The other restraining and strengthening influence was that which Socrates exercised on the young man’s mind. All the time that Callias could spare from the labors that he shared with Hermione was given to the society of the philosopher. The sage’s indomitable courage and endurance were in themselves an encouragement of the highest order. Doubtless his physical strength, which made him capable of bearing an almost incredible degree of cold and hunger, helped him to show a dauntless heart to the troubles which were breaking down so many. Indeed he seemed scarcely to want food or drink. But the steadfastness with which he pursued his usual course of life, still keeping up his untiring search for wisdom was a spectacle nothing less than splendid, while nothing could exceed his practical sagacity. Anyone who wanted shrewd advice in the actual circumstances of life, anyone who desired to be lifted out of the sordid present, with its miserable hopes and cares, on to a higher plane of life, came to Socrates and did not come in vain.

At length, when nearly three months had passed, the long period of suspense seemed about to come to an end. The report ran through the city that Theramenes had returned. What were the terms he had brought back, no one knew. On that point he remained obstinately silent. In fact he had nothing to say, nothing further, that is, than the fact that Lysander professed himself unable to treat; the Ephors must be approached, if anything was to be done.

Had Lysander amused him with hopes that instructions and power to treat would soon be sent down to him from Sparta, or had he deliberately waited till the city should be reduced to such a pitch of starvation that it would be ready to consent to any terms? There was a brutal, cold-blooded cruelty in such conduct that makes it difficult to credit; yet many believed it to be the true explanation of the delay.[55] To picture the dismay that prevailed through the assembly when Theramenes had given his report of the negotiations which he had not concluded would be impossible. There was nothing to be done but accept the bitter necessity. Theramenes, with nine others, was sent to Sparta with full power to treat. They were to accept any terms that might be offered. The proud city had fallen as low as that.

Then came another time of waiting. Happily it was not long. Theramenes felt that the endurance of his countrymen had been tried to the uttermost, and that nothing more was to be gained. Athens was on her knees. It did not suit him and his purposes—for he had purposes of his own, possibly a tyranny, certainly power—that she should be actually prostrate. He and his colleagues made all the haste that they could; and as their instructions were simple—to accept anything that might be offered—there was little to delay them.

At the end of about twelve days they returned. It was in the midst of a breathless suspense that Theramenes stood up to make his report. What he said may be thus given in outline.

“We went with all speed to Sellasia[56] and there waited, having sent on a message to the Ephors that we had come with full power to treat. On the second day we were summoned to Sparta. There we found envoys assembled from the allies of the Lacedaemonians. Aristides also was there.

“At the mention of the name of Aristides a murmur of fear and rage ran through the assembly. The man was one of the most notorious of the anti-patriotic party. He had been in exile for many years, and was believed to have done more harm than any one else to his native city.

“The senior of the Ephors stood up, and said: ‘Friends and allies, the Athenians seek for peace. What say you? Shall we grant it to them?’ One after another the envoys rose in their places. They did not use many words. It was not the custom of the place to be long in speech as they knew. All said the same thing. ‘We give our vote against peace. Let Athens be destroyed. There will be no true peace so long as she is permitted to exist.’ When all had spoken we were called on to speak. ‘You hear what these say,’ said the Ephor who had not spoken before. ‘What have you to reply?’ I answered that the Athenians were ready to give all pledges that might be asked from them that they would not harm either Sparta or her allies or any city of the Greeks. After this we were all commanded to withdraw. In about the space of an hour we were summoned again into the chamber. The Ephor rose in his place and spoke. ‘The Corinthians and the other allies demand that Athens should be destroyed. Nor do they this without reason. The Athenians have destroyed many cities of the Greeks. Yet can we not forget that they have also in time past done good service to Greece. But of these things which you all know it is needless to speak. Our sentence is this: Let the Athenians pull down their Long Walls for the space of a mile. Let them also surrender their fleet, keeping only twelve ships. On these terms they shall have peace. These then, O men of Athens,’ the speaker continued, ‘are the conditions which the Spartans demand. I confess that they are hard. Yet they are better than those which the rest of Greece would impose upon you. Truly the Lacedaemonians stand between us and utter destruction. And there is nothing beyond remedy in what they would lay upon us. Walls that are broken down may be repaired, and for ships that have been given up many others may be built; but of a city against which the decree of destruction has gone forth, there is an end. Therefore I propose that peace be made with the Lacedaemonians on these terms.’

“One or two speakers ventured to rise in opposition. But they could scarcely get a hearing. Probably they only went through the form of opposing in order that they might be able at some future time to say that they had done so. With but short delay the proposition was put to the vote and carried by an overwhelming majority. The same evening envoys were sent to Lysander announcing that the Spartan conditions had been accepted.

“The next day the gates of the city were thrown open, and the fleet of Lysander sailed into the Piraeus. The ships of war were handed over to him. Many were destroyed, and indeed the once famous and powerful fleet of Atticus had been reduced to a state of most deplorable weakness. The sacrifice of the fleet, such as it was, was not so very costly after all. The few sea-worthy ships that remained, besides the twelve that the city was permitted to retain, were sent off to the Lacedaemonian arsenal of Gytheum. This done, the next thing was to beat down the Long Walls. ‘This is the first day of the freedom of Greece,’ said Lysander, ‘we must keep it as a festival. Send for the flute players.’ Accordingly the services of every flute player in Attica were requisitioned; and to the sound of the gayest tunes which they could find in their repertoire the work of demolition went on. Every decent Athenian whatever his policy, kept, of course, close within doors; but there was nevertheless a vast concourse of spectators, the rabble who will crowd to any sight, however brutal and humiliating, the army of Pausanias and the crews of Lysander’s fleet, with a miscellaneous crowd of foreigners who had come to gloat over the downfall of the haughty city. Loud was the shout that went up when a clean breach was made through the walls. The general feeling was that Athens had suffered a blow from which she could never recover. But there were some who doubted. ‘You have scratched the snake, not killed it,’ said a Corinthian, as he turned away.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
“NOBLESSE OBLIGE.”

Some fourteen or fifteen days have passed since the humiliation of Athens was completed. To have come to the end, bitter as it was, was in one way a relief. To know the worst always brings a certain comfort, and that worst might have been, was, in fact, very near being far more terrible than what actually happened. Then there was a great material relief. The pressure of famine was removed. Supplies poured plentifully into Athens, for the city, in spite of all its sacrifices and losses, was still rich. If fever still remained—it always lingers a while after its precursor, hunger, has departed—it was now possible to cope with it effectually. And then, last not least, it was the delightful season of spring. The Athenians could once more enjoy the delights of that country life from which they had been shut out so long, but which they had never ceased to love. Attica, indeed, had suffered sadly from the presence, repeated year after year, of the invading host; but it had suffered less than might have been expected. The olive yards in particular, had not been touched. A religious feeling had forbidden any injury to a tree which was supposed to be under the special protection of the patron goddess of the land. The sacred groves also of the heroes, that were scattered about the country, had not been harmed. Not a few houses with their gardens had been saved by having served as residences for officers high in command in the Peloponnesian army. And now Nature, the restorer, was busy in the genial season of growth in healing or at least hiding the wounds that had been made by the ravages of war.

“What do you say to a trip to Marathon?” said Hippocles one day, to his daughter and Callias. “You both of you look as if a little fresh air would do you good.”

“An excellent idea,” cried Hermione, clapping her hands, “it is years since I have seen the place.”

“What say you, Callias?” said Hippocles, turning to the young man.

Callias was only too glad to join any expedition when he was to have the company of Hermione. He did not give this reason, but he assented to the proposal very heartily.

“But, father, how shall we go?” said Hermione. “There is scarcely a horse to be found, I suppose.”

“Why not go by sea?” was her father’s reply. “I have a pinnace which would just suit us. We will go to-morrow if the weather holds fine, stop the first night at Sunium, and the second at Marathon. At Sunium there is my villa, and at Marathon there is a little house of which I can get the use, and which will serve us if we do not mind roughing it a little. We can return the next day. Only we must take provisions, for except such fish as we may catch in the Marathon stream, and possibly, some goats’ milk, if all the goats have not been eaten up, we shall have nothing but what we bring. That must be your care, Hermione.”

“Trust me, father,” cried the girl joyously. “If you have gone through four months’ famine, depend upon it you shall not be starved now.”

The weather on the following day was all that could be desired. A warm and gentle west wind was blowing. This served them very well as they sailed southward to Sunium. In such good time did they reach the promontory, that by unanimous vote they agreed to finish their journey that same day. Sailing northward was as easy as sailing southward, and the sun was still an hour from setting when they reached the northern end of the plain, having travelled a distance of upwards of sixty miles. This was about four times as far as they would have had to go, had they made the journey by land. No one, however, regretted having followed Hippocles’ suggestion. The voyage was indeed as delightful an excursion as could have been devised. The deep blue sky overhead, the sea, borrowing from the heavens a color as intense, and only touched here and there with a speck of white where a little wave swelled and broke, sea birds now flying high in the air, now darting for their prey into the waters, the white cliffs tipped with the fresh green of spring that framed the coast line, made a picture that the party intensely enjoyed, although they did not put their enjoyment into words with the fluency and ease which would have come readily to a modern. The ancients loved nature, but, as a rule, they felt this love much more than they expressed it.

The little house at Marathon was one that had escaped destruction by having been occupied by a Spartan officer. It was bare indeed of furniture, but it was habitable; and the party had brought with them the few things that were absolutely necessary, far fewer, we must remember, than what we now consider to be indispensable. Supper was felt by all to be a most enjoyable meal. The room in which they sat was bare, for, of course, the luxurious couches on which it was the fashion to recline were absent. There was not even a table, and there was but one broken chair, which was naturally resigned to Hermione. But it was lightened with a cheerful fire, which was not unwelcome after seven or eight hours’ exposure to a high wind. Happily the late occupant had left a store of logs, which had been cut on the slopes of Pentelicus in the previous autumn, and which now blazed up most cheerfully. The meal was declared by both Hippocles and Callias to be good enough for a State-banquet in the Prytaneum. One of the sailors had caught a basketful of fish in the stream, and these Hermione had cooked with her own hands. An Athenian who had plenty of fish, seldom wanted anything in the way of flesh, and the provisions which Hermione, not liking to trust to the skill or the luck of the anglers had brought with her, were not touched. A cold maize pudding, some of the famous Attic figs, which had been preserved through the winter, bread with honey from Hymettus, and dried grapes completed the repast. Some of the goats, it turned out, had survived, and a jug of their milk was forthcoming for Hermione. The two men had a flask of wine which they largely diluted with water. When, after the libation, Hippocles proposed the toast of the evening, as, in consideration of the locality it might fairly be called, “To the memory of the Heroes of Marathon,” Hermione honored it by putting her lips to the cup. It was the first time that wine had ever passed them, but she could not refuse this tribute to the chief glory of the city of her adoption.

Hermione, fatigued, it may be said, with all the delights of the day, retired early to rest. Soon after she had gone Callias took the opportunity of opening his heart to his companion on a subject which had long occupied his thoughts.

“We have peace at last,” he said, “not such a peace as I had ever hoped for, but still better than the utter ruin which lately I had begun to fear. A good citizen may now begin to think of himself and of his own happiness. You, sir, can hardly have failed to observe why I have begun to look for that happiness. If your daughter will only consent to share my life, I feel that I shall have to ask the gods for nothing more. She is free as far as I know. And me you have known from my childhood. You were my father’s friend and since he died you have stood in his place. Can you give her to me?”

Hippocles caught his young companion’s hand, and gave it a hearty grasp.

“I will not pretend,” he said, “not to have observed something of what you say; nor will I deny that I have observed it with pleasure. What father would not be glad if Callias, the son of Hipponicus, loved his daughter? Of Hermione’s feelings I say nothing, indeed I know nothing, save that she has regarded you since childhood with a strong affection, and that as you say she is free. But there are facts which neither you nor I can forget; and the chief of them is this, that while you are Callias, son of Hipponicus, an Eupatrid of the Eupatrids,[57] I am Hippocles, the Alien. I am well-born in my own country, but that is nothing here. I am wealthy—so wealthy that I care not a single drachma whether my future son-in-law has a thousand talents for his patrimony or one. I am, I hope and believe, not without honor in the city of my adoption. But I am an alien, my child is an alien. Whether you have thought of all that this means I know not—love is apt to hide these difficulties from a man’s eyes—but the fact must be faced; you and my daughter must face it. You speak of my giving her to you. But, if Hermione is a Greek, she is also an Italian. The Italian women choose for themselves. I could not if I would constrain her will. She must decide, and she must answer.”

“There is nothing that I should desire better. But you do not tell me, sir, what you yourself wish. Have I your consent and your good wishes?”

“Yes,” said Hippocles, “you have. I have thought over the difficulties, for I foresaw that you would some day speak to me on this subject. As far as I am concerned I am ready to waive them. But then, they do not concern me in the first place.”

The two men sat in silence for some time after this conversation had passed between them, buried each of them in his own thoughts. At last Hippocles rose from his seat.

“It is time to sleep,” he said; “I will speak to my daughter to-morrow; you shall not want my good word, but I can do nothing more. You must speak to her yourself. That is, I think, what few fathers in Greece would tell a suitor to do. But then Hermione is not as other maidens.”

Callias passed a restless night, and was glad to make his way into the open air when the first streaks of dawn appeared on the Eubœan hills, which were in full view from the house. He shrank from meeting Hermione till he could meet her alone, and ask the momentous question which was occupying his whole mind. Partly to employ the time, partly to banish thought, if it might be done by severe bodily exercise, he started to climb the height of Pentelicus, which rose on the southern side of the Marathonian plain. The excursion occupied him the whole morning. On his way back he traversed the hills which skirted the western side of the plain, and, following what was evidently a well-beaten track, came at last in view of the mound under which reposed the Athenian dead who had fallen in that great battle. His quick eye soon perceived a familiar figure, conspicuous in its white garments among the monuments which stood on the top of the mound. Hippocles had fulfilled his promise, and had said all that he could to Hermione in favor of her suitor. He had dwelt upon his noble birth, the reputation as a soldier which he had already won, his culture and taste for philosophy, and his blameless life. “As for wealth,” he ended by saying, “that is of little account where my daughter is concerned. Yet a man should be independent of his wife, and I may tell you as one who knows—and I have had charge of his property for some years past—that Callias is one of the richest men in Athens. That will not weigh with you I know, but I would have you know all the circumstances.”

Hermione said nothing; she took her father’s hand and kissed it. A tear dropped on it as she raised it to her lips. As she turned away, Hippocles noticed that she was shaken by a sob.

An instinct in the girl’s heart told her that it was on the mound that her lover would speak to her, and it was here that she wished to give her answer to him. It was not the first time that she had visited it. Indeed there was not a woman, and not many men in Athens who knew so much about its records.

On the top of this tumulus, which still rises thirty feet above the surrounding plain, and which was then, it is probable, considerably higher, there stood in those days eleven stone columns inscribed with the names of those who had fallen in the great battle. Each of the ten Athenian tribes had its own peculiar column, while the eleventh commemorated the gallant men of Plataea, Plataea, which alone among the cities of Greece, had sent her sons on that day to stand shoulder to shoulder with the soldiers of Athens.

Hermione was apparently engrossed in the task of deciphering the names, now grown somewhat obliterated by time, which were engraved on one of the columns. So intent was she on this occupation that she did not notice the young man’s approach. Turning suddenly round, she faced him. At that moment, though she had expected him to come, his actual coming was a surprise, and the hot blood crimsoned her face and neck.

“Hermione,” he said, “I have spoken to your father, and he bids me speak to you. You can hardly have failed to read my heart, and if I have not spoken to you before, it has been because I have not presumed. You know all that needs be known about me, and though I do not think myself worthy of you, I need not be ashamed of my fathers or of myself.”

The brilliant color had faded from the girl’s cheek, her hand trembled, her bosom heaved. Twice she opened her lips; twice the voice seemed to fail her. At last she spoke.

“You speak of your fathers. You are, I think, of the tribe of Pandion?”

“I am,” said Callias.

“And this is the column of their tribe, and this”—she pointed as she spoke—“the name of an ancestor of yours?”

“Yes,” replied the young man, “this Hipponicus whose name you see engraved here was my great grandfather.”

“He had been Archon at Athens the year before the great battle. You see,” she added with a faint smile, “I know something of your family history.”

“It was so.”

“And his son, a Callias like yourself, was Archon general many times—held, in fact, every honor that Athens could bestow?”

“Yes, there was no more distinguished man in the city than he.”

“And your father; he died, I think I have heard, in early manhood; but he was already far advanced in the career of honor?”

“Doubtless had he lived he would not have been inferior in distinction to my grandfather.”

“And you have started well in the same course? I need not ask you that. We all know it better, perhaps, than you know it yourself, and we are proud of it. My dear brother,” the girl’s voice which hitherto had been clear and even commanding in its tones, faltered at the mention of the dead, “my dear brother used to say that there was nothing that you might not hope for, nothing to which you might not rise.”

“You speak too well of me; but I hope that I am not altogether unworthy of my ancestors.”

The girl paused for a while. She seemed unable to utter what she had next to say. The flush mounted again to her cheek, and she stood silent and with downcast eyes.

Meanwhile the young man stood in utter perplexity. He had heard nothing from the girl’s lips but what might have made any man proud to hear. She knew, as she had said, the history of his race, and she believed him to be not unworthy of it. Yet this was not the way in which he had hoped to hear her speak. He was conscious that there was something behind that did not promise well for his hopes.

At last she went on. Her voice was low but distinct, her eyes were still bent on the ground.

“And what your fathers have been in Athens, what you hope to be yourself, you would have your son to be after you?”

“Surely,” he answered without thinking of what he was admitting.

“Could it be so if I—” she altered the phrase—“if a woman not of Athenian blood were his mother?”

He was struck dumb. So this was the end she had before her when she enumerated the honors and distinctions of his race.

“Mind,” she said, “I do not say that my race is unworthy of yours. I am not ashamed of my ancestors. They were chiefs; they were good men. I am proud to be their daughter. But here in Athens their goodness and their nobility goes for nothing. I am Hermione, the daughter of Hippocles, the Alien. Marrying me you shut out, not perhaps yourself, but your children from the career which is their inheritance. I am too proud,”—and here the girl dropped her voice to a whisper,—“and I love you too well for that.”

“What is my career to your love?” cried the young man passionately; “I am ready to give up country and all for that.”

“That,” said Hermione, “is the only unworthy thing that I ever heard you say. Your better thoughts will make you withdraw it. Athens has fallen; the gods know that it has wrung my heart to see it. But she needs all the more such sons as you are. She has little now to offer. It is a thankless office, perhaps, to command her fleets and armies. All the more honor to those who cling to her still and cherish her still. You must not leave her or betray her. I should think foul shame of myself if I tempted you for a moment to waver in your loyalty to her. I may not love you—that the gods have forbidden me—but you will let me be proud of you.”

The young man turned away. The final word, he knew, had been spoken. This resolution was not to be shaken by indignant reproaches or by tender pleadings. All that remained was to forget, if that was possible. He would not see Hippocles or his daughter again till the wound of this bitter disappointment had had time to heal. Returning to the house, which he found empty but for a single attendant, he snatched a hasty meal, and then set out to return over-land to Athens.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE END OF ALCIBIADES.

“Ah! my dear friend,” cried the merchant, “this has been a great disappointment to me. I must own that I had my fears. I know something, you see, of my daughter’s temper. I knew that she had always chafed under our disabilities. Things that have ceased to trouble me—and I must own that they never troubled me much—are grievous to her. You see that I have a power of my own which is quite enough to satisfy any reasonable man. I can’t speak or vote in your assembly, but I have a voice, if I choose to use it, in your policy. She knows very little about this, and would not appreciate it if she did. Besides it would not avail her. No; she feels herself an inferior here, and it galls her; yet that is scarcely the way to put it, for she was thinking much more of you than of herself. I believe that she loves you—she has not confided in me, you must understand, but I guess as much—and she would sooner cut off her right hand than injure you or yours. And then her pride comes in also. ‘Am I, daughter of kings as I am,’ she says to herself, ‘am I to be one to bring humiliation into an ancient house?’ Her mother’s forefathers would be called barbarians here, but they were kings and heroes for all that. And that is the bitterness of it to her: to feel herself your equal in birth, and yet to know that to marry you would be to drag you down.”

“I understand,” said Callias, “it is noble; but just now my heart rebels very loudly against it. Let us say no more. I have come to ask you what you would advise. For the present I cannot stay at Athens.”

“That,” said Hippocles, “is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about; if you had not come to-day I should have sought for you. You wish to leave Athens, you say. It is well, for it would not be safe for you to stay. We shall have a bad time in Athens for the next few months, perhaps for longer. The exiles have come back full of rage and thirsting for revenge. And then there is Theramenes; he is the man you have to fear. He has the murder of the generals on his soul. That, perhaps, would not trouble him much but he fears all who might be disposed to call him to account for it. He knows that you were the kinsman and dear friend of Diomedon, and he will take the first opportunity that may occur of doing you a mischief. And opportunities will not be wanting. I suspect that for some time to come, with the Oligarchs in power and the Lacedaemonians to back them up, laws and constitutional forms will not go for much in Athens.”

“And you advise me to go?” said Callias.

“Certainly there is nothing to keep you. For the present there is no career for you here. I don’t despair of Athens; but for some time to come she will have a very humble part to play.”

“Have you anything to suggest?”

“I have been thinking over it for two or three days. Many things have occurred to me, but nothing so good as was suggested by a letter which I received this morning. It came from a merchant in Rhodes with whom I have had dealings for some years past. My correspondent asks for a large advance in money for a commercial speculation which he says promises large profits. I have always found the man honest; in fact the outcomes of my dealings with him in the past have been quite satisfactory. But this new venture that he proposes is a very large one indeed. I like what he tells me of it. It opens up quite a new field of enterprise; and new fields, I need hardly tell you, have a great charm for a man in my position. The ordinary routine of commerce does not interest me very much; but something new is very attractive. Now I want you to go to Rhodes for me. Make all the enquiries you can about the character and standing of my correspondent, whom, curiously enough, I have never seen. I will give you introductions to those who will put you in the way of hearing all that is to be heard. If the man’s credit is shaky at all, then I shall know that this proposition of his is a desperate venture. If all is sound, I shall feel pretty sure that he has got hold of a really good thing.”

“I know very little of such matters,” said the young Callias after a pause.

“I do not ask you to go that you may judge of this particular enterprise; I simply want you to find out what people are saying about Diagoras—that is my correspondent’s name; you will be simply an Athenian gentleman on his travels. Keep your ears open and you will be sure to hear something.”

“Well,” said Callias, “I will do my best; but don’t expect too much.”

“Can you start to-morrow?”

“Yes, if you think it necessary.”

“Well, my affair is not urgent for some days, at least. But for yourself, I fancy you cannot get out of the way too soon. I don’t think that Theramenes and his friends will stick much at forms and ceremonies. I own that I shall feel much happier when there are two or three hundred miles of sea between you and them. Be here an hour after sunset to-morrow. By that time I shall have arranged for your passage and got ready your letters of introduction and the rest of it.”

“Well,” said the young man to himself as he went to make his preparations for departure, “this, it must be confessed, is a little hard on me. Hermione says, ‘Stop in Athens and stick to your career’; her father says, ‘If you stop in Athens you are as good as a dead man, and your career will be cut short by the hemlock cup.’ I have to give up my love for my career and then give up my career for my life.”

It is needless to relate the incidents of my hero’s voyage to Rhodes or of his stay on that island. His special mission he was able to accomplish easily enough. Diagoras’ speculation was, as he soon found out, the last resource of an embarrassed man; and the loan for which he asked would be a risk too great for any prudent person to undertake. The letter in which he communicated what he had heard to Hippocles was crossed by one from Athens. From this he learned that the political anticipations of the merchant had been more than fulfilled. The oligarchical revolution had been carried on with the most outrageous violence. On the very day on which he had left Athens, an officer of the government had come with an order for his arrest.

All this was interesting; still more so was a brief communication from Alcibiades which the merchant enclosed. It ran thus:

“Alcibiades to Callias son of Hipponicus, greeting. Great things are possible now to the bold of whom I know you to be one. More I do not say, but come to me as soon as you can. Farewell.”

The merchant had added a postscript. “I leave this for your consideration. Alcibiades has a certain knack of success. But the risk will be great.”

“What is risk to me?” said Callias. “I can’t spend my life idling here.”

The next day he left the island, taking his passage in a merchant ship which, by great good luck was just starting for Smyrna. Smyrna was reached without any mishap. Four days afterwards, he started with a guide for the little village in Phrygia from which Alcibiades had dated his note. Halting at noon on the first day’s journey to rest their horses, they were accosted by a miserable looking wayfarer, who begged for some scraps of food, declaring that he had not broken his fast for four and twenty hours. Something in the man’s voice and face struck Callias as familiar, and he puzzled in vain for a solution of the mystery, while the stranger sat eagerly devouring the meal with which he had been furnished.

“Here,” said Callias, when the man had finished his repast and was thanking him, “here is something to help you along till you can find friends or employment.” And he gave him four or five silver pieces.

It was the first time he had spoken in the fugitive’s hearing, and the man, who, now that his ravenous hunger was appeased, had leisure to notice other things, started at the sound of his voice. He, on his part, seemed to recognize something.

“Many thanks, sir,” he said; “the gods pay you back ten-fold. But surely,” he went on, “I have seen you before. Ah! now I remember. You are Callias the son of Hipponicus, and you were my master’s guest in Thrace.”

A light flashed on the young Athenian’s mind. The man had been one of Alcibiades’ attendants in his Thracian castle.

“Ah! I remember,” he cried, “and your master was Alcibiades. But what do you here? How does he fare?”

The man burst into tears. “Ah, sir, he is dead, cruelly killed by those villains of Spartans. He was the very best of masters. I never had a rough word from him. We all loved him.”

“Tell me,” said Callias, “how it happened. I was on my way to him,” and he read to the man the brief note that had been forwarded to him at Rhodes.

“Yes, I understand. I know when that was written. He had great hopes of being able to do something. I did not rightly understand what it was, but the common talk among us who were of his household was that he was going to the Great King to persuade him that the best thing that he could do would be to set Athens on her feet again to help him against Sparta. Oh! he was a wonderful man to persuade, was my master. Nobody could help being taken by him.”

“But tell me the story,” said the young man.

“Well, it happened in this way. My master had gone up to see Pharnabazus, the Satrap, who had promised to aid him on his way up to Susa to see the Great King. There were six of us with him; his secretary, myself and four slaves. There was Timandra, also, whom he used to call his wife; but his real wife was an Athenian lady, Hipparete, I have heard say.”

“Yes,” interrupted Callias, “I knew her; a cousin of my own; a most unhappy marriage. But go on.”

“Well, Pharnabazus received him most hospitably. There was no good house in the village, so we had three cottages. Alcibiades had one; the secretary and I another, and the slaves, a third. Every day the satrap sent a handsome supply of provisions for us; dishes and wine from his own table for my master, and for us all that we could want for ourselves. I never fared better in my life. And my master had long talks with him and seemed in excellent spirits. Everything was going on as well as possible. Then there came a change. I never could find out whether my master had heard anything to make him suspicious. If he had, he certainly told the secretary nothing about it. But he was very much depressed. First he sent Timandra away. She was very unwilling to go, poor lady, for she did love my master very much, though, as I say, she was not really his wife. But my master insisted on it, so she went away to stay with some friends. After that his spirits grew worse and worse. He used to tell his secretary the dreams he had. Once he dreamt he was dressed in Timandra’s clothes, and that she was putting rouge and powder on his face. At another time he seemed to see himself laid on a funeral pyre and the people standing round ready to set it on fire. The very night after he had that dream we were awakened by a tremendous uproar; the secretary and I got up and looked out. The master’s cottage, which was about a stadium[58] away from ours was on fire, and there were a number of Persians, about fifty or sixty, standing round it, shouting out and cursing him. The next moment we saw the door of the cottage open, and the master ran out with a cloak round his head, to keep himself from being choked by the smoke, and with a sword in his hand. As soon as he was clear of the burning cottage he threw down the cloak and rushed straight at the nearest Persian. The man turned and ran. There was not one of them that dared stand for a moment. But they shot at him with arrows. They had fastened the gates of the enclosure in which the cottages stood, you must understand, so that he could not escape. In fact he was climbing over one of them when he was killed.”

“And you; what did you do?”

“Ah! sir,” cried the man, “we were helpless, we had not a sword between us. We hid ourselves, and the next morning took our master’s body and carried it to Timandra. She made a great funeral, spending upon it, poor thing, nearly every drachma she had. When we had seen the last of my dear master, the secretary said that he had friends at Tarsus, and set out to go there. I thought that I had best make my way to Smyrna. Thanks to your goodness, I shall now be able to get there, but I was very nearly dying of starvation. But what, if I may ask, are you thinking of doing?”

“That I can’t tell,” replied the Athenian; “as I told you, I was on my way to Alcibiades.”

“Well, sir, I can tell you this,” rejoined the stranger, “no friends of my master’s will be safe here. Pharnabazus, I feel sure, had no great love for him, notwithstanding all his politeness; as for the Spartans, they hated him; and I did hear that the people who are now in power at Athens had sent to say that peace could not last unless he were put out of the way. Yes, sir, if anyone recognizes that you are my master’s friend, you are a dead man.”

“Why,” said Callias, “I have made no secret of it. In Smyrna I spoke about him to the people with whom I was staying. No one said a word against him.”

“Very likely not,” replied the man, “for they thought that he was alive, and no one liked to have my master for an enemy. He had a wonderful way of making friends to have the upper hand and contriving that his adversaries should have the worst of it. But now that he is dead you will find things very different.”

“What is to be done?” asked the young Athenian.

“Can you trust your guide?”

“I know nothing of the man. I simply hired him because I was told that he was a fairly honest fellow, knew the country very well, and would not run away if a robber made his appearance.”

“Well, then get rid of him.”

“But how?”

“Tell him that you have a headache, and that you will come on after him when you have rested a little and the sun is not so hot, and that he had better go on, get quarters at the next stage and have everything ready for you when you shall arrive. As soon as he is gone, get back as fast as you can to Smyrna. The news will hardly have reached that place yet, indeed we may be sure that it has not, or you would have heard of it before you started. Go down to the docks, and take your passage in any ship that you can find ready to start. Even if it is going to Athens never mind; you will be able to leave it on the way. Anyhow, get out of Asia at any risk.”

“And you?”

“Oh, no one will care about me. I am a very insignificant person. But, as a matter of fact, I shall try to get to Syracuse. I was born there.”

“Syracuse will do as well for me as any other place. Why not come with me if it can be managed? I was able to do you a little service, and you have done me a great one. Let us go together.”

The plan was carried out with the greatest success. Callias made the best of his way to Smyrna, and left his horse at an inn, not, of course, the one from which he had started. As he had plenty of money for immediate wants, besides letters of credit from Hippocles, he thought it safer not to attempt to sell the animal. He then provided himself with different clothes, purchasing at the same time a suit for his new acquaintance. These he ordered to be sent to a small house of entertainment near the docks which they had arranged should be the place of meeting. Shortly before sunset the man appeared. Meanwhile Callias had arranged for a passage for himself and his servant in a ship bound for Corinth. They would not venture into Corinth itself, but would transfer themselves at the port of Cenchreae into some ship bound for Sicily.

Before the morning of the next day the two were on their way westward. Everything went well. At Cenchreae they found a Syracusan merchantman just about to start, shipped on board her and after a prosperous voyage found themselves in the chief city of Sicily.

CHAPTER XX.
DIONYSIUS.

It was with no common emotion that the young Athenian entered the great harbor of Syracuse. It was here that the really fatal blow had been struck from which his country had never recovered. She had struggled gallantly on for nearly ten years after she had lost the most magnificent armament that she had ever sent forth, but the wound had been mortal. Thenceforward she had been as a man of whose life-blood a half had been drained away. Callias had read, shortly before leaving Athens for the last time, the magnificent passage, then recently published, in which the great historian of Athens had described the decisive battle in the harbor.[59] The sight of the place now enabled him to realize it to himself in the most vivid way. He seemed to see the hostile fleets crowded together in a way for which there was no precedent, two hundred war galleys in a space so narrow that manœuvre was impossible, and nothing availed but sheer fighting and hard blows; while the shores seemed alive again as they had been on that eventful day with a crowd of eager spectators, the armies of the two contending powers, who looked on with passionate cries and gestures at such a spectacle as human eyes had scarcely witnessed before, a mighty war-game in which their own liberties and lives were the stake. The heights that ran above the harbor were scarcely less significant. There, its remains still visible, had been the Athenian line of investment. If only a few yards more had been completed, the young man thought to himself, the whole course of history might have been changed.[60] Not far away was the spot where the sturdy infantry of Thebes had withstood the fiery shock of his own countrymen, and so, not for the first time, wrested from them the empire that seemed almost within their grasp.[61] And somewhere—no one knew where—his own father had fallen, one of the thousands of noble victims who had been sacrificed to the greed and ambition of a restless democracy.

The noble house of which Callias was the representative had, of course, its hereditary guest-friend at Syracuse. Naturally there had been very little intercourse between citizens of the two states in late years; but the old tie remained unbroken, and Medon, for that was the Syracusan’s name, was as ready to give a hospitable welcome to the young Athenian, as if he had been a citizen of one of his country’s allies, a merchant prince of Corinth, or a scion of one of the two royal houses of Sparta. He insisted upon his guest taking up his quarters in his house, and exerted himself to the utmost to supply and even anticipate every want.

“Now you have seen something of the outside of our city,” said Medon to his friend as they sat together after the evening meal on the third day after his arrival, “you should know something of its politics. But first let me make sure that we are alone.”

The dining chamber in which the two were sitting had an ante-room. The door of this the Syracusan proceeded to bolt.

“Now,” he said, “we shall have no eavesdroppers. Any inquisitive friend may listen at that other door, with all this space between us and him, without getting much idea of what we are talking about. All the other walls are outer walls, as you know, and unless a certain great personage has the birds of the air in his pay, we may talk without reserve. You look surprised. Well, you will understand things a little better when you have heard what I have to tell you. You know something, I suppose, of what has been happening here of late years. The fact is we have been going through an awful time. No sooner were we free of the danger that you put us in—you must pardon me for alluding to it—than we were confronted with another which was every whit as formidable. Another wretched quarrel between two towns in the island—curiously enough the very same two that were concerned in your expedition against us[62]—brought in a foreign invader. This time it was the Carthaginians. They had had settlements in the island for many years, had always coveted the dominion of the whole, and more than once had been very near getting it. They were not far from success this time. First they took Selinus and massacred every creature in it; then they took Acragas;[63] then they utterly destroyed Himera. Something made them hold their hands, and we had a short breathing space. Four years afterwards they came back in greater force than ever. Acragas was besieged; it held out bravely, but at last the population had to leave it; only Syracuse was left. Again when in the full tide of victory, the Carthaginians held their hand. Do you ask me why? I cannot tell you. But listen to the fourth article of the treaty of peace.” In spite of the precautions that he had taken against being overheard, Medon, at this point lowered his voice. “Syracuse is to be under the rule of Dionysius. Yes; the secret is there; it was he that made it worth their while to go; and you may be sure that it was worth his while to buy them off. I must allow that he was the only man who showed a grain of sense or courage in the whole matter; the other generals as they were called were hopelessly imbecile. Well, they went, and Dionysius became, shall we call it, ‘commander-in-chief,’ or perhaps as we are quite alone, ‘tyrant?’ He had not an easy time of it at first; I don’t suppose that he will ever have an easy time, tyrants seldom do. The nobles and the heads of the democratic party leagued together against him, and drove him out. That did not last long. Of course the conquerors used their victory most brutally. They were furious that Dionysius had slipped out of their hands, and wreaked their vengeance on his poor wife. I can’t tell you the horrible way in which they killed her. She was the daughter, too, of Hermocrates, one of the very best and noblest men that Syracuse ever had. Equally of course they quarrelled over the spoils. Naturally, before long they had nothing left to quarrel over. Dionysius hired a force of Campanian mercenaries, the hardest hitters, by the way, that I ever saw, and drove them out of the city. Now, I fancy, he is pretty firmly seated. The people like him; they were never as fit, you must know, for popular government as yours are. He gives them plenty of employment and amusements, wrings the money out of us with a tight hand, and scatters it among them with an open one. Of course a dagger may reach him, and there are not a few that are kept ready sharpened for the chance. Barring that, he is likely to be master here as long as he lives. And to tell you the truth, though personally I hate the idea, as any noble must—it is the nobles that always hate a tyrant most—yet I do not see that anything could be better for Syracuse. The Carthaginian danger is not over yet, and Dionysius is the very ablest soldier and administrator that we have. Of course the pinch will come later. A ruler of this sort always becomes harder, more cruel, more suspicious as he grows older. And if he has a son, brought up in the bad atmosphere of tyranny, the country has a terrible time of it. Happily the son is generally a fool, and brings the whole thing down with a crash. But all this is far off. Dionysius is still a young man, not more than twenty-six years old, I fancy. However, you shall see him—we are very good friends in public—and judge for yourself.”

Callias, who had the hereditary abhorrence of his race for anything like tyranny,[64] demurred at the proposed introduction to the despot. Medon was very urgent in overruling his objection. “Don’t mistake Sicily for Greece,” he said; “we are half barbarous, and what would be monstrous with you is quite in its right place here. I grant you that an honest man should have no dealings with a tyrant who should set himself up at Thebes, or Corinth, or Argos. But it is different here. I am sure that the man governs us better than we should be governed by the people, or, for the matter of that, by the nobles either.”

At last the Athenian consented. “Very good,” cried Medon, “you will go. Then we will lose no time about it. Depend upon it, Dionysius knows all about you; and if you do not pay your respects to him without loss of time he will be suspicious. Suspicion is the bane of his situation. Servant, friend, wife; he trusts nobody.”

The next day Medon and his guest presented themselves at the palace. The Athenian had half turned back when he found that he must be searched. No one was admitted into the presence until that precaution had been taken, and his freeman’s pride revolted. Medon simply shrugged his shoulders. “He is quite right,” he whispered to his indignant friend, “he would not live a month if he did not do it.”

Dionysius was, or pretended to be, busy with his studies, when the two visitors were announced. A slave was reading to him from a roll, and he was taking notes on a wax tablet. He welcomed the newcomers with much cordiality.

“So, Medon, you have brought your Athenian friend at last. I hope that you have not been slandering me to him.”

“My lord,” answered Medon with a courtly bow, “I have told him the history of the last five years, and have taken him to see Syracuse. That is not the way to slander you.”

“Good,” said Dionysius, “I shall have you a courtier yet.”

He then turned to the Athenian, asked him a few questions, all with the nicest tact, about his movements, and finally named a time when he should be at leisure to have some real conversation with him.

“Believe me,” he said, “I honor the Athenians more than any other people in Greece; a strange thing you may think for a Syracusan to say, but it is true.”

Certainly when Callias presented himself at the appointed time, everything that his royal host had said seemed to bear out this assurance. “After to-day,” he said, “politics shall be banished from our talk. Don’t suppose for a moment that if I had been a citizen of Athens, I should have attempted, that I should even have wished, to be what I am here. But Syracuse is not capable of being what Athens is. Even you find liberty a little hard to manage sometimes. Here it is a farce, only a very bloody farce. Listen to what happened to my father-in-law, Hermocrates. There never was an abler man in the country. If it had not been for him, I verily believe that you would have conquered us. He saved the city; and then, a little time afterwards, because he did not do what ten years before no one would have dreamt of doing, that is, conquer you Athenians in a sea-fight, they banished him. Can you imagine such ingratitude, such folly? Well; he was not disposed to put up with it; he saw what I see, that the Syracusans are not fit to govern themselves, and if it had not been for an accident, perhaps I ought rather to say his own reckless courage, he would have been in my place now.[65] What he intended to do I have done. I saved Syracuse as he saved her from Athens; and I dare say that in a year or two my grateful countrymen would have banished me as they banished him. Only I have been beforehand with them. So much for politics; now let us talk of something more pleasant and more profitable.

“Tell me now, do you know one Socrates in your city, a very wise man they tell me?”

“Yes, I know him well.”

“And he is wise?”

“Yes, indeed; there is no one like him; and so the god thought, for the Pythia declared him to be the wisest of men.”

“I should dearly like to see him. Do you think it likely that he would come here, if I were to invite him? I would make it worth his while.”

“I fear there is no chance of it. He never leaves Athens; never has left it except when he served abroad with the army, and as for money, he is quite careless about it.”

“But he takes a fee for his teaching, I suppose.”

“Not a drachma.”

“Well, that astonishes me. Why, Georgias would not teach anyone for less than half a talent, and has got together, I suppose, a pretty heap of money by this time. But, perhaps, if I could not get the great man himself, I might get one of his disciples. Whom do men reckon to be the first among them?”

“I think that one Plato is the most famous. He was a poet when he was quite young, indeed he is young now, and had a great reputation; but he has given up poetry for philosophy.”

“That seems a pity. I don’t see why a man should not be both poet and philosopher. I am a little of both myself. Can you remember anything that he has written?”

“Yes; there was an epigram which everyone was repeating when I left Athens. It was written for the tomb of one of his fellow disciples.”

“Let me hear it.”

Callias repeated,

“In life like Morning star thy shining head;
And now the star of Evening ’mid the dead.”

“Very pretty indeed. I have something very like it of my own. Would you like to hear it?”

Callias of course politely assented and expressed as much admiration as his conscience permitted, possibly a little more, for the composition was vapid and clumsy.

But though Dionysius was an indifferent composer, he had really a very strong interest in literary matters. Personal vanity had something to do with it, for he was fully convinced of his own abilities in this way; but he had a genuine pleasure in talking on the subject. This was indeed the first of many conversations which the young Athenian had with him. Politics were never mentioned again, but poetry, the drama, indeed every kind of literary work, supplied topics of unfailing interest. The drama was, perhaps, the despot’s favorite topic. He had received not long before Callias’ arrival, a copy of the play which was described in my first chapter, and was never tired of asking questions about various points of interest in it. It soon became evident that his special ambition lay in this direction.

“So, now that your two great men are gone,” he said to the young Athenian, “you have no man of really the first rank among your dramatists?”

“I should say not,” replied Callias. “Some think well of Iophon, who is the son of Sophocles. Others say that he would be nothing without his father. They declare that the old man helped him when he was alive, and that what he has brought out since his father’s death is really not his own.”

“Well,” said Dionysius, “the stock will be exhausted before long. And there is no one, you say, besides him?”

“No one, certainly of any reputation.”

“Then there would be a chance for an outsider? But would a dramatist that was not an Athenian be allowed to exhibit?”

“I know nothing to the contrary. But I do not know that there has ever been a case. Anyhow it would be easy to exhibit in the name of a citizen.”

“An excellent idea! I shall certainly manage it somehow. The first prize at your festival would be almost as well worth having as the tyranny itself.”[66]

It is not surprising that a ruler who cherished such tastes should have reckoned a library among the ornaments which were to make Syracuse the most splendid among Greek cities. In his Athenian guest he believed himself to have found a competent agent for carrying this purpose into effect; and Callias was in truth a well educated person who knew what books were worth buying. He was well acquainted with the literature of his own country and had a fairly competent knowledge of what had been produced elsewhere in Greece. For the next three years it was his employment, and one, on the whole not uncongenial to his tastes, to collect volumes for Dionysius. In Sicily there was little culture, but the Greek cities of Italy furnished a more fertile field. There was not indeed much in the way of belles-lettres. Works of this kind had to be imported for the most part, either from Athens, or from Lesbos, where the traditions of the school of Sappho and Alcæus were not extinct, but books on philosophy and science, could be secured in considerable numbers. At Crotona, for instance, Callias was fortunate enough to secure a valuable scientific library which had been for some years in the family of Democedes, while at Tarentum he purchased a handsome collection of treatises by teachers of the school of Pythagoras.

This occupation was varied in the second year of his residence by an interesting mission to Rome. That city, the rising greatness of which so keen an observer as Dionysius was able to discern, was at this time sorely distressed by a visitation of famine, and had applied far and wide for help. The harvests of Sicily had been remarkably abundant, and Dionysius sent a magnificent present of a hundred thousand bushels of wheat, putting Callias in charge of the mission.

In spite of these honorable and not distasteful employments the young Athenian did not greatly like his position. It would indeed have been scarcely endurable to a soul that had been reared in an atmosphere of liberty, but for the fact that his work took him much away from Syracuse. Dionysius was all courtesy and generosity in his dealings with him; but he was a tyrant; there was iron under his velvet glove. It was therefore with a considerable feeling of relief that in the early spring of the third (or according to classical reckoning) the fourth year after the fall of Athens, he received a missive from Xenophon couched in the following terms.[67]

“Meet me at Tarsus with all the speed you can. Great things lie before us, of which you will hear more at the proper time. Farewell.”

Leave of absence was obtained with some difficulty, and towards the end of June, Callias found himself at the appointed place.