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CALLIAS

SOCRATES AND ALCIBIADES.

CALLIAS
A Tale of the Fall of Athens

“Athenae Lysandro superfuerunt: occiso Socrate tum demum civitas eversa est.”

BY
REV. ALFRED J. CHURCH, M. A.

Professor of Latin in University College, London

MEADVILLE PENNA
FLOOD AND VINCENT
The Chautauqua-Century Press
1891

Copyright, 1891,
By Flood & Vincent.
The Chautauqua-Century Press, Meadville, Pa., U. S. A.
Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by Flood & Vincent.

CONTENTS

CALLIAS
A Tale of the Fall of Athens.

CHAPTER I.
A NEW PLAY.

It is the second year of the ninety-third Olympiad[1] and the Theatre at Athens is full, for the great dramatic season is at its height, and to-day there is to be performed a new play by Aristophanes, the special favorite of the Athenian public. It is a brilliant scene, but a keen observer, who happened to see the same gathering some five and twenty years ago, must now notice a certain falling off in its splendor. For these five and twenty years have been years of war, and latterly, years of disaster. Eleven years ago, the City wild with the pride of power and wealth, embarked on the mad scheme of conquering Sicily, and lost the finest fleet and army that it ever possessed. Since then it has been a struggle for life with it, and year by year it has been growing weaker and weaker. This has told sadly on the glories of its great festivals. The furnishing of the stage, indeed, is as perfect as ever, and the building itself has been pushed on several stages towards completion.[2] However scarce money may be in the public treasury, the theatre must not be starved. But elsewhere there are manifest signs of falling off. The strangers’ gallery is almost empty. All the Greek world from Massilia in Gaul to Cyrene among the sands of Africa used to throng it in happier days. Now more than half that world is hostile, and the rest has little to hope or fear from the dispossessed mistress of the seas. Dionysius of Syracuse, has sent an embassy, and the democracy, which once would have treated with scant courtesy the representatives of a tyrant, is fain to flatter so powerful a prince. There are some Persian Envoys too, for the Persians are still following their old game of playing off one great state against another. A few Greeks from Sinope and from one of the Italian cities, persons of no importance, who would hardly have found a place in the gallery during the palmy times of Athens, make up the company of visitors. Look at the body of the theatre, where the citizens sit, and the spectacle is deplorable indeed. The flower of Athens’ sons has perished, and their successors are puny and degenerate. Examine too the crowd that throngs the benches, and you will see that the slaves, distinguished by their unsleeved tunics, fill up no small portion of space. And boys form an unusually large proportion of the audience. Altogether the theatre is a dispiriting sight to a patriotic Athenian.

To-day, however, all is gaiety, for, as has been said, there is a new play to be brought out, and an Athenian must be in desperate straits indeed, if he cannot forget his sorrows at a new play.

When the curtain rises, or rather, is withdrawn, as the Greek arrangement was, into an opening in the floor of the stage, a murmur of recognition runs through the audience. The scene is the market place of Thebes, and a familiar figure occupies the foreground.

The portly figure, the ruddy face, the vine-leaf crown, and the buskins show him to be Bacchus, the patron-god, it will be remembered, of the Drama. But why this lion’s skin and club? The god gives a lordly kick at the door of the house which was one of the familiar stage-properties, and Hercules appears. He roars with laughter to see his own emblems in such strange company. Bacchus explains. “The tragic poets grow worse and worse. There is not one who can write a decent line. I am going down to the regions of the dead to fetch Euripides,[3] and thought that I had better dress myself up in your fashion, for you, I know, made this same journey very successfully. Perhaps you will tell me something about the way, and what inns you can recommend, where they are free from fleas, you know.”

“Are you really going?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t try to dissuade me; but tell me the way, which must not be either too hot or too cold.”

“Well there is the Hanging way, by the sign of the Rope and Noose.”

“Too stifling.”

“There is a very short cut by the Mortar and Pestle.”

“The Hemlock road,[4] you mean?”

“Exactly so.”

“Too cold and wintry for me.”

“Well; I’ll tell you of a quick road and all downhill.”

“Excellent! for I am not a good walker.”

“You know the tower in the Cemetery? Well; climb up to the top when the Torch race is going to begin; and when the people cry out ‘start,’ start yourself.”

“How do you mean ‘start’? Start from where?”

“Why, start down from the top.”

“What, and dash my brains out? No, not for me, thank you.”

So it is settled that Bacchus and his slave, for he has a slave with him to carry his baggage, shall take the usual route by the Styx.

To the Styx, accordingly, they make their way. Charon the ferryman is plying for hire, “Any one for Rest-from-toil-and-labor Land? For No-Mansland? For the Isle of Dogs?[5]”

Bacchus steps in, and by Charon’s order, takes an oar which he handles very helplessly. The slave has to go round: Charon does not carry slaves, he says. As they slowly make their way across, the frogs from the marsh raise the song of their kind, ending with the burden which is supposed to represent their note, Brekekekex, coax, coax.

It is pitch dark on the further side. When the slave turns up, he advises his master to go on at once. “’Tis the very spot,” he says, “where Hercules told us those terrible wild beasts were.” Bacchus is very valiant.

“A curse upon him! ’twas an idle tale,
He feigned to frighten me, for well he knew,
How brave I am, the envious braggart soul!
Grant, fortune, I may meet some perilous chance
Meet for so bold a journey.”

“O Master, I hear a noise.”

“Where, where?”

“It is behind us.”

“Get behind then.”

“No—it is in front.”

“Why don’t you go in front?”

“O Master, I see such a Monster.”

“What is it like?”

“Why! it keeps on changing—now it’s a bull, now it’s a stag, and now it’s a woman; and its face is all fire. What shall we do? O Hercules, Hercules help.”

“Hold your tongue. Don’t call me Hercules.”

“Bacchus, then.”

“No, no; Bacchus is worse than Hercules.”

The travellers pass these dangers, and reach the palace of Pluto. Bacchus knocks at the door. “Who’s there?” cries Æacus the porter. “The valiant Hercules,” says Bacchus. The name calls forth a torrent of reproaches, and threats. Hercules was only too well remembered there.

“O villain, villain, doubly, trebly dyed!
’Twas thou didst take our dog, our guardian dog,
Sweet Cerberus, my charge. But, villain, now
We have thee on the hip. For thee the rocks
Of Styx, and Acheron’s dripping well of blood,
And Hell’s swift hounds encompass.”

“Did you hear that dreadful voice?” says Bacchus to the slave. “Didn’t it frighten you?”

“Frighten me? No, I didn’t give it a thought.”

“Well, you are a bold fellow. I say; suppose you become me, and I become you. Take the club and the lion skin, and I’ll carry the baggage.”

“As you please.”

They change parts accordingly. No sooner is this done, than a waiting maid of Queen Proserpine appears. “My dear Hercules,” she says, “come with me. As soon as my mistress heard of your being here she had a grand baking, made four or five gallons of soup, and roasted an ox whole.”

“Excellent,” cries the false Hercules.

“She won’t take a refusal. And, hark you! there’s such wine!”

“I shall be delighted. Boy, bring along the baggage with you.”

“Hold,” cries the “boy.” “Don’t you see it was a joke of mine, dressing you up as Hercules? Come, hand over the club and the skin.”

“You are not going to take the things away when you gave me them yourself.”

“Yes, but I am: a pretty Hercules you would be. Come, hand them over.”

“Well; if I must, I must. But I shouldn’t wonder if you were sorry for it sooner or later.”

It turns out to be sooner rather than later. As soon as the exchange is made, two landladies appear on the scene. Hercules had committed other misdemeanors besides stealing the dog.

First Landlady. “This is the villain. He came to my house, and ate sixteen loaves.”

The Slave (aside). “Some one is getting into trouble.”

First Landlady. “Yes, and twenty fried cutlets at three-half-pence apiece.”

The Slave (aside). “Some one will suffer for this.”

First Landlady. “Yes, and any quantity of garlic.”

Bacchus. “Woman this is all rubbish. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

First Landlady. “Ah! you villain, because you have buskins on, you thought I should not know you—and then there was the salt-fish.”

Second Landlady. “Yes, and the fresh cheeses which he ate, baskets and all; and when I asked him for the money he drew his sword, and we ran up, you remember, into the attic.”

The Slave. “That is just the man. That’s how he goes on everywhere.”

The angry women run off to fetch their lawyers; and Bacchus begins again.

“My dear boy, I am very fond of you.”

“I know what you are after. Say no more; I’m not going to be Hercules; ‘A pretty Hercules I should make,’ you say.”

“I don’t wonder that you’re angry. But do take the things again. The gods destroy me and mine, root and branch, if I rob you of them again.”

“Very well; I’ll take them, but mind, you have sworn.”

So the exchange is made again.

Then Æacus with his infernal policemen appears on the scene.

“That’s the fellow who stole the dog,” he cries to his men, “seize him,” while the false slave murmurs aside, “Some one is getting into trouble.”

“I steal your dog!” says the false Hercules. “I have never been here, much less stolen the worth of a cent. But come. I’ll make you a fair offer. Here’s my slave. Take him, and put him to the torture, and if you get anything out of him against me, then cut my head off.”

“Very fair,” says Æacus; “and of course, if I do him any damage, I shall pay for it.”

“Never mind about the damage; torture away.”

“Hold,” shouts Bacchus, as the policemen lay hold of him, “I warn you not to torture me, I’m a god.”

Æacus. “What do you say?”

Bacchus. “I am Bacchus, son of Zeus, and that fellow there is my slave.”

Æacus (to the false Bacchus) “What do you say to that?”

The false Bacchus. “Say? Lay on the lash; if he’s a god, of course he can’t feel.”

Bacchus. “And you’re a god too, you say. So you won’t mind taking blow for blow with me.”

The false Bacchus. “Quite right.” (To Æacus) “Lay on, and the first that cries out, you may be sure he’s not the real god.”

So the trial takes place. Both bear it bravely, till at last Æacus cries in perplexity. “I can’t make it out. I don’t know which is which. Well, you shall both come to my master and Queen Proserpine. They’re gods, and they ought to know their own kind.”

Bacchus. “An excellent idea; I only wish that you had thought of it before you gave me that beating.”

Things are now supposed to be set right. Bacchus goes to dine with Pluto and Proserpine; the slave is entertained by Æacus in the servants’ hall. While they are talking a tremendous uproar is heard outside; and Æacus explains to his guest that it is a rule in their country that the best poet or writer or artist should have a seat at the King’s table and a place at the King’s right hand. This honor Æschylus had held as the first of the tragic poets, but when Euripides came, all the crowd of pick-pockets and burglars and murderers, who were pretty numerous in these parts, had been so delighted with his twists and turns, that they were for giving him the first place; and on the strength of their support he had claimed the tragic throne.

“But had not Æschylus any friends?”

“O yes, among the respectable people; but respectable people are scarce down here, as they are up above.”

“What about Sophocles?”

“Oh! as soon as he came, he went up to Æschylus and kissed him on the cheek, and took him by the hand. He yielded the throne, he said, to Æschylus; but if Euripides came off best, he should contest it with him.”

“Well, what is going to be done?”

“There will be a trial.”

“Who is to be judge?”

“Ah! there’s the difficulty. Wise men, you see, are not so plenty. Even with the Athenians Æschylus didn’t get on very well. However they have made your master judge. He is supposed to know all about it.”

I have tried to give some idea of the first, the farcical half of the play. It is possible to appreciate the fun, though much of its flavor has evaporated, and there are many strokes of humor which, for one reason or another, it has not been possible to reproduce. The second half is a series of subtle literary criticisms on the language, style, dramatic construction, and ruling sentiment of the two poets. No one can appreciate it who is not familiar with their works; no version is possible that would give any that idea of it. One specimen I shall attempt. Æschylus finds fault with the prosaic matter-of-fact character of his rival’s opening scenes. “I’ll spoil them all with a flask,” he says. “Go on and repeat whichever you please.” Euripides begins with the opening lines of the Danaides (a play now lost).

“Aegyptus—so the common story runs—
Crossed with his fifty sons the ocean plains,
And reaching Argos—”
“Lost a little flask.”

puts in Æschylus.

He begins again with the opening lines of another

“Cadmus, Agenor’s offspring, setting sail
From Sidon’s city—”
“Lost a little flask.”

Then he tries with the first lines of a third

“Great Bacchus, who with wand and fawn-skin decked,
In pine-groves of Parnassus, plies the dance,
And leads the revel—”
“Lost a little flask.”

The reader may have had enough. It will suffice to give the result of the contest. All the tests have been applied. Euripides, as a last resource, reminds the judge that he has sworn to take him back with him.

Bacchus replies:

“My tongue hath sworn; yet Æschylus I choose.”

A cruel cut, for it is an adaptation of one of the poet’s own lines (from the Hippolytus) when the hero, taunted with the oath that he had taken and is about to violate, replies:

“My tongue hath sworn it, but my mind’s unsworn.”

When the curtain rose from the floor and hid the last scene, it was manifest that the “Frogs” of Aristophanes, son of Philippus, of the tribe Pandionis, and the township Cydathenæa, was a success. Of course there were malcontents among the audience. Euripides had a good many partisans in young Athens. They admired his ingenuity, his rhetoric, and the artistic quality of his verse, in which beauty for beauty’s sake, quite apart from any moral purpose, seemed to be aimed at. They were captivated by the boldness and novelty of his treatment of things moral and religious. Æschylus they considered to be old-fashioned and bigoted. Hence among the seats allotted to the young men there had been some murmurs of dissent while the performance was going on, and now there was a good deal of adverse criticism. And there were some among the older men who were scarcely satisfied. The fact was that Comedy was undergoing a change, the change which before twenty more years had passed was to turn the Old Comedy into the Middle and the New, or to put the matter briefly, to change the Comedy of Politics into the Comedy of Manners.

“This is poor stuff,” said an old aristocrat of this school, “poor stuff indeed, after what I remember in my younger days. Why can’t the man leave Euripides alone, especially now he is dead, and won’t bother us with any more of his plays? There are plenty of scoundrel politicians who might to much more purpose come in for a few strokes of the lash. But he daren’t touch the fellows. Ah! it was not always so. I remember the play he brought out eighteen years ago. The ‘Knights’ he called it. That was something like a Comedy! Cleon was at the very height of his power, for he had just made that lucky stroke at Pylos[6]. But Aristophanes did not spare him one bit for that. He could not get any one to take the part; he could not even get a mask made to imitate the great man’s face. So he took the part himself, and smeared his face with the lees of wine. Cleon was there in the Magistrates’ seats. I think we all looked at him as much as we looked at the stage. Whenever there was a hard hit—and, by Bacchus, how hard the hits were!—all the theatre turned to see how he bore it. He laughed at first. Then we saw him turn red and pale—I was close by him and I heard him grind his teeth. Good heavens! what a rage he was in! Well, that is the sort of a play I like to see, not this splitting words, and picking verses to pieces, just as some schoolmaster might do.”

But, in spite of these criticisms, the greater part of the audience were highly delighted with what they had seen and heard. The comic business, with its broad and laughable effects, pleased them, and they were flattered by being treated as judges of literary questions. And the curious thing was that they were not unfit to be judges of such matters. There never was such a well-educated and keen-witted audience in the world. They knew it, and they dearly liked to be treated accordingly. The judges only echoed the popular voice when at the end of the festival they bestowed the first prize upon Aristophanes.

One criticism, strange to say, no one ever thought of making—and yet, to us, it seems the first, the most obvious of all criticisms, and that is that the play was horribly profane. This cowardly, drunken, sensual Bacchus—and he is ten times worse in the original than I have ventured to make him here—this despicable wretch was one of the gods whom every one in the audience was supposed to worship. The festival which was the occasion of the theatrical exhibition was held in his honor, his altar was the centre round which the whole action of every piece revolved. And yet he was caricatured in this audacious manner, and it did not occur to anyone to object! Verily the religion of the Greeks sat very lightly on their consciences, and we cannot wonder if it had but small effect on their lives.

CHAPTER II.
NEWS FROM THE FLEET.

I anticipated the course of my story when I spoke of the first prize being adjudged to the comedy exhibited by Aristophanes. There were various competing plays—how many we do not know, but the titles and authors of two that won the second and third prizes have been preserved—and all those had of course to be performed before a decision could be made. Two or three days at least must have passed before the exhibition was at an end.

The next competitor had certainly reason to complain of his ill-luck. Just before the curtain fell for the opening scene of his comedy an incident occurred which made the people little disposed to listen to anything more that day. The spectators had just settled themselves in their places, when a young officer hastily made his way up to the bench where the magistrates were seated, and handed a roll to the president. The occurrence was very unusual. It was reckoned almost an impiety to disturb the festival of Bacchus with anything of business; only matters of the very gravest importance could be allowed to do it. The entrance of the young man, happening as it did, just in the pause of expectation before the new play began, had been generally observed. Every one could see from his dress that he was a naval officer, and many knew him as one of the most promising young men in Athens. “News from the fleet,” was the whisper that ran through the theatre, and there were few among the thousands there assembled to whom news from the fleet did not mean the life or death of father, brother, or son. The president glanced at the document put into his hands, and whispering a few words to the messenger, pointed to a seat by his side. All eyes were fastened upon him. (The magistrates, it may be explained, occupied one of the front or lowest rows of seats, and were therefore more or less in view of the whole theater, which was arranged in the form of a semicircle, with tier upon tier of benches rising upon the slope of the hill on the side of which the building was constructed.) When a moment afterwards, the curtain was withdrawn, scarcely a glance was directed to the stage. The action and the dialogue of the new piece were absolutely lost upon what should have been an audience, but was a crowd of anxious citizens, suddenly recalled from the shows of the stage to the realities of life.

The president now carefully read the document and passed it on to his colleagues. Some whispered consultations passed between them. When at the end of the first act a change of scenery caused a longer pause than usual the president quietly left the theatre, taking the bearer of the despatch with him. Some of the other magistrates followed him, the rest remaining behind because it would have been unseemly to leave the official seats wholly untenanted while the festival was still going on. This proceeding increased the agitation of the people, because it emphasized the importance of the news that had arrived. Some slipped away, unable to sit quietly in their places and endure the suspense, and vaguely hoping to hear something more outside. Among those that remained the buzz of conversation grew louder and louder. Only a few very determined play-goers even pretended to listen to what was going on upon the stage. Meanwhile the unfortunate author, to whom, after all, the fate of his play was not less urgent a matter than the fate of the city, sat upon his prompter’s stool—the author not uncomonly did the duty of prompter—and heartily cursed the bad luck which had distracted in so disastrous a way the attention of his audience.

When at last, to the great relief of everyone concerned, the performance was brought to a conclusion, the young officer told his story, supplementing the meagre contents of the despatch which he had brought, to a full conclave of magistrates, assembled in one of the senate-rooms of the Prytaneum or Town-hall of Athens. I may introduce him to my readers as Callias, the hero of my story.

Many of the details that follow had already been given by Callias, but as he had to repeat them for the benefit of the magistrates who had stopped behind in the theatre, I may as well put them all together.

“We know,” said the president, “that Conon was beaten in a battle in the harbor of Mitylene. So much we heard from Hippocles, a very patriotic person by the way, though he is an alien. He has a very swift yacht that can outstrip any war-ship in Greece, and often gives us very valuable intelligence. Do you know him?”

THE THEATER OF DIONYSUS AT THE PRESENT DAY.

“Yes,” said Callias, flushing with pleasure, for indeed he knew and respected Hippocles greatly, “I know him very well.”

“Well, to go on,” resumed the president. “So much we know, but no more. Tell us exactly how Conon fared in the battle.”

“Sir,” answered the young man, “he lost thirty ships.”

“And the crews,” asked the president.

“They escaped; happily they were able to get to land.”

“Thank Athene for that;” and a murmur of relief ran round the meeting. “And the other forty—he had seventy, I think, in all?” Callias nodded assent.

“What happened to the forty?”

“They were hauled up under the walls when the day went against us.”

“Now tell us exactly what has been going on since.”

“The Spartans blockaded the harbor, having some of their ships within, and some without. Our general saw that it was only a matter of time when he should have to surrender. The Spartans had four times as many ships, the ships not, perhaps, quite as good as his, but the crews, I am afraid, somewhat better.”

“Shade of Themistocles,” murmured one of the magistrates, “that it should come to this—the Spartan crews ‘somewhat better’ than ours. But I am afraid that it is only too true.”

“He could not break through; and could not stand a long siege. Mitylene was fairly well provisioned for its ordinary garrison, but here were seventy crews added all of a sudden to the number. He sent some officers—I had the honor of being one of them—and we found that by sparing everything to the very utmost, we might hold out for five weeks. The only chance was to send news to Athens. You might help us, we thought.”

“We might; we must, I say. But how it is to be done is another matter. Tell us how you got here?”

“The general took the two fastest ships in his squadron, manned them with the very best rowers that he could find, practised the crews for four days in the inner harbor, and then set about running the blockade with them. The Spartans, you see, had grown a little careless. We hadn’t made any attempt to get out, and Conon got a Lesbian freedman to desert to the Spartans with a story that we were meaning to surrender. This put them off their guard still more. They got into a way of leaving their ships at noon, to take their meal and their siesta afterwards on shore. We made a dart at an unguarded place between two of their blockading ships and we got through. I don’t think that we lost a single man. By the time that the crews of the blockading galleys regained their vessels we were well out of bow-shot. Our instructions were to separate, when we got outside the harbor. We did not do this at once because we had planned a little trick which might, we hoped, help to put the enemy off the scent. The ship that I was in was really the swifter of the two. This was, of course, the reason why I was put into it. But as long as we kept together we made believe that we were the slower. When they came out after us—they had manned half-a-dozen ships or so as quickly as they could—we separated. My ship, which you will understand, was really the faster of the two, was put about the north as if making for Hellespont; the other kept on its course, straight for Athens. The Spartans told off their best ships to follow the latter which they thought that they had the better chance of catching. And of course, as it was headed this way, it seemed the more important of the two.”

“I suppose that they overtook it,” said the president, “or it would have been here before this.”

“Well, we soon outstripped the two galleys that were told to look after us. When we were well out of sight, we headed westward again, took a circuit round the north side of Lemnos, and got here without seeing another enemy.”

“How long is it since you left Mitylene?”

“About five days.”

“But how long did Conon think he could hold out?”

“About forty days; perhaps more, if the men were put on short rations.”

“You have done well, my son,” said the president kindly, “and Athens will not forget it. We will consult together, though there is small need of consulting, I take it. The relief must be sent. Is it not so gentlemen?”

His colleagues nodded assent.

“But there are things to be talked over. We must decide how much we can send, and that cannot be done upon the spot. But there is a matter that can be settled at once. Conon must be told that he is going to be relieved. Now, who will tell him? Will you?”

“Certainly, if you see fit to give me the order.”

“And how?”

“I would consult with Hippocles.”

“Excellent!” cried the president. “He is just the man to help us. You will go and see him, and then report to me. Come to me to-night; it will not matter how late it is; I shall be waiting for you.”

Callias saluted, and withdrew.

CHAPTER III.
HIPPOCLES THE ALIEN.

Hippocles has been described as an alien. An “alien,” then at Athens, as in the other Greek cities, was a resident foreigner. He might be an enfranchised slave, he might be a barbarian (as all persons not Greek were described), or he might be a Greek of the purest descent, but if he had not the rights of Athenian citizenship, he was an “alien.” He could not hold any landed or house property: he was obliged to appear in any law suit in which he might be concerned in the person of an Athenian citizen who was described as his “patron,” and he was heavily taxed. A special impost that went under the name of an “alien-tax” was only a slight matter, some twelve drachmas[7] a year, but all the imposts were made specially heavy for them. And though they had no share in directing the policy of the State, they were required to serve in its fleets and armies. This treatment however, did not keep aliens from settling in Athens. On the contrary they were to be found there in great numbers, and as almost all the trade of the place was in their hands, some of them were among its richest inhabitants.

At the time of which I am writing Hippocles had the reputation, which we may say was by no means undeserved, of being the richest resident in Athens. And more than that, he was one of the most patriotic. He loved the city as if it had been his native place, and did the duty and more than the duty of a son to her. The special contributions which as a wealthy man he was called upon to make to the public service[8] were made with a princely liberality. He even voluntarily undertook services which were not required of him by law. Every year he had come forward to furnish the crew and munitions of a ship-of-war, a charge to which citizens only were properly liable. And of the fleet of which such gloomy tidings had just reached Athens, he had equipped no less than three.

Hippocles had a curious history. He was born in the Greek colony of Poseidonia.[9] He was just entering on manhood when his native city fell into the hands of its Lucanian neighbors. The barbarians did not abuse their victory. They did not treat the conquered city, as the Greeks of Croton some ninety years before had treated Sybaris, reducing it to an absolute ruin. On the contrary they contented themselves with imposing a tribute, and leaving a governor, with a garrison to support him, to see that their new subjects did not forget their duty. But the presence of the foreigner was a grievous burden to the proud Greeks. For ages afterwards their descendants were accustomed to assemble once a year and to bewail their fate, as the Sons of Jacob at the Vale of Weeping, the Gentile domination over their city. The disaster broke the heart of Hippocles’ father Cimon who was one of Pacidoninus’ most distinguished citizens and had actually held the office of Tagus or chief magistrate in the year of its fall. He survived the event scarcely a year, recommending his son with his last breath to leave the place for some city where he could live in a way more worthy of a Greek. His son spent the next two years in quietly realizing his property, nor did he meet with any interference from the Lucanian masters of the place. His house he had to sacrifice; to sell it might have attracted too much notice; but everything else that he had was converted into money. When this was safely invested at Athens—Athens having been for various reasons the city of his choice—he secretly departed. But he did not depart alone. He took with him a companion, who, he declared, more than made up to him for all that as a Poseidonian citizen he had lost. Pontia, the daughter of the Lucanian governor, was a girl of singular beauty. The Lucanian, in common with the other Italian tribes, gave to their women a liberty which was unknown in Greek households. Under the circumstances of life in which he had been brought up, Hippocles though a frequent visitor at the governor’s house, would never, except by the merest accident, have seen the governor’s daughter. As it was he had many opportunities of making her acquaintance. Instead of being shut up, after the Greek fashion in the women’s apartments, she shared the common life of the family. At first the novelty of the situation almost shocked the young man; before long it pleased him; it ended by conquering his heart. The young Greek, who was leaving his native land because it did not suit his pride of race to live under the rule of a barbarian, did not submit without an effort. Again and again he reproached himself with the monstrous inconsistency of which he was guilty. “Madman that I am,” he said to himself, “I cannot endure to live with barbarians for neighbors and yet I think of taking a barbarian to wife.” Again and again he resolved to break free from the influence that was enthralling him. But love was too strong for him. Nor indeed, were there wanting arguments on the other side. “Actually,” he said to himself, “I am a Greek no more; a Greek without a city is only not a barbarian in name.” This argument, of little weight, perhaps, in itself, gained force from the loveliness and mental charms of the young Pontia. She had long felt a distaste for the rough, uncultured life into which she had been born. The culture and refinement of her father’s young Greek guest charmed her. The sadness of his mien touched the chord of pity in her heart, and admiration and pity together soon grew into love.

Hippocles had just completed the settlement of his affairs, and was ruefully contemplating the curious dilemma in which he found himself—everything ready for his departure from Poseidonia, but Poseidonia holding him from such departure by ties which he could break only by breaking his heart—when circumstances suggested a way of escape.

The governor was a widower, and had more than the usual incapacity of busy men in middle life for discerning the symptoms of love. It was accordingly, with a cheerful unconsciousness of his guest’s feelings that he said to him one morning:—“I have good news about my dear Pontia. The girl is growing up, and should be settled in life, and I have had a most eligible proposal for her. I have told you, I think, that I am getting tired of this life, and want to get back to my farm among the hills. So I have asked to be relieved, and I hear from the Senate that they have chosen a successor, Hostius of Vulsi, a cousin, I should say, of my own, and a most respectable man. Hostius has come to announce the fact in person, and at the same time to ask for my daughter in marriage. A most eligible proposal, I say. Perhaps he is a little old, about five years younger than myself. But that’s of no consequence. I mentioned the matter to her. She did not say much, but, of course, a girl must seem to hold back. I suggested that the marriage should take place next week—for I should dearly like to be at home in time for the barley harvest. That roused her. Of course she said that she had no clothes. I don’t know about that—she always seems to me to look very nice—but I should not like to annoy her, for she is a dear, good girl, and I gave her another month. It’s an excellent arrangement—don’t you think so?”

Hippocles muttered a few words of assent; but long before the month was out, he and his Pontia were on their way to Athens.

The marriage and the settlement in Athens had taken place twenty-one years before the time of which I am writing. Two children had been born, a son and a daughter. The son had fallen, not many months before, at the battle of Notium[10] and the death of the mother, who had been in feeble health, had soon followed. The daughter, to whom her parents had given the name of Hermione, had just completed her sixteenth year.

Hermione united in herself some of the happiest characteristics of the two races from which she sprang. Her father was a Greek of the Greeks. Poseidonia had been founded by Dorian settlers from Sybaris, who could not contrive to live on good terms with the Achaean Greeks that had become the predominant element in that city; and Hippocles, who claimed descent from the Messenian kings, yielded to none in nobility of birth. A purer type of the genuine Hellenes it would have been impossible to find. Pontia brought from the Lucanian hills, among which she had been reared, some of the best qualities, moral and physical, of the Italian race. The simplicity, frugality, and temperance which then and long after distinguished rural Italy, were to be seen in her united with a singular feminine charm not so often found among that somewhat rude population; until the close air of the Piraeus, ill-suited to a daughter of the hills, sapped her constitution, she had had a frame magnificently healthy and strong. To the daughter the climate which had shortened her mother’s days, happily did no harm. It was in fact her native air, and she throve in it. She was still undeveloped, for she had only just completed her sixteenth year; but she gave promise of remarkable beauty, and indeed, the promise was already more than half fulfilled. When she had performed the duty, sometimes imposed on the daughters of resident aliens,—it might be called, rather, privilege conceded to them—and walked in the great procession of the patron-goddess, holding a sunshade over some high-born Athenian maiden,[11] all the spectators agreed that the prize of beauty belonged to the stranger. Her stature reached the very utmost height that the canons of beauty conceded to women; so far she was more of an Athene than an Aphrodite. But her face and her whole bearing were exquisitely feminine. The sapphire-colored eyes, shaded by long drooping lashes, the forehead, broad and low with the clustering ringlets of light chestnut on either side, perfectly rounded cheeks, firm, delicate mouth, showing a glimpse, but only a glimpse of pearly teeth, and a faultlessly clear complexion, just tinted with the brown caught from Ægæan suns and winds—for she was dearly fond of a cruise in her father’s yacht—made up together a remarkable combination of charms.

Callias had seen her but once before, and that was on a melancholy occasion. He had been commissioned by the general in command to break to her father the death of her brother, killed as has been said, in the unlucky conflict at Notium. He had behaved there with conspicuous gallantry, having led the boarding party which captured the only Lacedaemonian galley that the Athenians had to set off against their own fifteen losses, and had fallen in the moment of victory. It was not the first time that he had shown distinguished valor, and it was for this reason, as well as on account of the high reputation of his father, that Alcibiades had sent Callias with a special message of condolence. The blow, which could not be softened by any delicacy in the telling, and for which the praises of the general were but a slight consolation, broke Hippocles down completely. It was then that Hermione showed the strength of her character. Tenderly attached herself to her brother she had come forward to support her broken-hearted father. With a patient endurance that was beyond all praise, she had battled with her own grief in the effort to help a sorrow even more agonizing than her own, till for very shame Hippocles had raised himself to bear his loss with resignation. The effort saved his life; for even the physicians had at one time been greatly alarmed. Callias, accustomed to think of women as encumbrances rather than helps in time of need was profoundly impressed by the girl’s demeanor. If he had been inclined, for a moment, to think that her singular self-possession indicated a want of womanly feeling, he would have been soon undeceived. Paying a visit of inquiry to the house next day, he found that Hermione’s endurance had not lasted beyond the occasion for which it was wanted. Her father received him, and told him that his daughter had broken down under the strain. “I was cowardly enough,” he said, “yesterday to rest upon her strength when I should have summoned up my own. The gods grant that I may not have taxed it overmuch, and that I may not lose both my children. I have learned that I ought not to have grudged my son to the city which has been a second mother to me; if only I have not learnt it at too terrible a price.” Callias had to leave Athens on the next day to rejoin the fleet, but he had the satisfaction of hearing before his departure that Hermione was on a fair way to recovery. Since then he had not been in Athens.

CHAPTER IV.
A COUNCIL.

The house of Hippocles was on a smaller scale than might have seemed suitable to his vast wealth. The fact was that both he and his daughter had simple tastes. They had a special dislike to the enormous establishments of slaves which it was the fashion for rich Athenians, whether of native or of foreign birth, to maintain. In each division of the house—for, it was divided after the usual Greek fashion, into two “apartments,” to use that word in its proper sense, belonging respectively to the men and the women[12]—there were but three or four inmates besides the master and mistress. Hippocles had his house steward and his personal attendant, both older than himself, long since emancipated, who had accompanied him from his Italian home, and a lad of seventeen, who was still a slave, but who, if he conducted himself well, would certainly earn his freedom by the time that he had reached the age of thirty. Hermione’s establishment, on the other hand, consisted of a lady who had just exchanged the post of governess, now no longer necessary, for that of companion or duenna, a housekeeper, and two domestics who may be described by the modern terms of lady’s-maid and house-maid. Stephanion, the companion, was of pure Athenian descent. She belonged to one of the many families which had been reduced to poverty by the war, and she had been glad to take employment in the house of the wealthy alien. She had more education than was commonly given to Athenian ladies, but this is not to say much, and Hermione would have fared but ill for teaching, according at least to our standard if her father had not always found time even in his busiest days, to supplement her education. The housekeeper was a Laconian woman. She, too, had found her way into the family through circumstances connected with the war. She had been nurse in a wealthy Athenian household. Before the war it had been the fashion, my readers should know, for the upper classes at Athens to get their nurses from Sparta. A true Spartan, a daughter that is, of the military aristocracy that ruled Laconia and its dependencies, it was, of course, impossible to obtain, but girls from the farmer class that cultivated the lands of their soldier masters often sought situations in other countries. This was the case with Milanion, who as the youngest of the five daughters of a Laconian farmer, had been delighted to find a place with an Athenian lady, Melissa, wife of Demochares, at a salary which almost equalled her father’s income. This was just before the commencement of the long war. She had been nurse to Melissa’s five children when the disastrous expedition to Sicily brought irretrievable ruin upon her employer’s family. Demochares was one of the army that surrendered with Nicias, was thrown with his comrades into that most dreadful of prisons, the stone-quarries of Syracuse, and died of a fever before the end of the year. His property had consisted, for the most part, of farms in the island of Chios, and when Chios revolted from Athens, the widow and her children were reduced to something very like poverty. Nothing was left to them but a small farm at Marathon, and as it so happened, the rent of the house which Hippocles unable, as has been said, to own real property in Attica, had been accustomed to hire. The establishment had to be broken up, the slaves being sold and the free persons looking for employment elsewhere. Milanion was about to return, much against her will, to Laconia, where her long residence at Athens would have rendered her an object of suspicion and dislike, when an opening suddenly presented itself in the family of Hippocles. Pontia’s long illness had come to a fatal end, and the widower was looking for an experienced woman to take charge of the young Hermione. Milanion seemed to him exactly the person that he wanted, and she, on the other hand, was delighted to come to him. As her charge grew older, her duties as nurse gradually changed into the duties of a housekeeper. She had come to her new situation accompanied by a middle-aged woman, a Marian by birth, Manto by name, whom Hippocles had bought, at her suggestion, at the sale of Demochares’ slaves. Manto had steadily refused the emancipation which her master had several times offered to her.

“No, sir,” she said, “I thank you very much, but I am better as I am. I desire nothing more than to live in your house, and, when my time comes, to die in it.”

“What if I should die first,” suggested the merchant.

“The gods know, my master, the gods know,” cried the poor woman in an agony. “But it is impossible; the gods would not do anything so cruel, so unjust. But, if you wish, you may put what you please into your will. As long as you live you are my master, and I am your slave.” So matters stood when my story opens. Perhaps it may be added that Manto’s condition did not prevent her tongue from being truthful; but affectionate, faithful, and honest, she allowed herself and was allowed—no unusual circumstance, yet she was under a system of slavery—a liberty of speech which in one free born would certainly have been impossible. Finally, to complete my account of the household, Hermione had for her maid a girl about a year older than herself. She too had come into the family along with Milanion and Manto. Demochares had bought her at the sale of the prisoners taken by the Athenians when a little Sicilian town was captured. She was then a singularly pretty child about seven years old, and Demochares had meant her to be a playfellow or plaything, as the case might be, of a daughter of his own of about the same age. She was of mixed race; her mother was a Sicanian, that is, one of the so-called aboriginal inhabitants of Sicily, her father a Carthaginian trader. She was now grown up into a handsome maiden, who with her raven-black hair, dark piercing eyes, and deep brunette complexion, made a remarkable contrast to the fair beauty of her mistress.

When Callias reached the house the hour was late, later than etiquette allowed for a visit, except from an intimate friend, or on a matter of urgent business. His business, however, was urgent, and he did not hesitate to knock, that is to strike the door sharply with a brass ring which was attached to it by a staple. The day-porter had gone home for the night, and the door was opened by the young slave mentioned above. He explained that his master was just about to sit down to his evening meal. “Take him my name,” said Callias, “and say that I come from the magistrates on an important matter of business.” The lad invited him to enter, and to take a seat in a small chamber which looked upon the central court of the andronitis, a grass plot, bordered on all sides by myrtle and orange. In a few minutes he returned, and invited the visitor to follow him. Callias crossed the court and passed through the door which led into the women’s apartment. Hippocles, it should be said, was accustomed to see visitors on business in the front or men’s portion of the dwelling, but spent his leisure time in the rooms assigned to his daughter. The two had just taken their places at the table, Hippocles reclining on a couch, Hermione sitting on a chair by his right hand, so that his face was turned towards her.[13] The steward had placed the first dish on the table, and was standing in front, with Hippocles’ personal attendant behind him. The latter at a sign from his master, prepared a place for the new-comer.

Hippocles saluted his guest in a most friendly fashion, and Hermione gave him her hand with a charming smile, though the moment afterwards tears gathered in her eyes, when she remembered the last occasion on which they had met.

Plan of a large Grecian House, probably more pretentious than the House of Hippocles.

1. Main Door.
2. Entrance Passage.
3. Central Court of the Men’s part of the house (Andronitis).
4. 4. 4. Various Rooms of the Andronitis.
5. Passage connecting the Andronitis with the Gynæconitis (Women’s Apartments).
6. Court of the Gynæconitis.
7. 7. 7. Various rooms of the Gynæconitis.
8. The Prostas—a hall opening from 6.
9. 9. Apartments probably used as a family bedroom and sitting room.
10. 10. Rooms for looms and woolen manufacture.

“If the business will wait for half-an-hour,” said the host, “postpone it for so long. I have had a long day’s work, and shall be scarcely myself till I have eaten. And you—doubtless you have dined before this; but you will take a cup with us.”

As a matter of fact Callias had not dined, though in the excitement of the day’s business he had almost forgotten food. A hasty meal snatched on board the trireme which had brought him to Athens had been his only refreshment since the morning.

“Nay, sir, but I have not dined; unless you call some five or six dried anchovies and a hunk of barley bread, washed down with some very sharp Hymettus, a dinner; and that was rather before noon than after it.”

The meal was simple. It consisted of some fresh anchovies, a piece of roast pork, a hare brought from Eubœa, for Attica swept as it had been again and again by hostile armies, had almost ceased to supply this favorite food, and a pudding of wheat flour, seasoned with spices. This last had been made by Hermione herself. The rest of the dinner had been cooked by a man who came in daily for the purpose. When the viands had been cleared away, Hippocles proposed the usual toast, “To our Good Fortune,” the toast not being drank, but honored by pouring some drops from the goblet. A second libation followed, this time to “Athene the Keeper of the City.” The host then pledged his guest in a cup of Chian wine. His daughter followed the rule of the best Grecian families, and drank no wine.

“We can dispense, I think, with these,” he said, when the steward was about to put some apples, nuts and olives on the table.

“Just so,” replied his guest, “and this excellent cup of Chian will be all the wine that I shall want.”

“Now then for business,” said Hippocles. “Let us hope that the city will pardon us for postponing it so long. But we must eat. Shall my daughter leave us? For my part, I find her a very Athene for counsel.”

“As you will, sir,” replied Callias, “I have nothing to say but what all may know, and indeed will know before a day is past.”

The young man then proceeded to tell the story with which my readers are already acquainted. The question was briefly this: How was Conon to be told that relief was coming?

“I see,” said Hippocles, “that he must be told. He is a brave fellow, and a good general, too, though perhaps a little rash. But he must make terms for himself and his men, unless he has a project of relief. He would not be doing his duty to the state if he did not. But if he capitulates before the relief comes—how many ships has he?”

“Forty,” said Callias.

“And we can have a hundred, or possibly, a hundred and ten here, by straining every nerve. The Spartans have a hundred and forty, I think.”

“A few may have been disabled in the battle; but it would not be safe to reckon on less, for very likely others have been dropping in since then.”

“Then Conon’s party will turn the scale, and they will be better manned, I take it, than any that we shall be able to send out from here. They must not be lost to us. If they are, we shall do better not to send out the fleet at all, but to stand on our defence.”

“Is the Skylark in harbor now?” asked Callias.

My readers must know that the Skylark was Hippocles’ fast sailing yacht.

“Yes,” was the reply, “she is in harbor and very much at the service of the state.”

“Trust me with her,” said Callias, “and I will run the blockade.”

“I don’t think it is possible,” answered Hippocles. “I gathered from what you said that the Spartans are inside the harbor. Now you may give the slip to a blockading squadron when it is watching a harbor from the outside. They always keep close to the mouth you see; and a really good craft, smartly handled, that can sail in the eye of the wind, and does not draw much water, has always a good chance. I’ll warrant the Skylark to do it, if it is to be done. But with the blockade inside the harbor, the case is different, and I must own that I don’t see my way.”

“May I speak, father?” said Hermione.

“Since when have you begun to ask leave to use your tongue, my darling?” replied her father with a smile. “You should hear her lecturing me when we are alone,” he went on, turning to his guest. “But our counsellor is not used to speaking in an assembly.”

“Would it be of any use,” said the girl, “to disguise the Skylark, by painting her another color and altering the cut of her rigging?”

“A good thought, my darling,” replied her father, “and one that I shall certainly make use of. Now let me think; just for the present, things do not seem to piece themselves together.”

He rose from the couch on which he had been reclining, and paced up and down the room in profound thought. Fully half an hour had passed when he suddenly stopped short in his walk, and turned to his daughter.

“My darling,” he said, “I see that you are getting sleepy.”

“Sleepy, father?” cried the girl, who indeed was as wide awake as possible, “sleepy? what can you mean? how could I possibly feel sleepy, when we are talking about such things?”

“Nevertheless your father says it,” replied Hippocles, “and fathers are never mistaken.” And he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

Without another word Hermione rose from her chair, kissed her father, held out her hand again to Callias, and left the room.

Hippocles waited for a few minutes, and then sat down on the couch by Callias’ side.

“You will have guessed,” he said, “that I wanted the girl away. I wish that I had never let her stay; now she will suspect something; but it cannot be helped. Now, listen. What the girl said about disguising the Skylark set me thinking. That will be useful another time; indeed I shall do it now. But it won’t do all that we want. Disguised or not disguised, I don’t see how she is to get past the Spartan ships in Mitylene harbor. Now we must try a bolder play. I shall disguise myself, and go.”

“You, sir,” cried Callias in astonishment. “But think of the danger.”

“Well,” replied Hippocles, “we cannot expect to get anything really valuable without danger. And I am something of a fatalist. What will be will be. Now listen: I shall disguise myself as a trader of Cos. I am a Dorian by birth, you know, and I can use the broad vowels and the lisps to perfection I flatter myself. I say Cos,[14] because I happen to be particularly well acquainted with its dialect. I shall go to Callicratidas[15] and tell him my story—what the story shall be I have not yet made up my mind, but it is not hard to impose upon a Spartan. However leave all that to me. Go and tell the magistrates that I undertake to tell Conon that he will be relieved. And, mind—not a word to my daughter. I shall tell her that I am called away on important business. Very likely she will guess something of the truth; but it would only trouble her to tell her more.”

“And the magistrates, sir?” asked Callias, “how much are they to know?”

“Nothing more, I think, than what I said, that Hippocles the Alien undertakes to communicate with Conon. I don’t doubt the good faith and discretion of our friends; but the fewer there are in the secret of such a plan, the better. Keep a thing in your own mind, I say. If you whisper a secret even unto the earth, when the reed grows up it will repeat it.[16] You will say simply that it is a matter which it is well for the state to conceal. If I succeed, I justify myself; if not—well, I take it, no man’s anger here will concern me much. And now farewell! Don’t vex yourself about me. All will turn out well; and if not—how can a man die better than in saving Athens. All my affairs are arranged, if I should not return. My patron Melesippus will, of course, be my executor, and I have ventured to join your name with his in the trust? Have I your permission?”

Callias pressed his hand in silence.

“That is well, and now my mind is easy. And now,” he went on in a cheerful tone, “farewell again; but before you go, we must have a libation to Hermione who for the next ten days must be my special patron. If I come back safe, I will regild this temple from roof to basement.”

The libation was duly poured, and the vow repeated as the drops fell upon the ground.

CHAPTER V.
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE.

Hippocles, who was a ship builder as well as a merchant, put all available hands to work on the alterations which he proposed to make in the Skylark. To disguise her effectually was a more difficult thing than Hermione had imagined when she had suggested this idea. To disguise her beyond all risk of discovery was probably impossible, a landsman might be deceived by different colored paint, and a nautical observer, if he did not give more than a casual glance, by an altered rigging. But the lines of the ship would remain. These Hippocles endeavored to conceal by a false and much broader bow which was ingeniously fitted on to the true hull, and which made her look anything but the fast sailer that she really was. Heavy bulwarks were substituted for the light ones that had been a familiar feature of the Skylark. Altogether she was metamorphosed in a fairly satisfactory way from a smart yacht into a clumsy merchantman. As the venturous owner intended to time his arrival for the night, and to do his errand before day-break, he hoped that the disguise would save her as long as it should be wanted.

So much energy did the workmen, stimulated by their master’s presence and by his liberal promises of renumeration, throw into their work, that by the evening of the seventh day the Skylark was ready for sea in her new dress, disguised beyond recognition, except by very skilful eyes indeed. The dockyard had been strictly closed against all visitors while the work was in progress, and the men had been lodged within its walls, so that no hint of what was going on might leak out. Hippocles had paid a daily visit to his home, and did not conceal from his daughter that he was busy in carrying out her suggestions. So frank, indeed, was he, and so cheerful in manner, that the girl was fairly thrown off her guard. Not a suspicion crossed her mind, that her father was meditating a desperate enterprise in which the chances were certainly rather against his life than otherwise, nor did she realize the extraordinary haste with which the work was being pressed on, though she was generally aware that a good deal of expedition was being used. Hence she was taken by surprise, when on the eighth day instead of her father’s usual visit, timed so that he might share her noon-day meal, a written message was delivered to her, to the effect that her father was suddenly called away from Athens on business of importance, and that he could not be certain of the day of his return. The surprise almost overwhelmed her, chiefly because she felt that this unusual hurry on the part of her father was significant of the perilous nature of the enterprise. It was only her unusual fortitude, backed by the feeling that she herself must not deviate from doing her duty, that enabled her to bear up at all.

Meanwhile Hippocles was on his way to the scene of action. The Skylark crossed the Ægean without meeting with any misadventure. She was overhauled, indeed, when about half her journey was accomplished by an Athenian cruiser, and her owner had the satisfaction of finding that so far his disguise was successful. The Athenian captain was an acquaintance of his own (indeed there were few prominent people in the city to whom he was not known) and had actually been on board the Skylark more than once; but he did not recognize either Hippocles or his vessel. In fact he was about to carry her off as a prize when Hippocles, still without discovering himself, produced the pass with which he had been provided under the seal of the Athenian authorities. His arrival at Mitylene was happily timed in more ways than one. By a stroke of that good fortune which is proverbially said to help the bold it so happened that there was a violent north-east wind blowing. This was a wind from which the harbor of Mitylene afforded little or no shelter. In fact, when it was blowing, most sailors preferred to be out on the open sea. Hippocles accordingly found everything in commotion. The blockading ships, which moored as they were across the mouth of the harbor, felt the full force of the wind, were anxious about their moorings, and had little attention to give to any strange ship. The Skylark was in fact hardly noticed in the darkness and confusion, and actually got beyond the line of the blockading galleys, and as far as the admiral’s ship, without being challenged. For a few moments he thought of boldly pushing on to the inner part of the harbor, where, as has been said, the remainder of the Athenian fleet was lying hauled up under the walls; but when he was hailed by a voice from a Spartan ship, one of two that lay almost directly in his way, he abandoned the idea. “Anaxilaus, merchant of Cos, to see the admiral, on business of importance,” was his reply to the challenge. At the last moment he dropped his anchor. A few minutes afterward, he came on board the admiral’s galley and reported himself to that officer.

It would be unjust to Callicratidas—for this was the admiral’s name—to describe him as a model Spartan. He was rather a model Greek. The Spartans had great virtues which however, it is curious to observe, seldom survived transplantation from their native soil.[17] They were frugal, temperate, and just; but they were narrow in their habits of thought and their conceptions of duty. A good soldier whose efficiency was not diminished by any vice was their ideal man. They could not enter into any large and liberal views of life. And their views of statesmanship whether as regarded their own city or the whole race in general were as narrow as were their notions of private virtue. They sometimes showed a great amount of diplomatic skill, a strange contrast with the bluntness which was their traditional characteristic, but of wide and general views they seem to have been incapable. Yet Callicratidas seems to have been an exception. We know comparatively little about him. He emerges from absolute obscurity at the beginning of the year with which my story opens, and it is only for a few months that he plays a conspicuous part in history, but from now up to the hour when we see him for the last time, all his words and acts are marked with a rare nobility.

It was not difficult for Hippocles to invent a story which should account for his presence at Mitylene. The domestic politics of almost every Greek state were mixed up with the great struggle that was going on between Athens and Sparta. Everywhere the democratic party looked to Athens as its champion, the aristocratic to Sparta. This was especially true of the states which were called the allies but were really the subjects or tributaries of Athens. A turn of the political wheels that brought the aristocrats to the top was commonly followed by a revolt from the sovereign state; when, as was usually the case, they remained underneath, they busied themselves in plotting for a change, and their first step was to open communications with the Spartan general or admiral in command.

In Cos the popular or pro-Athenian party was in the ascendant, and their opponents were weak. The fact was that the Spartans were not in good repute there. Six years before their admiral Astyochus had plundered the island laying hands impartially on the property of friends and of foes. Still there was a party which remained faithful to Sparta, and Hippocles preferred to speak as their representative. His wide-spread connections as a merchant—and Cos had a large trade with its famous vintages and equally famous woven stuffs—gave him a knowledge of details and persons that would have deceived a far more acute and suspicious person than Callicratidas.

The merchant began the conversation by offering the admiral a present of wine, and one of those almost transparent robes of silk that were a specialty of the island.

“I will not be so churlish as to refuse what you have the good will to offer me,” said Callicratidas, “but you must understand that I do not accept these things for myself. I accept no personal gifts; it is a dangerous practice, and has given rise to much scandal. I shall send them to Sparta, and the magistrates will dispose of them as they think fit. What is this?” he went on, taking up the robe and holding it between his eyes and the lamp. “What do you use it for? for straining the wine?”

Hippocles explained that it was a material for garments.

“Garments!” exclaimed the Spartan, “why, we might as well wear a spider’s web. It is not clothing at all. It neither warms nor covers. Is it possible that there are people so foolish as to spend their money on it? It is costly, I suppose?”

“As you ask me,” replied Hippocles, “I may say that it costs about two minas a yard.”

“Two minas a yard!” cried Callicratidas, whose Spartan frugality was scandalized at such a price. “Why,” he added after a short calculation, “it is very nearly a seaman’s pay for a year,[18] are there many who buy such costly stuff?”

“A dress of this material is the top of the fashion for ladies in Athens and Corinth.”

“What?” said the Spartan, “do women wear such things? It is incredible. I have always thought that things had changed for the worse at home, but we have not got as far as that. And now for your business.”

Hippocles explained that there was a dissatisfied party in Cos which was very anxious to get rid of Athenian rule. “We are not strong enough,” he went on, “to do it of ourselves, but send on a force and we will open the gates to you. Cos is a strong place now, since the Athenians fortified it, and, I should think, quite worth having.”

“And if we put you in power,” said the admiral, “you would begin, I suppose, by putting all your opponents to death.”

Callicratidas was quite a different person from what Hippocles, with his former experience of Spartans in command, had expected to find. His disinterestedness, simplicity and directness were embarrassing, and made him not a little ashamed of the part that he was playing. He would have dearly liked to speak out of his own heart to a man who was transparently honest and well-meaning, but in his position it was impossible.

“We have, as you may suppose, sir,” he said in answer to this last suggestion, “a great many injuries to avenge, but we should not wish to do anything that does not meet with your approval.”

“The whole thing does not meet with my approval,” said the Spartan, “I hate these perpetual plots; I hate to see every city divided against itself, and see the big persons in Greece hounding them on to bloody deeds, and making our own gain out of them. I wish to all the gods that I could do something to bring this wretched war to an end. Why should not Athens and Sparta be friends as they were in the old days? Surely that would be better than our going on flying at each others’ throats as we have been doing for now nearly twenty years past, while the Persian stands by, and laughs to see us play his game. Where should we be—you seem an honest man, by your face, though I cannot say that I particularly like the errand on which you have come—where should we be, I ask, if we had shown this accursed folly twenty-odd years ago, when Xerxes brought up all Asia against us? As it was we stood shoulder to shoulder, and Greece was saved. And now we have to go cap in hand, and beg of the very Persians who are only biding their time to make slaves of us. I tell you, sir, I feel hot with shame at the thought of what I have had myself to put up with in this way. When I came here I found the pay-chest empty; I don’t want to complain of anybody, so I won’t say how this came about; but that was the fact, it was empty; the men had had no wages for some time, and they would very soon have had no food. I asked my officers for advice. ‘You must go to Cyrus,’ they said, ‘Cyrus is paymaster.’[19] It was a bitter draught to swallow, but I managed to get it down. I went to his palace at Sardis. ‘Tell your master,’ I said to the slave who came to the door, a gorgeous creature whose dress I am sure I could not afford to buy, ‘tell your master that Callicratidas, admiral of the Spartan fleet, is here, and wishes to speak with him.’ The fellow left me standing outside, and went to deliver his message. After I had waited till my patience was almost exhausted, the man came back, and said ‘Cyrus is not at leisure to see you. He is drinking.’ Well, I put up with that. ‘Very good,’ I said, ‘I will wait till he has done drinking.’ I thought that I would go earlier the next day, though even then it was scarcely an hour after noon. So I went at a time when I thought that he could not possibly have taken to his cups, and asked again to see him. This time they had not the grace even to make an excuse. ‘Cyrus is not at leisure to see you,’ was the answer, and nothing more. That was more than I could stand, and I went away. I vowed that day, and believe me it was not only because I had myself been insulted, that if I lived to go home, I would do my very best to bring Sparta and Athens together again. And now, sir, as to your business. I will send home a report of what you say. If the authorities direct me to take any action in the matter, I shall do my best to take it with effect, but I tell you frankly that this idea does not commend itself to me, and let me give you a bit of advice: do your best to make peace in your city, as I shall do my best to make peace in Greece. Depend upon it, that if we don’t, we shall have some one coming down upon us from outside. It may be the Persian, though he does not seem to me to have improved as a soldier; it may be the Macedonian, who is a sturdy fellow, and helps us already to fight our battles. Whoever it is he will find us helpless with an endless quarrel and will make short work with us. And now good night.”

Hippocles left the Spartan admiral full of admiration for his manly and patriotic temper, and not at all pleased that he had been obliged to play a false part with a man so transparently honest.

About an hour after midnight the harbor was alarmed by the cry that the ship from Cos had parted from her moorings. Hippocles had taken advantage of a temporary increase in the force of the wind to cut his cables, and to drift toward the Athenian part of the harbor. Nobody was able to answer the cry for help, even if it had not been purposely raised too late. The Skylark had run the blockade, and Conon knew that he was to be relieved.

CHAPTER VI.
ARGINUSÆ.

At Athens, meanwhile, the relieving fleet was being fitted out with a feverish energy such as had never been witnessed within the memory of man. Nine years before, indeed, preparations on a larger scale, if cost and magnificence are to be taken into account, had been made for the disastrous expedition against Syracuse; but there was all the difference in the world between the temper of the city at the one time and at the other. Athens was at the height of her strength and her wealth when she sent out her armament, splendid, so to speak, with silver and gold, against Syracuse. It was a mighty effort, but she did it, one may almost say, out of the superfluity of her strength. Now she was sadly reduced in population and in revenue; she was struggling not for conquest but for life; she was making her last effort, and spending on it her last talent, her last man. To find a juster parallel it would have been necessary to go back a life-time, to the day when the Athenians gave up their homes and the temples of their gods to the Persian invaders, falling back on their last defences, the “wooden walls” of their ships. Many men had heard from father or grandfather, it was just possible that one or two tottering veterans may have seen with their own eyes, how on that day a band of youths, the very flower of the Athenian aristocracy, headed by Cimon, the son of Miltiades, had marched with a gay alacrity through the weeping multitude, to hang up their bridles in the temple of Athene. For the time the goddess needed not horsemen but seamen, and they gave her the service that she asked for. Now the same sight was seen again. Again the knights, the well-born and wealthy citizens of Athens, dedicated their bridles to the patron goddess, and went to serve as mariners on board the fleet. Every ship that could float was hastily repaired and equipped. Old hulks that had been lying in dock since the palmy days when the veteran Phormion[20] led the fleet of Athens to certain victory, were launched again and manned. In this way the almost unprecedented number[21] of one hundred and ten triremes were got ready. To man these a general levy of the population was made. Every one within the age of service not actually disabled by sickness, was taken to form the crews, and not a few who had passed the limit volunteered. Even then the quota had to be made up by slaves, who were promised their freedom in return for their services. It was a stupendous effort, and one which Athens made with her own strength. These were not mercenaries, but her own sons whom she was sending out to make their last struggle for life. Night and day the preparations were carried on, and before a month was out from the day on which the tidings of the disaster at Mitylene reached the city, the fleet was ready to sail. Its destination was Samos, an island that had remained faithful to Athens even after the disastrous end of the war in Sicily. Here it was joined by a contingent of forty ships, made up of the same squadron scattered about the Ægean, the two triremes of Diomedon[22] being among them. Diomedon was related to Callias, and the young man asked and obtained leave from the captain with whom he had sailed from Athens to transfer himself to his ship.

A battle was imminent. The Spartan admiral had left fifty ships to maintain the blockade of Mitylene, and sailed to meet the relieving force. His numbers were inferior, but pride, and perhaps policy, forbade him to decline the combat. He had made a haughty boast to Conon, and he had to make it good. “The sea is Sparta’s bride,” he had said. “I will stop your insults to her.” His fleet was now off Cape Malta, the south-eastern promontory of Lesbos. The Athenians had taken up their position at some little islands between it and the mainland, the Arginusæ, or White Cliffs, as the name may be translated, a name destined to become notable as the scene of the great city’s last victory.

Callicratidas had watched the arrival of the Athenians, and had concluded that, according to the usual custom of Greek sailors, they would take their evening meal on shore. Before long the fires lighted over all the group of islets showed that he was right. His own men had supped, and they were ordered to embark in all haste and make an attack which would probably be a surprise. What success his bold and energetic action would have had we can only guess. The stars in their courses fought against him. A violent thunderstorm with heavy rain came on, and prevented him from putting to sea.

The next day was fine and calm and the two fleets were early afloat. Their arrangement and plan of action showed a curious contrast, a contrast such as was almost enough to make one of the great Athenian seamen of the past turn in his grave. The Athenian ships were massed together; the Spartans and their allies were formed in a single line. Callias, who had never before been present at a great sea-fight, but who had taken pains to acquire as much professional knowledge as he could, expressed his surprise to Diomedon. “How is this, sir?” he said, “how can our ships maneuver when they are packed together in this fashion?”

Diomedon, an old sailor who had been afloat for nearly forty years, smiled somewhat bitterly as he answered.

“Maneuver, my dear boy! That is exactly what we want to avoid. We can’t do it ourselves, and we don’t mean to let our enemies do it, if it can be helped. The generation that could manœuver is gone. Five and twenty years of fighting have used it up. But, happily, we can still fight, at least such a fleet as we have got to-day, the real Athenian grit, can fight. If the weather holds fine, and I think it will for the day, though I don’t quite like the looks of the sky, we shall do well, because we shall be able to keep together.”

The arrangement of the Athenian line may be very briefly described. It had two strong wings, each consisting of sixty ships, formed in four squadrons of fifteen. These wings consisted wholly of Athenian galleys; the contingents of the allies were posted in the centre, and were in single line, either because they were better sailors, or because, as being directly in front of the group of islets, they were protected by their position.

The policy of the Athenian commander was successful. Arginusæ was not a battle of skillful maneuvers, but of hard fighting. Such battles are often determined by the fate of the general, and so it was that day. Callicratidas, had that pride of valor which had often done such great things for Sparta and for Greece, but which some times resulted in immediate disaster. His sailing master, a man of Megara, had advised him to decline a battle. A rapid survey of the position, of the numbers of the enemy and of the tactics which they were evidently intending to pursue, had convinced this skillful, experienced seaman, that the chances were against him. Callicratidas would not listen to him. “If I perish,” he said, “Sparta will not be one whit the worse off.” It was the answer of a man who was as modest as he was brave; but it was not to the point. Sparta would be a great deal worse off if she lost not only him—and he was worth considering—but, as actually happened, nearly the half of her fleet.

The signal to advance was passed along the line, and the admiral himself took up his place in the foremost ship. The whole fleet could see him as he stood a conspicuous figure in the lead. His stately and chivalrous presence, the feeling that a man whom it was a privilege to follow anywhere, gave, for a time, an effective encouragement. But the loss was proportionately great when that presence was removed. Early in the day his ship endeavored to ram that which carried the Athenian admiral Diomedon, itself in the van of the opposing force. Diomedon himself was at the rudder and managed his galley with remarkable skill. He avoided or rather half avoided the blow of the enemy’s boat, and this in such a way that the Spartan admiral lost his balance, and fell into the water. Callias, who was standing on the rear of the Athenian galley, at the head of a detachment of men ready either to board or to repel boarders, endeavored to save him; but the weight of his armor was fatal. He sank almost instantaneously. His death, it is easy to believe, cost Athens even more than it cost Sparta. It would have been infinitely better for her to fall into his hands than to have to sue for terms, as she did not many months afterwards, to the less generous Lysander.

The battle lasted for several hours. About noon the weather became threatening. The wind changed to the south-west and the sea began to rise. By general consent the struggle was suspended. Both sides had fought with conspicuous valor, but there could be no doubt that the victory remained with the Athenians. Their losses were serious, nearly a fifth of their force, or to give the numbers exactly, twenty-nine ships out of one hundred and fifty. But they had inflicted much more damage than they had suffered. Out of the small squadron of Spartan ships, ten in number, nine had been destroyed; and more than sixty belonging to the various allied contingents were either sunk or taken. The fifty that remained—and there were barely fifty of them—made the best of their way either to the friendly island of Chios, or to Phocæa on the mainland. Without doubt the Athenians had won a great victory. Whether the opportunity could have been used to restore permanently the fortunes of the city, is doubtful; but it is certain that it was lamentably wasted.

CHAPTER VII.
AFTER THE FIGHT.

A council of war was held by the Athenian admirals on one of the Arginusæ islets as soon as they could meet after the fighting had come to an end. Callias, by Diomedon’s desire, waited outside the tent in which the deliberations were being held, and could not help hearing, so high were the voices of the speakers raised, that there was an angry argument about the course to be pursued. The intolerably clumsy system of having ten generals of equal authority was on its trial, if indeed any trial was needed, and was once more found wanting.[23] Even if the right decision should be reached, time was being wasted, time that, as we shall see, was of a value absolutely incalculable.

When at last the council broke up—its deliberations had lasted for more than an hour—and Diomedon rejoined the young officer, he wore a gloomy and anxious look.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that mischief will come of this. I feel it so strongly that, though I ought not, perhaps, to tell outside the council what has been going on within, I must call you to witness. I did my very best to persuade my colleagues. ‘Our first business,’ I said, ‘is to save our friends. There were twenty-six ships, I said, disabled. A few were sunk on the spot; others, I am afraid, have gone down since; but more than half, I hope, are still afloat. Even where the ship is gone already, there are sure to be some of the crew who have been able to keep themselves afloat either by swimming or by holding on to floating stuff. For the sake of the gods, gentlemen,’—I give you my very words—‘don’t lose another moment. We have lost too many already. Send every seaworthy ship that you have got to the rescue of the shipwrecked. It is better to let ten enemies escape, than lose a single friend.’ They would not listen to me. They were bent, they said, on following up their victory, an excellent thing, I allow; but only when the first duty of making all that you have got quite safe has been performed. One of them—I will mention no names—positively insulted me. ‘Diomedon,’ he said, ‘has doubtless had enough fighting for the day.’ Why, in the name of Athene, do they put such lowbred villains into office. The fellow has a long tongue, and so the people elect him. I ‘tired of fighting’ indeed? I might have some excuse if I were, for I was hard at it, when he was a thievish boy, picking up unconsidered trifles in the market-place. Well; the end of it was that we came to a sort of compromise. Forty-odd ships are to go and save what can be saved from the wrecks—the gods only know how many will be left by this time—while the rest are to make the best of their way to Mitylene, and cut off the blockading squadron.”

“And you, sir?” asked Callias, “with which squadron are you to be?”

“I am to go to Mitylene, of course, after what that fellow said, I could not ask to have the other duty; but I feel that it is what I ought to be doing.”

“Who is to have it, sir,” said Callias.

“No one, if you will believe it,” answered the admiral, with an angry stamp of the foot. “I mean no one of ourselves, of the Ten. They are all so anxious to follow up the victory, as they put it, and make a great show of taking Spartan ships, that they will not take the trouble. Theramenes and Thrasybulus are to do it. I know that they have been in command in former years and may be supposed to be competent. Thrasybulus, too, is trustworthy; but Theramenes—to put it plainly—is a scoundrel. You know that I don’t care about politics; I am a plain sailor and leave such things to others; but I say this, politics or no politics, a man who turns against his friends is a scoundrel.[24] I don’t know what trick he is not capable of playing. Anyhow, whether these two do the business ill or well, one of the Ten ought to go. It would be better; and I am sure trouble will come of our not going. Mind this is all in confidence. You are never to breathe a word of it, till I give you leave.”

“And am I to go with you, sir?” said Callias.

“No,” was the answer; “I forgot to tell you; the worry of all this put it out of my mind. You are to take the despatch to Athens.”

“But the shipwrecked men”—exclaimed Callias.

“We must obey orders.”

An hour afterward Callias was on his way to Athens; the storm had now increased to something like a gale. As the waves came from the south it was impossible to take a straight course for the point in view, lying as it did almost due west. Few ships in those days could keep a straight line with the wind on the quarter.[25] Indeed it was soon impossible to keep up any sail at all, nor was it safe, even if the strength of the rowers already wearied by the labors of the day, had permitted it to keep the ship broadside to the waves. Nothing remained but to put her about and drive before the wind, a sail being now hoisted again and the rowers exerting themselves to the utmost to avoid being “pooped” by the heavy waves. Toward morning the wind moderated, but by that time the Swallow, for that was the name of the despatch-boat which had been told off for the service, had been driven as much as fifty miles out of her course. This would not have been of much consequence, but that the timber of the Swallow had been so strained by her battle with the sea that she began to leak inconveniently, if not dangerously. Her crew, too, were now in urgent need of rest. Under ordinary circumstances, Chios, which could be seen, as the day broke, about ten miles on the right bow, would have afforded a convenient shelter; but Chios was in the hands of the enemy. The little island of Vara, lying some ten miles to the north-west, was the only alternative. Here Callias, much against his will, for he feared that his news would be anticipated, was compelled to stop, the captains of the despatch-boat refusing to proceed, until vessel and men were better able to face the weather.

As it turned out, the delay did no harm. In fact it was the means of his reaching Athens with more speed and safety than he might otherwise have done. A day indeed was lost in doing such repairs as the imperfect resources of the little island permitted, but on the morrow, Callias set out again, and was groaning over the day that had been lost, and the very little good that the clumsy boat-builders had been able to do for him, when he found himself being rapidly overhauled by a vessel which had not long before hove in sight. Before noon he recognized the cut of the disguised Skylark, and at once ran up a signal which Hippocles whom he supposed to be on board would, he knew, recognize. The signal was immediately answered, and before another half-hour had passed the Skylark was along-side. After a brief colloquy it was arranged that the Swallow should make the best of her way to Samos, where there was an arsenal in which she could be properly repaired and that Callias with his dispatches should take his passage to Athens in the yacht.

Hippocles was acquainted with the general fact that the Athenian fleet had won a great victory; but he knew no details, and was eager to hear from the lips of one who had taken a part in the action. And he had much that was interesting to say to his young friend. The three weeks which he had spent in Mitylene with the blockaded squadron had not made him hopeful about the first issue of the war. He had found that Conon was not hopeful, and Conon was as able and intelligent an officer as Athens had in her service.

“This has been a stupendous effort on the part of the city,” he said, “and it has saved us for a time, but it can’t be kept, and it can’t be repeated. Athens is like a gambler reduced to his last stake. He wins it; very good. But then he has to throw again; and as often as he throws, it is the same—if he loses, he loses all. And, sooner or later, lose he must. In the long run the chances are against us. We have lost our morale. I saw a good deal of Conon’s men when I was shut up, and I thought very badly of them; and he thinks badly, too, I know. It is only a question of time. Do you know,” he went on, sinking his voice to a whisper—“and mark you, this is a thing that I should not venture to say to anyone in the world but you—I am half inclined to wish that we had been beaten in the last battle—that is, if Callicratidas had lived. A noble fellow indeed! Do you know that he let the Athenians whom he took at Methymna go on their parole? Any one else would have sold them for slaves.”

“Well,” said Callias, who was a little staggered by his friend’s view of affairs, “as your hero is drowned—mind that I quite agree in what you say of him—perhaps it is better that things have turned out as they have. And I can’t believe that our chances are as bad as you make out. Anyhow we are better off than when I saw you last.”

“I hope so; I hope so;” said Hippocles in a despondent tone, “But they might have done better. For instance, we have let the blockading squadron at Mitylene escape.”

“How was that?” asked Callias. “Did you see nothing of our fleet. It was to sail northward at once.”

“No—I never saw or heard of it. Now listen to what happened. On the day after the battle—though of course I knew nothing of what happened—two despatch-boats came into the harbor—so at least everyone thought—and the second had wreaths on mast and stern, as if it had brought good news. And Eteonicus—he was in command of the blockading squadron—was good enough to send us a herald with the intelligence that Callicratidas had won a great sea fight, and that the whole of the Athenian fleet had been destroyed. Of course we did not quite believe that, but if only a quarter of it was true, it was not pleasant hearing. My old sailing master, who has as sharp eyes as any man I know, said to me. ‘My belief, sir, is that it is all nonsense about this great victory, and that the second boat was only the first dressed up. I observed them both particularly, and they were amazingly alike. In both the bow sides oars were just a little behind the stroke, and one of the oars, I noticed, was a new one, and not painted like the rest. And why should the man take the trouble to tell us about the victory as he calls it. If it is true, he has us safe, and can cut us up at his leisure. No, sir, I don’t believe a word of it.’ Well, I was not certain that the old man was right, but I strongly suspected that he was. Anyhow I was so convinced of it that I spent the whole night in getting ready; and, sure enough, the next morning the blockading squadron had slipped off, with nobody to hinder them.”

“That was a very smart trick for a Spartan,” said Callias.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE NEWS AT ATHENS.

The Skylark excelled herself in the display of her sailing qualities. Thanks to this, Callias, in spite of the untoward delays which had occurred on his journey, was the first to bring intelligence of the victory to Athens. The news ran like wild fire through the city, gathering, as may be supposed, a vast number of imaginary details, as it passed from mouth to mouth, and the assembly which was called by proclamation for the next day, to hear the reading of the despatches, was, considering the empty condition of the city, most unusually crowded. No one who could crawl to the market-place was absent, and all the entrances and approaches were thronged by women, children, and slaves. The first stress of fear had been relieved, for it was known that a victory had been won; but there was still much room for anxiety. The victory had not been gained without cost—no victories ever were—and it was only too probable that in this case the cost had been heavy. The despatch was brief and formal. It told the numbers engaged, and the order of formation, with the number of hostile vessels captured or sunk. It mentioned the fact that there had been losses on the side of the conquerors, and promised details when there should have been time to ascertain the facts.

After the assembly had been dismissed, Callias was overwhelmed with enquiries. To these he thought it well to return very vague answers. The fact was that there was much that he knew and much that he did not know. He knew the name of more than one of the ships that had been sunk or disabled. Two or three had been run down before his eyes. About others he had information almost equally certain. He could have told some of his questioners what would have confirmed their worst fears. On the other hand he could not give anything like a complete list of the losses. Some enquirers he could reassure. He had seen or even talked to their friends after the battle. All the admirals, he knew, were safe. And steps, he was sure, had been taken to rescue the shipwrecked crews. On the subject of Diomedon’s fears he preserved absolute silence. If any disaster had happened, it was only too sure to be heard of before long.

On the evening of the day of assembly a great banquet was held in the Prytaneum, or Town-hall of Athens. Such a banquet was always an interesting sight, and on this occasion Callias, as he witnessed it for the first time, also saw it to the very greatest advantage. All the public guests[26] of the city that were not absent on active service or were not positively hindered from coming by age or infirmity were present. The ranks of these veterans were indeed sadly thinned. The war had been curiously deadly to officers high in command. The fatal expedition to Sicily had swept off many of the most distinguished. Others had fallen in the “little wars” in which Athens like all states that have wide dominions had been perpetually involved. One famous survivor of a generation that had long since passed away was there, Myronides, the victor of Œnophyta. The old man had been born in the Marathon year, and was therefore now eighty-four. His life, it will be seen, embraced with remarkable exactitude the period of the greatness of Athens. The victory that had made him famous had been won fifty-one years before, and had been, so to speak, the “high water mark” of Athenian dominion.[27] He had lived to see almost its lowest ebb, though happily for himself as he died before the year was out, he was spared from seeing the absolute ruin of his country. Callias was distantly related to him and was on terms of as close a friendship as the difference of age permitted with his son Eteonicus, one of the ablest and most patriotic statesmen of the time. After the libation which was the usual signal for the wine drinking, had been poured, the old man rose from his place, as his habit was, and walked down the hall, touching our hero on his shoulder as he passed.

“Come,” he said, as Callias looked up, “if you can spare half an hour from the wine cup to bear an old man company.”

The young man immediately left his place and accompanied the veteran to one of the small chambers leading from the hall.