed, from a prolonged illness.

As far as Sicily they had made a fortunate passage, said Simylus; but when they had run through the straits and in due time were sailing in the Adriatic itself, a great tempest fell upon them. Why repeat the many details of his story—huge seas, cyclones, hail, and all the other evils of a storm? But when they were at last abreast of Zacynthos,

Zante.

When Euthydicus, who happened to be undressed and in his bunk, heard him, he flung himself into the sea, got to Damon, who was already giving out (all this was visible at a long distance because the moon was shining) and helped him by swimming beside him and bearing him up. The rest of them, he said, wanted to aid the men and deplored their misfortune, but could not do it because the wind that drove them was too strong; however, they did at least something, for they threw them a number of pieces of cork and some spars, on which they might swim if they chanced upon any of them, and finally even the gang plank, which was not small. Think now, in the name of the gods! what firmer proof of affection could a man display towards a friend who had fallen overboard at night into a sea so wild, than that of sharing his death? I beg you, envisage the tumult of the seas, the roar of the breaking water, the boiling spume, the night, the despair; then one man strangling, barely keeping up his head, holding his arms out to his friend, and the other leaping after him at once, swimming with him, fearing that Damon would perish first. In that way you can appreciate that in the case of Euthydicus too it is no common friend whom I have described.