The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

THE GOLDEN HOPE

A STORY OF THE TIME OF
KING ALEXANDER THE GREAT

BY

ROBERT H. FULLER

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1905,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1905. Reprinted May, 1906.

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

"For what was all his war in Asia after the death of Philippus, but tempests, extreme heats, wonderful deep rivers, marvellous high mountains, monstrous beasts for greatness to behold, wild savage fashions of life, change and alteration of governors upon every occasion, yea treasons and rebellions of some? At the beginning of his voyage, Greece did yet lay their heads together, for the remembrance of the wars that Philippus made upon them: the towns gathered together: Macedonia inclined to some change and alteration: divers people far and near lay in wait to see what their neighbours would do: the gold and silver of Persia flowing in the orators' purses, and governors of the people did raise up Peloponnese: Philippus' treasure and coffers were empty, and the debts were great. In despite of all these troubles, and in the middest of his poverty, a young man, but newly come to man's estate, durst in his mind think of the conquest of Asia, yea of the empire of the whole world, with thirty thousand footmen and five thousand horse, ... howbeit he was furnished with magnanimity, with temperance, with wisdom, and valour: being more holpen in this martial enterprise, with that he had learned of his tutor Aristotle, than with that which his father Philippus had left him.... In Alexander's actions they see, that his valiantness is gentle, his gentleness valiant: his liberality, husbandry, his choler soon down, his loves temperate, his pastimes not idle, and his travels gracious. What is he that hath mingled feasting with wars, and military expeditions with sports? Who hath intermingled in the middest of his besieging of towns: and in the middest of skirmishes and fights, sports, banquets, and wedding songs? Who was ever more enemy to those that did wrong, nor more gracious to the afflicted? Who was ever more cruel to those that fought, or more just unto suppliants?"

—NORTH'S Plutarch.

CONTENTS

THE GOLDEN HOPE

CHAPTER I

THREE FRIENDS MEET

Athens was rousing herself from sleep. The beams of the morning sun bathed the rugged sides of Mount Hymettus and lightened the dark foliage that clothed the nearer wooded slopes of Lycabettus. The low, flat-roofed houses of the city were still nothing more than blurred masses of gray in the shadow; but presently a ray touched the point of Athene's spear, and the flood of orange light flowed over the Acropolis. Its temples and statues were enveloped in a radiance which fused the rich, harmonious colors of column and cornice and melted the massive outlines into a resplendent whole, rising immortal from the gloom at its base.

Thin curls of smoke mounted here and there above the housetops, straight up toward the limitless turquoise vault of the sky. The vivifying freshness of the new-born day was in the air.

There was a clatter of hoofs in the Street of Pericles, and two young men, followed by three mounted servants, swung into view.

"By Zeus, Leonidas!" cried the foremost of the riders, drawing rein and pointing to the Acropolis, "that is worth riding all night to see!"

"You mean the sunrise?" the other asked, also coming to a halt. "Pshaw! You may see that any day without sitting up for it."

"Not I!" said his companion, laughing. "I love the lamps too well."

Leonidas shrugged his square shoulders. "It's not the lamps you love, Chares," he returned dryly. "But why are we idling here? Unless we make haste, Clearchus will be out of bed before we can surprise him."

"Come on, then!" Chares cried, urging his tired horse. "By Heracles! what's that?"

The three servants had ridden forward in advance of their masters. From the direction they had taken, the young men heard a confusion of angry voices, mingled with oaths. In another moment they saw that the street was blocked by a gorgeous litter borne on the shoulders of four sturdy slaves and surrounded by a dozen more, some of whom carried torches which burned pale in the morning light. The litter-bearers had refused to draw aside, and the guard was attempting to turn the horsemen back. Evidently some youth had been overtaken at his revelry by the dawn and was now being carried home by slaves who had followed his example at the wine-cup.

A bustling little man, with close-cropped hair and the sharp-nosed face of a fox, was shaking his sword in the faces of the riders.

"Back with you! Back!" he shouted. "Do you seek to halt the noble Phradates? Back, while you may!"

The curtains of the litter parted, and a young man's face, crimson with wrath and wine, appeared at the opening. He wore upon his head a wreath of wilted roses, which had slipped sidewise over one ear.

"What is the matter, Mena?" he called thickly. "Cut the rascals down!"

The three servants hesitated, looking back to their masters for instructions.

"Here is sport!" Chares cried, his eyes sparkling. "Let us ride through them! They need a lesson."

Leonidas made no answer, but shook his bridle rein free and plunged his spurs into the flanks of his horse.

"Way! Way!" Chares cried in a mighty voice, as they thundered down upon the obstinate group. "Follow us, my lads!" he shouted to the servants as he swept past.

The officious man with the sharp nose dropped his sword and scrambled up the steps of a house, but before the rest could follow his example the five horsemen were among them, and they were rolling under foot with their torches. Chares swerved his horse skilfully against the litter in such a manner that it was overturned. Its occupant pitched head foremost into the street, and the litter fell on top of him, burying him beneath a mass of curtains and silken cushions, among which he struggled like some gigantic insect caught in a web.

"You shall pay for this!" he gasped from the wreckage, shaking his fist after the little cavalcade. "I am Phradates!"

Chares laughed until the street echoed, and even Leonidas could not forbear a smile when he glanced back upon the havoc their passage had caused.

"We must ask Clearchus who this fellow is," Chares said. "Here is the house."

He sprang down in front of a dwelling of white marble and ran to the gate.

"Hola!" he shouted. "Let us in! Do you intend to keep your master's guests all day at his door? Open, then!"

After a slight delay there was a sound of falling bars, and the grating swung back, revealing a drowsy slave in the entrance.

"Is it you, my master? Enter; you are welcome," the man said, bowing before Chares.

"Is Clearchus awake?" Chares demanded eagerly.

"I think not, sir," the slave replied.

"Then we will rouse him!" Chares cried, running across the outer court and into the house. Leonidas followed more deliberately, leaving the attendants to care for the horses.

Chares did not stop to return the greeting of the slave who opened the house door for him, but dashed through the corridor that led to the inner court, shouting at the top of his voice: "Clearchus! Wake up, sluggard, and feed the hungry, or the Gods will turn their faces from you! Dreamer, where art thou?"

Just as he emerged from the corridor to the spacious inner court, the young man came suddenly upon a fresh-faced slave girl, who was busied with some early duties about the broad cistern filled with lotus flowers.

"Aphrodite, as I live!" Chares cried, throwing his arms about her and kissing her on the lips with a smack. The girl fled, laughing and blushing, to the women's quarters, and at the same moment the master of the house, awakened by the uproar, appeared on the threshold of his chamber.

"Chares!" he cried, coming forward with outstretched hands. "Who else could it be, indeed!"

"Oh, Clearchus," Chares said, "what hardships and perils we have passed to reach thee!"

"And here is Leonidas," said the Athenian, freeing himself from the embrace of Chares as the second of his guests entered the court. "Both my brothers here! For this I owe a sacrifice of thanksgiving which I shall not fail to pay. But what fortunate chance brings you to Athens?"

"We were sitting quietly enough in Thebes, talking of you," Leonidas replied, "when this madcap declared that he would not live another day without seeing you and that he intended to make you give him breakfast. Piso, who was with us, fell into dispute with him, offering to wager twenty minæ that we could not ride here before midday. Chares maintained that he would wake you this morning or forfeit the stake, and here we are."

"And so you have ridden all night?" Clearchus asked.

"All night, amid dangers and darkness, only to see you!" Chares replied gayly, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulder. "And now, have you anything to eat in the house? I am like a famished wolf."

"Come with me," Clearchus said, leading the way into a large room opening from the left of the court. The sunlight streamed in from the garden outside, over rich Persian carpets which covered the floor. The walls were frescoed with scenes from the Iliad of Homer, drawn with marvellous skill. Painted statuettes stood in niches of stone. Chairs and tables of ebony, cypress, and cedar were scattered through the room, and soft couches invited rest. Clearchus struck a bell, and a grave man of middle age appeared in the doorway.

"Send us food, Cleon," Clearchus said.

The steward withdrew, and two younger slaves entered. They quickly divested Chares and Leonidas of their riding cloaks and swords and washed their hands in bowls of scented water, drying them upon linen towels. They were followed by other slaves bearing trays of cold fowl, bread, and wine.

"This seems like getting home," Chares exclaimed, throwing himself upon one of the couches and leaning back luxuriously upon the cushions of down which the slaves hastened to arrange behind him while he helped himself to food from the table. "By the Gods, Clearchus, unless you stop growing handsome, Phœbus will be jealous of you!"

The Athenian flushed like a girl. He was a clean-cut, clear-eyed young man, hardly more than twenty-one years old, with a face and figure that might have served as a model for Phidias himself. Although slender, his form was graceful, with the ease that comes only from well-trained muscles. Brown curls covered his head, and the glance of his dark eyes was steady and straightforward, with a singular earnestness. His expression was thoughtful and his mouth betrayed a sensitive delicacy.

His parents had died when he was still a lad. His father, Cleanor, bequeathed to him an immense fortune, amassed in the mines, which had been managed by his uncle, Ariston, until he became of age. His wealth made him envied by the fashionable young men of Athens, but he had few friends among them. He cared nothing for their drinking-bouts, cock-fights, and gaming, and he had no ambition in politics except to do his duty as a citizen of Athens. Deep in his heart he worshipped the city and her glorious achievements, especially those of the intellect, with fanatical devotion.

Chares, too, belonged to a family of wealth and influence, for his father, Jason, had been one of the foremost men in Thebes. In height he stood more than six feet, and the knotted muscles of his arms indicated enormous strength. He was buoyant, light-hearted, irresponsible, and pleasure-loving. His affection for the Athenian, whom he had known from boyhood, was the strongest impulse in him.

They had first met Leonidas at the Olympic Games, where he won the laurel crown in the chariot race, and they had there admitted him to their friendship. Different as they were from each other, there seemed little in common between either of them and the swarthy Lacedæmonian who lay eating silently while they chattered gossip of mutual acquaintances. Leonidas was rather below the middle stature, all bone and sinew, practised in arms, and inured to hardships from his childhood by the unbending discipline of Sparta. His dark hair grew low down on his forehead and his black eyes were set deep under overhanging brows. He neither shared nor wished to understand the delight which Clearchus felt in a perfect statue or a masterpiece of painting. He scorned the philosophers and poets. Upon the questionable pleasures to which Chares gave his days and nights, he looked with good-natured contempt. The narrow prejudices of his country were ingrained too deeply in his character to be disturbed by any change of surroundings. He valued more highly the consciousness that in his veins ran a few drops of the blood of the Lion of Thermopylæ than all the riches of the world.

In each of the three young men who met in the house of Clearchus were typified many of the characteristics of the states to which they belonged. Athens, Thebes, and Sparta in turn had held the supremacy in the little peninsula to which the civilized world was confined. Contrasted as they were, there was still a bond between them that had been welded by centuries of association.

"Tell me," Clearchus said, after their hunger had been somewhat appeased, "what is the news of Thebes? Are the Macedonians still perched in the Cadmea?"

"They are," Chares replied lazily. "We are still in the grasp of the barbarian; but our plotters are at work and they tell me that soon we shall break it."

"Do you mean they are planning revolt?" Clearchus asked eagerly.

"Don't get excited," the Theban responded. "It will give you indigestion. They have revolted already, thanks to the gold your city sent them, and the barbarians are eating their corn in the citadel just at present, waiting for something to turn up."

"But that means war, Chares," Clearchus exclaimed.

"Well," Chares replied, "that will give Leonidas a chance to clear the rust from his sword. You know he is in the market."

"That is true," the Spartan said in response to Clearchus' glance of inquiry. "No man can live on air. I follow my profession where there is work to be done."

There was nothing disgraceful in this avowal. If his own country was at peace, a Greek soldier might sell his sword to the highest bidder, as did Xenophon, without reproach.

"And I suppose you, too, will be fighting, Chares?" said Clearchus.

"As to that, I don't know," the Theban answered, stretching himself with a yawn. "Perhaps the best thing that could happen to us would be to have the Macedonian conquer and rule. It would put an end to our own wars. If matters go on as they have been going, all three of us may be trying to cut each other's throats before the month is out."

"No," Clearchus exclaimed, "that cannot be, because you must promise me to stay here and drink at my wedding feast at the next new moon."

"What, Clearchus! you are going to be married?" Chares cried, springing from his couch. "Who is she?"

"Artemisia, daughter of Theorus," Clearchus answered. "She is the most beautiful—"

"Ho, Cleon, Cleon! Where are you?" Chares shouted at the top of his voice. "Cleon, I say!"

The steward ran into the room in alarm.

"Bring wine of Cyprus, quickly!" Chares cried, waving his arms.

Cleon vanished with a smile, and Chares hastened to embrace his friend with a fervor that threatened to crack his ribs. Leonidas grasped him warmly by the hand, and both showered congratulations upon him.

"We pledge thee!" Chares cried, taking the wine that Cleon brought in a great beaker of carved silver and raising it to his lips, after spilling a portion of its contents in libation.

"May the Gods give thee happiness!" Leonidas said, drinking deep in his turn.

"Neither war, famine, nor pestilence shall take us from thee until thou art married," Chares cried, half in jest. "We swear it, Leonidas, by the head of Zeus!"

"We swear it!" the Spartan echoed, and each of them again pressed the young man's hand.

"I expected no less of you," Clearchus said, smiling into the faces of his companions. "It makes my heart glad to know that you will be with me. But after your long ride you must both be used up. I will leave you to get an hour or two of sleep before the Assembly which has been called for this afternoon to hear what Demosthenes has to say upon our policy toward Macedon. You will want to hear him, of course."

"Go, Clearchus," Chares said, laughing. "That is a long speech to tell us that you would like to be rid of us while you go to your Artemisia. Come back in time for the bath, that's all."

CHAPTER II

WARNING FROM THE GODS

A few miles west of Athens, in the suburb of Academe, dwelt Melissa, aunt and guardian of Artemisia. She was an invalid, bedridden for the greater part of the year, and she had chosen to live in the country that she might not be disturbed by the city noises. She had never married, and no departure from the routine of her well-ordered house was permitted. She loved her niece; but she was not sorry to have her marry, because, as she said, her own hold upon life was so uncertain, and besides, the match was a brilliant one.

Her household consisted of Philox, her steward, who had managed her affairs for a score of years, Tolmon, her gardener, and a dozen women slaves who, like their mistress, had passed the prime of life.

In Melissa's old-fashioned garden Artemisia, with two little slave girls to help her, was at work over a hedge of roses. She had not yet reached her nineteenth year. Her soft, light brown hair was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, showing the graceful curve of the nape of her neck and half revealing the little pink lobes of her ears. Her forehead was low and smooth and broad, with delicately arched brows, a shade darker than her hair. Her eyes were blue and the color in her cheeks was heightened by her exertions in bringing the straying rose stems into place. The folds of her pure white chiton left her warm arms bare to the shoulder and defined the youthful lines of her supple figure. As she stooped among the flowers, handling them with gentle touches, she seemed preoccupied, and her glance continually wandered from her task.

Agile as monkeys, the slave girls darted about her, pelting each other with blossoms and uttering peals of shrill laughter. Their short white tunics made their swarthy skins darker by contrast.

The garden was set in a tiny meadow beside the river Cephissus. It was shut in on both sides by groves of olive and fig trees, against whose dark foliage gleamed the marble front of the house to which it belonged. The sunlight swept the smooth emerald of the turf, touched the brilliant hues of the flowers, and flashed back from the rippling river beyond.

"Oh, mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly! Oh, please, may I catch him?" cried one of the little girls.

"Hush, chatterbox," said Artemisia; "come and help me here."

"Ouch, that awful thorn! Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.

"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected despair. "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."

"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried, taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward the house.

Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his friends. Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they pretended to busy themselves with their work.

"Greeting, Artemisia, my Life!" Clearchus said, taking her hands in his.

"Greeting, Clearchus; I am glad to see thee," she replied.

"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young man said radiantly. "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"

"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully. "Why dost thou ask?"

"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing. "There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."

They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow, where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out over the garden and the river. They sat down side by side and Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist. Evidently, with the subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face. He saw that it was troubled.

"What is the matter, my dearest?" he asked in sudden alarm.

She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too happy," she said at last in reply.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him. "Why should any of the Gods wish us harm? We have not failed in paying them honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."

Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his shoulder. He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her hair, awaiting an explanation.

"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly. "You are tired and nervous and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to trouble you. Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is not mine as well as thine."

"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl. Whatever may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me. I am thine—heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the hereafter—forever."

"Why dost thou speak so, my Soul?" Clearchus asked in alarm. "What has happened? Surely we shall be married at the new moon."

"I do not know, Clearchus—all that I know is that I love thee and shall love thee always. A warning from the Gods has been sent to me."

She lifted her face and clasped her hands in her lap. Her eyes were wet and her lips were tremulous as those of a helpless child who awaits a blow.

"What was it, my Life?" Clearchus asked gently.

"I was in a strange house," she replied, looking straight before her as though she could see the things that she described. "It was a house of many rooms, some filled with lights and some so dark I could not tell what was in them. I heard the sound of voices, of laughter, and of weeping, but I could see nobody. Thou wert there, I knew, and I was seeking thee with my heart full of terror; for something told me I would not find thee. It was dreadful—dreadful, Clearchus!"

She paused and clung to him for a moment as though in fear of being torn from his side.

"I do not know how long I wandered through passages and chambers," she resumed, "but at last I reached a corridor that had rows of pillars on either side. At the end was a crimson curtain, beyond which men and women were talking. As I stood hesitating in the empty corridor, suddenly I heard thy voice among the rest. I could not mistake it, Clearchus. Joy filled my heart. Thou didst not know I was there nor what peril I was in. I felt that I had but to lift the curtain—thou wouldst see me and I would be saved. I ran forward, crying out to thee; but before I reached the curtain, rough men came from between the pillars and thrust me back, drowning my voice with shouting and laughter. I threw myself on my knees before them and prayed them not to stop me. They answered in words that I could not understand. My heart was breaking, Clearchus! The light beyond the crimson curtain grew dim, and outside I could hear a roaring like a great storm. The pillars were shaken and the walls crumbled, and I woke crying thy name."

The young man's face had grown unusually grave and thoughtful as he listened to the recital of the dream. No man or woman of his time who believed in anything ever thought of doubting that the visions of sleep were divine communications to mortals. Statesmen directed the course of nations and generals planned their campaigns in accordance with the interpretation of these revelations.

"What does it mean, Clearchus? You are wiser than I," Artemisia said anxiously. "If I am separated from thee, I shall die."

"The men who halted you seemed to be barbarians?" Clearchus asked thoughtfully.

"Thus they seemed," she replied. "I could not understand their speech, and their clothes were not our fashion."

"I know not what it means, Artemisia," Clearchus said at last. "We are in the hands of the Gods. I shall ask the protection of Artemis and offer her a sacrifice. To-morrow we must be married. I do not dare to wait for the new moon, for I must be near you to protect you. Then, whatever may come, we will meet it together."

"Perhaps the dream was meant for me alone," Artemisia said tenderly. "I cannot bear to bring you into danger."

"Hush, Artemisia!" Clearchus said reprovingly. "I would rather a thousand times die with thee than live without thee."

With a sigh, she let her head rest on his shoulder.

"I care not what may happen so that thou art with me," she said; "then I can feel no fear."

"Artemisia," Clearchus said suddenly, "go not out again to-day. I shall tell Philox to guard thee well until to-morrow. Hast thou told Melissa of the dream?"

"No, for I wished to tell thee first and she is so easily frightened," Artemisia said.

"Then say nothing to her about it," the young man replied.

One of the little slave girls ran up to them at this moment and stood before them, twisting her fingers together and waiting to be spoken to.

"What is it, Proxena?" Artemisia asked.

"The morning meal is waiting, mistress," said the child, and sped away again.

CHAPTER III

ARISTON LAYS A PLOT

Ariston, uncle of Clearchus and formerly guardian of his fortune, sat at his work-table before a mass of papyri closely written with memoranda and accounts. His house stood by itself in a quarter of the city that had once been fashionable but now was occupied chiefly by the poorer class of citizens. Its front was without windows and its stone walls were yellowed and stained with age. Its seclusion seemed to be emphasized by the bustle of life that surrounded it and in which it had no part.

The room in which Ariston sat was evidently used as an office, for rows of metal-bound boxes of various shapes and sizes were piled along its walls. A statuette of Hermes stood in one corner upon its pedestal, and its sightless eyes seemed bent upon the thin, gray face of the old man as he leaned with his elbows upon the top of the table, polished by long use. Lines of care and anxiety showed themselves at the corners of his mouth and about his restless eyes. The light of the swinging lamp that illuminated the small room, even in the daytime, made shadowy hollows at his temples and beneath his cheek-bones.

Little was known of the personal concerns of the old man in Athens. Although he mingled with the other citizens without apparent reserve, he never discussed his own affairs. The general impression was that he was a good Athenian who had been faithful to the trust reposed in him, and who had won a modest competence of his own for the support of his age. This idea was encouraged by the parsimonious habits of his life and by the trifling but cautious ventures that he sometimes made in the commercial activity of the city. His most conspicuous characteristic, in the minds of his acquaintances, was his mania for gathering information concerning not only Athens and Greece, but distant lands and strange peoples as well. This was looked upon as a harmless and even useful occupation, and it accounted for his evident fondness at times for the company of strangers, who, no doubt, contributed to the satisfaction of his curiosity.

Great would have been the astonishment if some orator had announced to the Athenian Assembly that the humble old man was really one of the richest citizens of Athens, as well as the best informed concerning the plans and hopes of the rulers of the world and of the probable current of coming events. Laughter would have greeted the assertion that much of the merchandise which found its way to the Piræus belonged to him and that the profits realized from the sale of silks and spices, corn and ivory, went into his coffers. Yet these statements would have been true a year before. In Athens the rich were required to contribute to the public charges in proportion to their wealth, and the saving that Ariston was able to effect by making his investments abroad and concealing them through various stratagems from the knowledge of his neighbors was sufficient, in his opinion, to compensate him for the trouble and the risks that such a course involved. He would rather have suffered his fingers to be hacked off one by one than part with the heavy, shining bars of gold that his prudence and foresight had amassed.

If the history of each separate coin and bar could have been told, it would have revealed secrets which their master had forced himself to forget. Some of them were the price of flesh and blood; some had been gained by violence upon the seas or among the trackless wastes of the desert; some had been won at the expense of honor and truth; for in his earlier years Ariston had been both bold and unscrupulous in his cunning, and his craving for riches had always been insatiable. As his years and his wealth increased he became more circumspect and conservative. He even sought to expiate some of his earlier faults by furtive sacrifices to the Gods, and especially to Hermes, whose image he cherished.

But the Gods had turned their faces from him, and his repentance, if repentance it could be called, had been unavailing. Misfortune had come upon him, and calamity seemed always to be lying in wait for him. If his vessels put to sea, they were sunk in storms or captured by pirates. His factories and warehouses were burned; his caravans were lost; his debtors defaulted; and if he purchased a cargo of corn, its price at the Piræus was certain to be less than the price he had paid for it in the Hellespont. One after another the precious bars which had cost him so much to obtain were sent to save doubtful ventures and losing investments, until at last all were gone. Sitting in his dingy room, on the day of the arrival of Chares and Leonidas at the house of Clearchus, he was at last in a worldly sense what his neighbors thought him to be; and the marble face of Hermes, with its painted eyes, smiled malignly at him from its corner.

But there was still hope left to him. Although the widespread web of his enterprises had been rent and torn by misfortune, there yet remained enough to build upon securely if he had but a few more of the yellow bars to tide over his present distress. Without them he might keep afloat for a few months longer; but the end would be utter ruin. At least he still owned the great dyeing establishment in Tyre, which had never failed to yield him a handsome revenue. He recalled how he had taken it from Cepheus for one-fourth its real value. It was no concern of his that Cepheus had stolen it from young Phradates. What did the details of the transaction matter now, since they were known only to himself and to Cepheus, who would not be likely to reveal them, and to Mena the Egyptian, the young man's steward? Mena had stolen so much himself from the spendthrift that he would never dare to tell what he knew. And yet the fellow had it in his power to rob Ariston of the last remnant of his fortune.

A discreet knock interrupted Ariston's reflections. He brushed his parchments and papyri hastily into an open box that stood beside his chair and closed the lid. "Enter!" he commanded.

An aged slave opened the door. "Mena, of Tyre," he said.

Cold sweat broke out on Ariston's forehead, but he gave no outward sign of his consternation. "Bring him hither," he directed.

The Egyptian, who had been watching the sluggish goldfish floating in the weed-grown cistern of the court, entered the room with an air of importance. He turned his alert face, with its sharp, inquiring features, upon Ariston.

"Greeting!" he said, extending his hand. "It is long since we have seen thee in Tyre."

"Yes," Ariston replied, leading him to a seat opposite his own, "I am getting too old for travel."

"You have indeed grown older since I saw you last," Mena said, looking at him attentively. "I hope it is not because Fortune has been unkind."

Ariston winced, and the change in his expression was not lost upon the shrewd Egyptian.

"What brings you here?" he asked, shifting the subject.

"We are travelling, my beloved master and I," Mena answered.

"Phradates is with you, then?" the old man asked with an alarm that he was unable to conceal.

The steward paused before he answered, gazing at Ariston with eyes half closed and a faint smile upon his lips.

"Phradates is here," he said at last. "I know of what you are thinking. We have been friends too long to have secrets from each other. You need have no fear. Cepheus is dead and I have too many causes to despise Phradates to take his part."

He paused again and suddenly his face became convulsed with a spasm of hatred.

"I could strangle him!" he cried, clenching his hands as though he felt his master's throat beneath his fingers.

Ariston breathed more freely. At any rate, his property in Tyre was safe.

"Why don't you do it, then?" he asked coolly.

"Because the time has not yet come!" Mena replied fiercely. "For every insult that he has given me and for every blow that he has made me feel, he shall suffer tenfold! His fortune is dwindling, and in the end it will be mine. Then let him ask Mena for aid!"

"I did not know that you had so much courage," Ariston remarked.

"I have not watched you in vain," Mena replied, "and it is to you that I now come for assistance."

"To me!" Ariston exclaimed.

"To you," Mena repeated. "Be not alarmed, for what I have to propose will be for our mutual benefit. Phradates has been throwing money right and left since we set out from Tyre. Great sums he spent in Crete and still greater in Corinth. Since his arrival here he has been fleeced without mercy. You will understand that I have tried to protect him, but merely to save him from injury. He might have lost his life only this morning had I not been there to guard him from an attack by two desperate characters with a crowd of slaves, who set upon us while we were returning from the dice. Luckily, I succeeded in beating them off, but the noble Phradates was thrown from his chair and his noble nose was battered. Soon he will be in want of more money. Of the property that remains to him, he has quarries on Lebanon, which employ a thousand slaves, silk mills in Old Tyre, where as many more are kept busy, and a score of ships in the trade with Carthage. He believes the value of the quarries and the mills to be only half what it really is and reports have been made to him that two-thirds of the vessels of his fleet have been lost. All this he will pledge for anything that it will bring when he learns that his money is gone. It is for us to get possession of that pledge. I have a few talents, but not enough. I will take care that the loan is never repaid and our success is certain. What do you say?"

Ariston looked at the statue of Hermes. It was a fancy of his that he could draw either a favorable or an adverse augury from the expression on the face of the God as it showed in the wavering light of the lamp. He could detect no change in the mocking smile that seemed to hover about the marble lips. It left him with no conclusion.

"What you have told me," he said to Mena, "makes it necessary for me to tell you something in return. I am a ruined man."

"Ruined! You!" Mena exclaimed incredulously.

"It is true," Ariston replied. "Of all that I had, nothing remains to me intact except the dye-house in Tyre and a small fleet of corn ships that has but now arrived from the Euxine. The worst is that I have debts that must be met if I am to save other ventures."

"But you have the property of your nephew to draw upon," Mena suggested.

"I had it," the old man said, "but it was turned over to him more than a year ago. Since then all my losses have befallen."

"But you are his heir," the Egyptian replied meaningly. "Is he married?"

"No; but he soon will be," Ariston replied.

The two men exchanged glances, reading each other's thoughts in their eyes. Neither cared to put into words what was in his mind.

"Leave it to me," Ariston said at last. "I think it can be managed. Clearchus knows nothing of my affairs, and if I can once more get control of the property all will be well. I think we may safely assume that he will not marry. For the rest, we must wait and see. Let us talk of this pledge that Phradates is to make for our security."

He produced his tablets and a stylus and the conspirators were soon buried in a mass of calculations. When Mena took his leave, every detail had been arranged.

Hardly had Mena disappeared in the direction of the Agora when a man of unusual stature, with brawny arms and a heavy black beard, turned into the street in which Ariston lived and stood staring doubtfully about him. There was a hint of the sea in his sunburned face and rough garments.

"If you are looking for the Piræus, my friend, you will not find it here," said a fruit dealer who chanced to meet him.

"What do you know of the Piræus, grasshopper?" returned the stranger, halting and looking at the merchant with contempt. "I am searching for the house of Ariston, son of Xenas. Do you know where in this accursed street it is?"

"Tut, tut; fair words, my friend," the merchant replied, carefully keeping his distance. "What do you want with Ariston?"

"That is his affair and mine, but not yours," growled the stranger.

"I'll warrant it is nothing good," the fruit dealer said, "but you will find his house at the end of the street, near the wall."

Without stopping to thank him, the stranger strode on in the direction that he had indicated. The merchant stood for a moment gazing after him, wondering whence he came and what he wanted; but finding no answer to these questions in his own mind, he shook his head like a man who is assured of the existence of something that should not be and continued on his way to his shop in the Agora to relate his suspicions.

Ariston himself came to the door in response to the stranger's knock. He was admitted at once and without a word. Ariston led him in silence to his own room and seated him in the chair that Mena had occupied half an hour before. Instead of summoning a slave, the old man went himself to fetch a flask of wine and a trencher of bread and cheese.

"Can it be done?" he asked in an eager voice, leaning forward in his favorite attitude with his elbows on the table while the other ate and drank.

"It can be done, but it will not be easy," his guest replied.

"Not easy to carry off a woman who has only slaves to guard her?" Ariston exclaimed. "Are your men cowards, then, Syphax?"

"No, my men and I are not cowards, old Skinflint," Syphax said, "but you may as well understand now that we do not intend to risk our lives for nothing."

He delivered this speech with the blustering air of a bully, gazing boldly into the old man's face. Ariston, naturally of small stature, looked more than ever shrunken and withered in contrast with his companion; but at the sound of the other's threatening tone, his face hardened and there came a cold gleam into his eyes.

"I am glad you are not afraid, Syphax," he said in a voice so soft that it sounded almost caressing. "Have you forgotten Medon? Your eyes saw his death. He was a brave man, too, your old chief. I think I can hear him yet as he called upon the Gods in his torture. They could not help him. Poor Medon!"

The face of Syphax paled under its tan at the recollection that Ariston had conjured up and an involuntary shudder ran through him. His bold eyes wavered before the persistent stare of the little old man, whom he could have crushed in one of his hands.

"What are you willing to pay?" he asked hoarsely, pushing away his food half finished.

"You would do it for nothing, if I asked you, Syphax," the old man replied, still in the same soft voice, "but I have no wish to be hard with you. This is a matter in which I have a deep interest and I am willing to pay well for it. When you have taken her safely on board, you will sail to Halicarnassus, where you will search out Iphicrates, son of Conon, and give him this letter. If he finds you have done your work well, he will pay you a talent in silver. But if the girl has been harmed in any way, not a drachma will you get and worse will befall you than befell Medon."

"The work is worth five times as much," Syphax grumbled with downcast eyes, "but I suppose I have no choice."

"None, my dear Syphax, and I am a poor man," said Ariston. "Let us regard the matter as settled. Now, how do you intend to proceed?"

Syphax roused himself like a man whose professional skill has been called upon.

"The house stands thus," he said, indicating its position on the table with a huge finger. "On this side is the grove where I and a dozen of my men will lie hidden with the litter. One of my fellows will scale the roof and let himself down inside. He will open the door to us and the thing will be over in a moment."

"Where will you embark?" the old man asked, nodding approval.

"My ship will be lying off-shore with a boat in waiting. We will carry her in the litter to this spot, about two stadia beyond the Piræus, which we shall have to pass. We shall make the attack soon after the middle watch of the night when the moon will be low."

"You should have been a general, Syphax," the old man said. "You have a better head for strategy than most of those the Athenians employ. Go to your work and forget nothing. I must attend the Assembly, where Demosthenes is to stir up the citizens against Alexander, son of Philip. They say the boy is dead."

"Alexander dead!" Syphax exclaimed.

"The story is that he was killed by the Illyrians, and Demosthenes has a man who saw him die," Ariston replied indifferently. "I think the man is lying and that Demosthenes knows it. But these affairs have nothing to do with you. Be off to your business."

When the adventurer had gone, Ariston returned to his room and prepared to write. From his expression of content, it was evident that he was satisfied with what had been done.

"To Iphicrates, son of Conon," his letter ran. "I am sending to you Syphax, a freebooter from Rhodes, who will deliver to you a young woman. You will take her into your house and guard her with care until you hear from me again. Syphax will present to you an order for a talent of silver. Defer the payment until you have the girl, and then do with him as you will. As a pirate and a robber, he has richly merited death. May the Gods protect you."

As Ariston was carefully sealing this letter, a gaunt, sour-visaged woman entered the room. She was his wife and the one person on earth in whom he had confidence. Like most secretive men with whom duplicity is a daily study, he sometimes felt the need of telling the truth, if only to note the effect of his schemes upon another's mind. But even to his wife, whose covetousness was equal to his own, he never revealed all that was in his brain. Her lonely life was spent in a constant endeavor to piece out from what he imparted to her the full extent of his plans. She admired his intellect, but deep in her heart she feared him, and, womanlike, she was tormented by the suspicion that somewhere she had a rival to whom he told what he concealed from her. The consciousness of her own deficiency of charms made her manner all the more harsh and forbidding. As soon as she entered the room she noted that he was in an easy mood, and she made haste to take advantage of it.

"Who were these men?" she asked. "What are you about now?"

"Affairs of state, Xanthe, that are not for women to know," he said mockingly.

"All that concerns you concerns me," she replied. "Am I to do the work of a slave here like a mole in the dark? Who are these women you were talking of with that evil-looking man?"

"So you were listening!" Ariston said with a frown.

"Yes, I was, if you must know it," Xanthe said defiantly. "Do you think I am to know nothing? If you had consulted more freely with me before, we would not now be the paupers that we are, and many times I have told you this, but you will not listen to me because I am a woman."

There was something in this remonstrance that made an impression upon Ariston's mind, smarting as he was over the loss of his fortune. It might have been better, after all, if he had told her more.

"We were talking of only one woman," he said, with an impulse of frankness. "She is Artemisia."

"Artemisia!" Xanthe exclaimed. "Don't try to deceive me. Why should you wish Artemisia to be carried off? Is not Clearchus to make her his wife?"

"It is for that very reason," Ariston replied. "I do not wish him to do so."

"Why not?" Xanthe demanded in a tone of suspicion.

"Sit down and let us talk rationally," Ariston said. "Suppose they marry and have children. His property would be lost to us forever."

"That is true," Xanthe assented. "I had not thought of that, and we need it so much more than he. If he should die, would it belong to us?"

"It would," her husband answered, "and now you know why I wish to prevent the marriage."

He rose, and she aided him to adjust the folds of his himation.

"I am going to the Assembly," he said. "If we have war with Macedon, the price of corn will advance. Look to the house and let none enter while I am away."

It was not until after he had gone that Xanthe began to wonder how she and Ariston were to profit by preventing the marriage, since their nephew would still be alive and in the possession of his property. It could not be that Ariston intended to have him slain. She shuddered at the thought, for she was fond of Clearchus, and he had always been kind to her. Besides, such a crime could not be committed without almost certain detection. Ariston must have formed some other scheme for bringing about his object. She reproached herself for not having questioned him on this point while he was in a frame of mind to answer. The opportunity might not occur again and she could only guess at what was to come. The half-confidence that he had given her left her more watchful and suspicious than ever.

Syphax meantime had found his way back to the Agora and was about to enter a wine-shop when he felt some one pluck him by the elbow. Glancing back, his eyes met those of Mena.

"Ah, my fox," he exclaimed, "what brings you to Athens?"

"Necessity and my master," Mena replied. "And you?"

Syphax shook his head and made as if to move away, but Mena was not to be denied. An hour later they were still together, sitting side by side in a corner of the wine-shop, and it was fortunate for Ariston that the Egyptian was his ally instead of his enemy, for all that Syphax could tell, he knew.

CHAPTER IV

THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES

In the Theatre of Dionysus the citizens of Athens were gathering for the purpose of deciding whether to break their treaty with Macedon and by one stroke revenge upon Alexander the wrongs and humiliations that his father had made them suffer. Ariston walked through the spacious Agora, surrounded by colonnades and embellished by the statues of heroes and the Gods. The shopkeepers and merchants were closing their places of business and joining in the human tide that was setting all in the same direction.

Everywhere Ariston heard repeated the assertion that Alexander was dead. The news was announced in tones of joy, and invariably it was accompanied by an expression of desire for war while the enemy was still unprepared. There seemed to be only one opinion among the people. It was manifested in the clamor of gay and careless confusion that betrayed the nervous tension of the throng.

Ariston's face became more thoughtful as he proceeded. He had no doubt of what the Assembly would do if unchecked, and he foresaw the downfall of his plans. A declaration of war with Macedon would be fatal. Whatever the issue of such a conflict might be, it would certainly delay Alexander's invasion of Persia and keep Clearchus at home. He must be rid of Clearchus at all hazards, and without violence.

Moreover, he knew that the report of Alexander's death was false. It was impossible that any person in Athens should have been able to obtain information later than that which had been brought to him. He felt assured that the young king was fighting his way out of Illyria, with every prospect of escape, and that the report of his death had been started by Demosthenes as a stratagem to dispose the minds of the people to war. By preventing the success of this plan, he reflected, he would not only be serving his own ends, but also performing a public service. Such a coincidence had happened rarely enough in his career.

But he knew it would be useless to attempt any contradiction of the report at that moment. He was too thoroughly acquainted with the characteristics of his countrymen to think of it. They wished to believe and they would not allow that wish to be thwarted. He must watch and wait.

Pushing through the chattering crowd, he entered the Theatre. Before him, in a great semicircle, hewn partly out of the solid rock of the southeastern pitch of the Acropolis, he saw row on row and tier above tier of his fellow-citizens,—the brilliant, unstable, cowardly, heroic, passionate, generous, cruel democracy of Athens. Above them towered the crag which they had crowned with triumphs of art and architecture beyond the power of the world to equal, guarded by the wonderful Athene, whose creator they had sent to die in prison. On the left the great temple of Olympian Zeus raised its massive fluted columns. In the Theatre where they sat their fathers had hissed or applauded the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy. The babel of talk and of light-hearted laughter, the shifting of many-hued garments under the intense blue arch of the sky, reminded Ariston of the fickle sunlit waves of the Ægean.

The cloud that for years had overshadowed Athens had been removed. Philip, the tenacious, subtle, resourceful monarch of barbarous Macedon, had fallen under the dagger of Pausanias, who had doubtless been inspired by the Gods to punish him for his crimes against the Athenians. Little by little, with a purpose that never swerved, he had made himself master of their fairest possessions. Time and again they had sought to shake him off with brief outbursts of restless fury; but he held what he had won, and in the lull that followed the storm he had never failed to creep nearer to their citadel. His advance seemed to them as inevitable as fate.

Now he was gone, resigning his power and his ambitions to his son, Alexander, a boy of twenty years, whom all Athens knew as a foolish and rash youth. After laying claim to the honors that his father had forced the states of Hellas to bestow upon him, he had marched into the unknown wilderness of the north with his army and there had perished. His fate had been told only in rumors at first, but had not Demosthenes talked with a fugitive from the Macedonian camp, who had seen him fall beneath a stone? Every Athenian felt that the time had come to place the name of his city once more at the head of the civilized world. Already the Thebans, aided by their subsidies, had risen against the barbarian garrison and had shut the Macedonians in the Cadmea. The reverses of the past had been forgotten and the lively imaginations of the Athenians had carried them halfway to the goal of their hopes.

Ariston gazed about him at the shifting throng as though in search of some one. The priests of Ceres, Athene, and Zeus stood talking in groups with the officials of the city, or had already taken their places in the cushioned marble arm-chairs, with curved backs, that formed the first row of seats. Presently the old man caught sight of Clearchus, and his friends, Chares and Leonidas. With them sat a young man of singular appearance whom Ariston did not recognize. He wore a splendid mantle of purple, embroidered with gold, a profusion of rings flashed upon his fingers, and the odor of costly perfumes hung about him like a cloud. It seemed as though he sought in his costume to make up for the deficiencies of nature, for in figure he was short and stout, with legs and arms of disproportionate slenderness, and his narrow eyes were set beneath a square forehead from the top of which the hair had been shaved.

"Greeting, uncle," Clearchus said cordially, as the old man forced his way toward them.

Ariston sat down on the broad marble step in the space that Clearchus made for him. He found himself between his nephew and the stranger.

"This is Aristotle of Stagira, but more recently of Pella," Clearchus said. "He can talk to you by the hour, if he chooses, about Alexander, whom you so much admire."

"Is he really dead, as they say he is?" Ariston asked doubtfully.

"I do not know," lisped Aristotle. "It is his habit always to expose himself in battle."

"Can he make himself master of Hellas?" Ariston asked again.

"Only the Gods can answer that," Aristotle replied. "It is safe to say that what human ambition can accomplish, he will do. He was my pupil, and there are those who maintain that he knows more than his master!"

Although the philosopher spoke with a smile, there was a trace of irony in his tone that did not escape the alert Athenian.

"You hear that?" he cried, turning to Clearchus. "Here is a boy who begins by conquering his instructor. Where will he end?"

"They say he has ended already, up there among the savages," Chares said lazily.

"I'll lay you a box of Assyrian ointment that Alexander is still alive," Aristotle said.

"It's a wager," the Theban cried. "And the box shall be of gold."

"There goes Callicles. Hi, there, old Twenty Per Cent!" cried a youth who was sitting in front of them.

"By the Styx, I wish I had what I owe him!" Chares remarked fervently.

A young man with oiled and curled ringlets, wearing a long silken robe, and carrying a cane inlaid with mother-of-pearl, pushed toward them, followed by a slave laden with cushions for him to sit upon.

"Do you know what Phocus has done now?" he asked in an affected voice.

"No," said Chares, coldly.

"He happened to go to the Lyceum the other day, and he overheard Theodorus, the atheist, say that if it was praiseworthy to ransom a friend from the enemy, it would also be commendable to rescue a sweetheart from bondage. What does he do but buy Tryphonia her freedom from old Mnemon. He vows that he will marry her."

Having imparted this bit of gossip, the youth lounged away to repeat it.

"Who is that young man with the red chiton?" Leonidas asked.

"He is Ctesippus, son of Chabrias," Clearchus replied. "He has spent twenty thousand talents of gold since his father died—he and Phocus together. He thinks he knows more about war than his father knew. He drives poor Phocion almost distracted with his advice whenever there is a campaign; and Phocion endures it because he is his father's son."

Throughout the Theatre rose the hum of gossip and malicious small talk. Chares listened with indolent contempt. Leonidas studied the faces of the men who had won distinction in war, such as Diopethes, Menestheus, and Leosthenes, whom Clearchus pointed out to him. Aristotle continued to lisp to Ariston concerning Macedon. The attention of the crowd was diverted by the arrival of the Lexiarchs with their scarlet cords. Stretching them across the narrow streets, they had been driving the stragglers into the Assembly like sheep. The laggard whose garments showed a trace of the dye with which the cords were covered was forced to pay a fine.

"Look; there's Phaon with the red stripe on his back!" Chares cried, standing up to get a better view.

A roar of laughter greeted the victim as he entered and his name was repeated from all sides.

"Were you asleep, Phaon? Did your wife keep you at home? You should drink less wine in the morning!" shouted his acquaintances.

Another unfortunate came to divert attention from Phaon, and still others, until all the citizens were accounted for. The tumult was succeeded by a hush as the white-robed priests solemnly advanced into the open space in the middle of the semicircle, carrying a bleating lamb. After an invocation to Athene, they cut the animal's throat before the altar and sprinkled its blood in every direction upon the pavement. The oldest of the priests then stood forth, raised his hands, and looking upward, cried the accustomed formula:—

"May the Gods pursue to destruction, with all his race, that man who shall act, speak, or plot anything against this State!"

The priests then slowly withdrew, and a herald mounted the bema to announce, on behalf of the Proedri, the occasion of the Assembly. He declared the question to be whether the treaty with Macedon should be maintained or set aside, and he added that the Senate of the Areopagus had referred the matter to the decision of the people without expressing its opinion.

He was followed by a second herald, representing the Epistate, who, with a loud voice, called upon any citizen above the age of fifty years to speak his mind, others to follow in accordance with their ages. As he ceased and descended, all eyes were turned toward a portion of the Theatre where sat a gray-haired man, with shoulders slightly stooped, a sloping forehead, and a retreating chin, partly hidden by a close-cropped beard.

"Demosthenes! Demosthenes!" came from every part of the horseshoe.

The man to whom Athens turned in this crisis of her affairs sat unmoved and apparently oblivious to the demand of the crowd. Accustomed as they were to the oratorical combats of the Theatre, the citizens understood that Demosthenes had determined to reserve to himself the advantage of speaking last. They turned, therefore, to his chief opponent and called upon Æschines.

With an affectation of carelessness, Æschines ascended the bema and plunged at once into his argument, like a man who speaks what first occurs to his mind. The burden of his contention was that Athens was bound by her oath to observe her treaty with Macedon. To break it, he declared, would be to sink to the depth of dishonor and to make the name of the city a byword throughout the world. As he elaborated point after point in his reasoning, all tending to confirm and enforce his conclusions, it was plain that he was making an impression in spite of the fact that all who heard him knew that he had been in Philip's pay. He painted in dark colors the cost and danger of the war that would follow the violation of the treaty and closed with a florid appeal for constancy and forbearance, which he called the first of virtues.

He was succeeded by the dandy, Demades, whose robes of embroidered linen trailed upon the ground, but who sustained the argument against war with sledge-hammer blows of rhetoric. Glaucippus, Eubulus, Aristophon, and other orators, less famous, sat nodding their heads among their pupils and admirers, who clustered about them criticising or commending each period that fell from the lips of the speakers.

Watching the effect of the speeches, the partisans of Demosthenes, fearful that it might be disastrous to permit his opponents to hold the attention of the people any longer, renewed their shouts for him. The Assembly joined them. It had heard enough of the peace party, and it was eager to know how Demosthenes would answer.

There had been hardly any cessation of the talk and laughter. Many persons even moved about through the audience, chatting with their friends, and the Scythians, whose duty it was to maintain order, did not venture to interfere with them. Everywhere there was talk of the advantages of peace. The fever for war had cooled before the logic of oratory. Ariston, keenly attentive to all that was passing, was among those who left his place and wandered about the amphitheatre, pausing here and there to exchange a few words with an acquaintance. Behind him, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, there spread through the crowd the news that the story of Alexander's death was a falsehood contrived by the friends of Macedon to entrap the republic into war.

Before the old man had returned to his seat, the contradiction had reached Demosthenes, elaborated into every semblance of truth. He saw that it was believed and that he had been robbed of the main theme of his speech; for he could not prove that Alexander was dead. In response to the cries of the multitude, he rose, and there was no pretence in the reluctance with which he walked with head bent toward the benia, considering what he should say. As he ascended, the shouting died away, and for the first time there was absolute stillness in the Theatre.

"Athenians!" he began, in a voice of moderate pitch, but of a resonant tone that carried it to all parts of the circle, "by all means we should agree with those who so strenuously advise an exact adherence to our oaths and treaties—if they really believe what they say. For nothing is more in accord with the character of democracy than the maintenance of justice and honesty. But let not the men who urge us to be honest, embarrass us and our deliberations by harangues which their own actions contradict."

Ariston glanced about him with alarm, which was intensified as the orator, with consummate skill, built up the argument that, having bound himself by the treaty to maintain the liberties of Greece, Alexander had violated his oath by reinstating the tyrants of Messene and by disregarding other specific clauses. Artfully exaggerating the Macedonian aggressiveness, recalling by flattering allusions the great days of Athens, raising the hope of victory if war should be declared, Demosthenes presented the situation to the Assembly in such a light as to make it seem that Athens not only had a right to take up arms against Macedon, but that it was her plain duty to begin the attack. This impression grew out of his words without apparent effort to convey it. There was nothing in his speech to indicate that he was a special pleader presenting only one side of the case. He seemed the personification of candor and fairness. As his voice and gestures became more animated, and the flood of his marvellous eloquence swept over them, it appeared to his fellow-citizens that the men who had given expression to the desire for peace must be charlatans or worse, who had been bribed by Macedonian gold, as in fact many of them had been, to betray them into the hands of the enemy. In words that none but he knew how to choose, he raised the spectre that had been laid by the death of Philip and made it more threatening than it had ever been before.

Under the magic spell of his voice old thoughts and feelings stirred and woke in the hearts of the Athenians. For an hour they became once more the men of Platæa and Salamis and of the hundred bloody fields upon which they had measured their strength with that of their ancient foes from the Peloponnesus. Their former greatness of soul flamed up like a flash from a dying fire.

While Demosthenes spoke, not a word was uttered in the group around Clearchus. The young man sat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, tingling with a desire to sacrifice life itself, if need there were, to revenge the wrongs of Athens and crush the insolent Macedonian. Leonidas listened with hands clenched and with every nerve at tension, like a hound of pure race straining at his leash toward the quarry. Aristotle was gravely attentive, and even Chares, though he could not be aroused from his lazy pose, followed the oration with evident enjoyment.

When Demosthenes ended and came down from the bema, the Assembly drew a long breath, and instantly each man fell to discussing with his neighbor what was best to be decided. Suddenly they realized with astonishment that Demosthenes had failed to propose any decree and that they had nothing before them upon which they might vote.

"I thought he was going to tell us how Alexander died!" Demades sneered.

"What has become of his witness of whom we have heard so much?" a leather-dealer asked.

"He is afraid to propose war! He has offered no decree!" another citizen cried.

These questions and a hundred others were discussed on every side with a violence that swept away all semblance of dignity or restraint. The factions quarrelled like children, and more than once came to blows in their eagerness, making it necessary for the Scythians of the public guard to separate them. At last the herald of the Epistate demanded in due form whether the Assembly desired any decree to be proposed. Far less than the required number of six thousand hands were raised in the affirmative, and the gathering was dissolved, eddying out of the enclosure in turbulent disorder.

"Is that all?" asked Chares, rising and stretching himself with a yawn.

"That is all," Clearchus replied sadly.

"With a phalanx of ten thousand brave men I could take your Acropolis," Leonidas remarked, measuring the height above his head.

"Yes, but where could you find them?" Aristotle said.

"Who knows? Perhaps in the camp of Alexander," the Spartan replied.

Ariston had slipped away into the crowd.

CHAPTER V

THE BANQUET

On their way from the Theatre, Clearchus informed his friends of his decision to be married on the morrow.

"Then we must feast to-night!" Chares cried promptly.

"Very well," Clearchus said, "but you will have to make the arrangements for me, as I have other things to do."

"Aristotle will take charge of the food and wine," said the Theban, eagerly, "if he is willing to assume such a responsibility; and I will provide the entertainment and send out the invitations. What do you say?"

"Good," Clearchus replied; "that is, if Aristotle agrees."

"I am willing," said the Stagirite.

"It is settled, then," Chares declared. "Come, Leonidas, I shall need your help. Let us get to work."

It was hardly sunset when the guests who had been bidden by Chares began to assemble at the house of Clearchus. A crimson awning had been drawn over the peristylium and the soft light of scores of lamps shone upward against it. Shrubs and flowering plants partly hid the marble columns. Medean carpets had been spread upon the floor. The tables, each with its soft couch, had been arranged in two parallel lines, joined at one end by those set for the host and the most honored of the guests. At the farther end of the space thus enclosed a fountain flung up a stream that sparkled with variegated colors.

All had been prepared under the direction of Aristotle in such a manner as to gratify the senses without jarring upon the most sensitive taste. The masses of color and the contrasts of light and shade were grouped with subtle skill to create a pleasing impression. Slaves walked noiselessly across the hall, appearing and vanishing in the wall of foliage, bearing dishes of gold and of silver and flagons filled with rare wines. Softly, as from a distance, sounded the music of flutes and citharse.

Clearchus and his guests, crowned with wreaths of myrtle, reclined upon the couches. Their talk ran chiefly upon the events of the day and the contest of oratory in the Assembly.