Chapter VIII: Preface (8)

Lycon felt as though some misfortune was impending. Accompanied by Conops, without knowing where he was going, he had walked down to the harbor, where he had not been since his return to the city. The view here offered to his gaze was so magnificent and beautiful that it made the same impression as if he were beholding it for the first time. Ere long he felt his mind relieved and his former light-heartedness return.

“What should happen?” he said to himself. “Can a summer day be clearer or brighter than this?”

The sun rode high in the heavens. Not a cloud was visible far or near, and not a breath of air was stirring. About thirty boats and small vessels were lying at a quay built of large limestone-blocks--the ones whose masts were seen from the Street of the Bakers. On the right the gaze rested upon the highest part of the city, above which rose the distant mountains of Pherae; at the left the smiling, fertile coast extended almost as far as the eye could reach, towering upward into a spur of Pelion. Over the green water of the bay, that glittered like a mirror, fishing boats and pleasure craft glided past each other and beyond, like a broad dark-blue stripe, appeared the Pagasaean Gulf, which melted into the open sea, flashing like gold in the sunshine. On the opposite side of the gulf rose the promontory of Pyrrha, while through the mists of distance gleamed the coast-cities, and behind them the ridge of the Othrys mountains, over which led the road to Locris, Bœotia, and Attica.

Lycon stopped at the first of the little vessels, whose owner, an old sailor named Dorion, he had formerly known. The sight of this man vividly brought to mind what strangely different fates the same years may bring. While he himself had been in Athens, seeing and hearing so many new things that his memory could scarcely retain them, Dorion had daily sailed to and fro across the same corner of the bay to get and sell sand. Yet he seemed content, and when Lycon entered into conversation with him he told him with joyous satisfaction that his boat was new, that his sons had built it, and that it was large enough for him to make longer voyages.

“But,” cried Dorion, suddenly interrupting himself and springing into the bow, “look, look, how the sea is falling! Holy Dioscuri! What is happening before our eyes?... I never saw the water run out so fast.”

“It is the second marvel to-day,” said Lycon. “What can it mean?”

Even while they were speaking the boat and all the other small vessels sank lower and lower, so that the lime-stone quay seemed to tower far above them. Confused shouts and shrieks echoed from one craft to another and a moment after the inner bay, except for a few pools of water, lay as dry as a heath. Where the glittering surface of the waves had just extended, nothing was now seen save the greyish sand overgrown here and there with large and small patches of sea-weed. The little vessels which a short time before were flitting about far out on the water, now lay on dry ground, keeling over upon one side, and their crews were seen like small black dots standing around them uncertain what to do.

Conops, who had watched what was occurring with less indifference and dullness than usual, now made an apt remark.

“If the bay had been a drinking cup,” he said, “and there was an invisible mouth reaching from one shore to the other, the water could not have been drained quicker--in five, six long swallows.”

“What!” cried Dorion suddenly, “if I see aright, the water is returning.”

Lycon shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out towards the bay. The mass of water was moving across the cove like a rampart nine or ten ells high, the crest and bottom white with foam, and at a velocity greater than that of a man running at full speed. He saw the billow roll under the craft resting on the ground, raise them aloft, and sweep them onward in its own mad course.

Followed by Conops, he leaped into Dorion’s boat, shouting at the top of his voice to the people in the other vessels:

“Loose the boats from the quay!... or the water will fill them and drown us all.”

These words ran from mouth to mouth.

Then a thundering roar echoed from the approaching mass of water, it buried the quay in snowy foam, raised one boat after another,--not without partially filling them--and bore them with furious speed up the Street of the Bakers, which lay straight before the landing-place.

Lycon, Dorion, and Conops had succeeded, with the help of oars and poles, in keeping their craft clear of trees and houses. As if in a dream they heard wild cries of terror and saw the two buildings nearest the harbor sink under the force of the water, while some of the small vessels were stranded on the fallen walls and pillars.

Soon after another surge came rolling in and, amid fresh shrieks from drowning men, swept the boats farther on into the middle of the long street. Lycon saw with delight that Simonides’ house stood uninjured, though the water was more than half way over the door.

Almost at the same moment human figures were seen on the roofs of the nearest houses, and they heard the shrieks and wails of women, which reminded Lycon of the lamentations daily resounding during the Adonis festival in Athens. But it was easy to perceive that this was a more serious matter for, with the shrieks mingled the shouts of numerous men calling, each from his own side of the street, to the boats for aid.

Lycon’s heart swelled with a humanity as warm as the greatness of the peril surrounding him. Springing to the stern he shouted to the men in the nearest boats:

“Friends! let us thank the gods for our own deliverance by saving as many of these unfortunates as possible. Let nine or ten of the boats row about in the next street. There is enough for us all to do until evening, though there seems to be only one street besides this under water.”

“The Athenian is right,” replied a voice from another vessel. “Let us do what we can for the city. Have we not all acquaintances and friends here?”

Lycon and Dorion now rowed the boat to Simonides’ house. There was only one person to be seen on the roof--Paegnion.

“Where are Simonides and his daughter?” asked Lycon.

“On the roof of the women’s apartment.”

“And where are the slaves?” enquired Conops.

“On the stable.”

Lycon poled the boat between the buildings. Suddenly it was shaken from stem to stern by a strange, mysterious shock, which congealed the blood in Lycon’s veins. This shock was repeated, though the boat was floating in water three ells deep and had not run against anything.

At the same moment a cry of horror ran from roof to roof.

“_Seiei, seiei!_ The earth is shaking, it’s an earthquake.”

Lycon now understood that the day’s prodigies, the noise and the flood, were connected with what was occurring.

Though neither of the shocks had lasted longer than the short time required for a man to raise his arms and let them fall again, the result was terrible; two of the houses in the street sank crashing into the water with the hapless people on their roofs. Fortunately the ruins formed a heap large enough to enable most of the inmates to keep themselves above the tide until the boats could come to their assistance.

Lycon perceived that there was no time to lose. Anxiously as his own heart throbbed, he encouraged Dorion and Conops. They took off Paegnion, though not without difficulty and, uniting their strength, urged the boat towards the women’s apartment.

But between the buildings the dark, muddy water moved in a powerful stream and, as Dorion unluckily broke his oar, the boat was swept with irresistible force past the corner of the women’s apartment out into the garden. Here it struck against the tops of some bushes and suddenly struck fast between the trunks of two trees concealed at the bottom by the water and at the top by leaves. It required a long time and much exertion to release it from this position, and the task was not accomplished until after the water had reached a level in the flooded streets, so that the current was less swift. When they at last succeeded in getting back to the women’s apartment, they found it impossible to save Simonides and his daughter without the help of a ladder.

Lycon was beginning to get impatient over these delays, for the day was waning.

Conops knew that there ought to be a ladder in the stable, but when the boat reached the place it had disappeared. After some search it was found where they least expected to discover it. A rude two-wheeled harvest cart had caught on a marble monument by the side of the house, and the pole of this cart had accidentally run between the rounds of the ladder and held it fast.

It was not without fresh difficulties that they succeeded in raising the ladder to the roof of the women’s apartment; and it was high time, for the stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky. Lycon found Simonides and Myrtale in a very exhausted condition; the clothing of both was drenched with water, and they had spent the whole afternoon in dread lest the house should yield to the pressure of the flood and sink beneath it. The overseer Carion, who had helped Myrtale carry her father up the stairs, had vainly sought to obtain dry garments; nothing could be found in the little rooms under the roof.

Simonides was shaking so violently with a feverish chill that his teeth chattered; his eyes were closed and he muttered now and then a few unintelligible words; but when Lycon carried him down to the boat he pressed his hand. When Lycon turned to bring Myrtale she was already standing by her father’s side. Light and agile as the pretty little creature which shades itself with its tail,[V] she had sprung into the boat unaided.

[V] Squirrel.

Fortunately the craft was a large one, for there were many to save and, much as Lycon hastened the work of rescuing the slaves and their children from the stable-roof, by the time all had embarked night had closed in, so that it was difficult to find the way out between the buildings.

IX.

It was a strange voyage, which none of the occupants of the boat ever forgot. The Street of the Bakers, the largest and finest street in the city, usually so full of life, this evening, for the first time within the memory of man, neither resounded with loud conversations from door to door, nor the merry songs of young men echoing from the wine-shops; silence reigned in harmony with the ruin that everywhere met the eye. The rippling and gurgling of the water, as well as the light strokes of the oars and the murmured words of the boatmen when two craft met, were the only sounds that interrupted the gloomy stillness. The houses were outlined in dark masses against the sky; but whenever an opening between them was reached columns of smoke and blazing flames were seen in the distance, which shed a murky light on the angles of the houses, the faces in the boats, and the smallest ripple upon the surface of the water. Ever and anon a shower of sparks fell hissing into the waves, and sometimes the cool evening breeze swept a veil of smoke over the street, bringing with it a suffocating smell of fire.

At the edge of the flood the people stood in little groups talking together. From them it was learned that some of the houses in the higher part of the city had also fallen. There had been fire on their hearths, the flames had caught the ruins, and it was these buildings which were now burning.

At the house of Polycles the wine-dealer, where Lycon, by Myrtale’s request, took her father, an unusual bustle prevailed. Lanterns were hung on slender poles in front of the house, and at a number of small tables sat part of the citizens, discussing over a goblet of wine all that had happened on this eventful day.

At the sight of Lycon, who, with the closely-veiled Myrtale, was supporting Simonides, an eager murmur arose; some rose to get a better view; others pointed to him as though saying: “That’s he!” and from one table to another the question ran in low tones:

“Is that the Athenian?”

“The one who saved the sailors by unfastening the boats?”

“And who helped the citizens in the flooded streets?”

“Who knows him?--Who can tell whether it’s he?”

The temptation was too strong for Conops; he forgot to ask whether he might speak.

“I can tell you that!” he replied, not without a touch of pride; “he’s my master’s guest, and I’ve been with him all day, first at market and then in the boat--he and no other is Lycon the Athenian.”

A universal shout of applause rang out; several women of light repute, who were passing, flung him kisses, and Polycles, the owner of the house, grasped his hand, saying:

“If you are the Lycon of whom everybody is talking, you are a man of honor to whom the city owes more than a new robe.”

Then, with the most cordial sympathy, Polycles welcomed the sick Simonides and his daughter, and learning from the latter’s lips that they had spent the afternoon in terror lest the house should fall and bury them in the water, he said:

“I won’t take you to my old stone mansion--there might be another shock of earthquake--but I have in my garden a good new wooden barn, where you can rest in safety and be supplied by my old housekeeper with everything necessary. The slaves shall be cared for as well as possible.” And, as he took Simonides’ arm out of Lycon’s to guide him and Myrtale to their temporary abode, he called to one of the boys who were hurrying about waiting on the guests and ordered him to bring Lycon wine, barley bread, cheese, and fruit.

While the latter was hurriedly eating the meal before returning to Dorian’s boat, Polycles came back from the garden and Lycon hastened to say:

“I see that many of the citizens have assembled here. Could not some of the younger ones relieve one another in guarding the burned houses, that no one in the absence of the master and the darkness of the night, may get in and take what still remains. A watch will be kept from the boats upon the houses in the flooded streets.”

Instead of answering, Polycles turned to the people seated at the tables and called in a loud voice:

“Citizens, this stranger puts us to shame. He seems to think more and take wiser care of our city than we who were born and have spent our lives here. Do you know what he proposes?”

Polycles had scarcely repeated Lycon’s advice ere twelve or fourteen young men came forward, ready for the required service. Soon after they were divided into three parties, the first of which, supplied with a sack of Chian wine and accompanied by some slaves, went to the scene of the fire.

“My house is yours,” said Polycles to Lycon, “come here when there is nothing more to be saved. You will need rest and sleep if the night is quiet.”

Before Lycon, followed by Conops, again entered the boat, he lighted with the help of some of the citizens a large pile of wood on the edge of the flood, so that the vessels might be provided with torches whenever they brought anything they had rescued ashore. Then an agreement was made between the captains of the boats about sharing the work. Half a score of the craft were stationed in each street, five on a side. The rest were to help wherever assistance was most needed and, as ladders had been found necessary in many instances, most of the boats were provided with them.

When everything was arranged in this way, the work of rescue progressed more rapidly than Lycon had expected, and when at last no voice called for aid, the twenty boats had saved the owners of more than twenty houses, besides a large number of slaves.

Lycon, attended by Conops, now hurried back to Polycles’ house. The wine-dealer came to meet him with a troubled face and told him that Simonides was dangerously ill. The cold and fright he had endured had been too severe a trial for him.

As Lycon entered the wooden barn where Simonides and his daughter were lodged, his first glance sought the sick man. The latter’s eyes were open, but stared fixedly into vacancy, and his thin hands fumbled to and fro over the coverlids with a convulsive twitching. Lycon wished to approach, but Polycles held him back.

On the opposite side of the couch sat a little man of grave and dignified bearing, dressed in a white robe. Lycon instantly saw that this was the physician; for ever and anon he took the sick man’s hand to judge of his condition by the pulse, and on a little table close beside him lay his pouch of medicines and the instruments used in his profession. At the foot of the bed stood the overseer, Carion, with clasped hands and eyes fixed on his suffering master.

The preparations hastily made for the latter’s comfort showed that the household was a wealthy one. Milesian carpets were hung in a semi-circle around the couch to shut out every draught of air, and beneath its ivory feet Babylonian stuffs had been spread to prevent any chill from the stone floor.

The twitching of the sick man’s hands gradually ceased. The physician rose softly and went to Polycles.

“Simonides is better,” he said. “But if you have anything important to discuss with him, do not delay. His voice will soon become thick and unintelligible.”

“Do you think his death is near?”

“If it is the will of the gods, he may live a day or more; but he will never rise from this bed.”

Soon after, the restless movements of the patient’s hands ceased and they fell feebly on the coverlid. Raising his head with difficulty he looked around him.

“Where is Myrtale?” was his first question.

“She is preparing a decoction the doctor ordered,” replied the wine-dealer.

“And Lycon?”

“Here,” said Polycles, beckoning to Lycon to approach the bed.

“Is it true,” asked Simonides, “that you have saved the citizens in the flooded streets, besides numerous slaves?”

“Not my boat only, all the small craft.”

“It’s the same thing,” said Simonides with a faint smile, “you will now and in the future be regarded as one of the benefactors of the city, a sort of demi-god--and as it is not seemly for a demi-god to be a bondsman, I shall give you your liberty. Polycles, who knows everything that concerns you, has added the necessary codicil to my last will, which he and the physician have signed as witnesses.”

Lycon knelt beside the couch, clasped Simonides’ hand, and covered it with kisses. “I thank you,” he faltered, overwhelmed by emotion. “You have fulfilled my dearest wish. I have obtained my freedom--and this time I did not steal it.”

Soon after the curtain at the door was pushed aside and Myrtale entered, followed by the old housekeeper. She held a glass cup in her hands and seemed to have eyes only for her sick father. The physician poured a few drops from a little flask into the smoking potion, and Simonides drank a few mouthfuls. “How it revives me!” he said, while Myrtale was straightening the embroidered pillows under his head and shoulders. “Are those lamps which shine so? It seems as though I saw the sun in the midst of the night.”

“Do you feel better, old friend?” asked Polycles.

A glimmer of his former mirthful spirit sparkled in Simonides’ small brown eyes.

“That fellow yonder,” he whispered, pointing to the physician, “has given me too many drops. He didn’t make me well, but drunk.”

Then, with an unexpectedly sudden movement, he seized Myrtale’s arm. His mouth and chin projected so that he was almost unrecognizable, and a corpse-like hue overspread his face as swiftly as though an unseen hand had caused it by gliding lightly over it.

“He is dying! he is dying!” cried Myrtale and, sobbing passionately, she flung herself upon her father’s breast.

X.

A large clay jar filled with water, placed outside the door of Polycles’ dwelling, announced the next morning, to all who passed, that the mansion was a house of mourning. While the female slaves were perfuming and dressing the dead man, Polycles was talking with Myrtale about Simonides’ last will.

Myrtale had no brother, but was a so-called inheriting daughter.[W] As there was no kinsman whom she could wed and endow with her fortune, Simonides had bequeathed his whole property, amounting to twenty talents, to his friend Polycles on condition that he should marry Myrtale. If Polycles was not willing to do this, he was to inherit only two talents and then use his best judgment in choosing a husband for the young girl who, in such a case, was to keep all the rest of the fortune as a dowry.

[W] In Athens, daughters inherited
only in default of male heirs.

Much as Myrtale was absorbed in her grief, she felt the importance of the arrangements which would decide her fate. So it was a great relief to her when Polycles said that he was too old to take a young wife and, moreover, had been warned in a dream against marrying again. One night in his sleep he had seen his house decked with garlands as though for a bridal; but when he was leading the bride home the green wreath vanished and, in its place above the door, hung an oil-jar, twined with a blue ribbon, as though for an offering at a tomb. The interpreter of dreams being consulted had said that if Polycles married he would die on his wedding day.

Polycles then asked the young girl to consider him a second father, and added that he would not act against her wishes in the choice of a bridegroom.

During the day another shock of earthquake was felt, and though it did no damage except to open cracks in the ancient walls of the city, universal terror was aroused. Some fled to the market-place, and others, fearing another flood, to the nearest heights. This dread, however, proved groundless. On the contrary, the water in the inundated streets began to fall so rapidly that the boats were obliged to follow it in haste, and by noon they were again lying at their usual place, moored to the lime-stone quay, though this quay no longer rose so far above the surface of the tide and the whole of the old shore, with its pebbles, sea-weed, and mussel-shells, remained under the waves.

Simonides’ funeral was conducted as beseemed a wealthy family. The corpse, crowned with myrtle and resting on embroidered pillows, was displayed upon a couch, where it was seen during the day by a throng of citizens, old and young, rich and poor, some of the latter clad in grey or black clothes with closely cut hair, asserting by this mourning garb a distant relationship.

On the day of the funeral obsequies hundreds of persons assembled outside the house and, before the sun rose, the funeral procession started amid the mournful notes of Carian flutes, alternating with a chorus of men’s voices. This choir was followed by the dead man’s friends and acquaintances, numbering more than half the citizens of the place. Then came the bier, an ivory bed, borne by friends and freedmen, among them Lycon, to whom many hands pointed and many lips mentioned as the “preserver of the city, the quick-witted Athenian.” On the ivory couch lay the dead man, robed in white and covered with so many wreaths and blue and red sacrifice ribbons, that the magnificent purple carpet in which he was wrapped could scarcely be seen. By the side of the bier walked slaves bearing oil jars, boxes of ointment, and other articles belonging to the funeral rites. Then came a few elderly kinswomen, for Myrtale was too young to follow the corpse. The train was closed by a few sacrifice attendants in short parti-colored mantles and light half boots, who bore on their heads small offering-tables covered with offerings of the same kind as those the slaves carried beside the bier.

At the farthest end of Polycles’ garden the funeral train stopped on a height which afforded a view of the city, harbor, bay, and country beyond. This had always been Simonides’ favorite spot, and he had often expressed a desire to be laid to rest here.

At the foot of the hill was seen the huge funeral pyre, a heap of logs filled with combustible materials. After it had been adorned with the jars, vases, and dishes brought, and the bier lifted upon it, it was lighted by torches. Amid the sobs and wails of the spectators, the flames flared high into the air and in an instant the smoke and red blaze enveloped the bier, concealing it from every eye. Many an oil jar, many a box of ointment was now flung upon the fire as a last token of affection and, when it was once more possible to see the pyre, the bier had crumbled into a dark, shapeless mass, from which rose a column of black smoke.

The majority of the procession returned to Polycles’ house and there, as the dead man’s guests, partook of a festal banquet. Some few, among them Lycon, remained until the ashes were collected and the bones committed to the bosom of the earth.

Three days after the first, and nine days after the second offering to the dead was brought to the grave. About a week later a marble column was erected upon it, crowned with a capital made of colored acanthus leaves. The thirtieth day after the funeral obsequies Myrtale twined the memorial column with blue and red sacrifice ribbons from which hung small oil jars, after which she poured milk, honey, spring-water, and mixed wine on the ground as a sacrifice to the rich man’s shade, taking careful heed to throw each one of the vessels she had used over her shoulder, so that they were shattered, for none of the articles which had served at a funeral ceremonial could be used by the living.

With this offering the time of mourning ended.

XI.

A few days later Polycles and Myrtale visited Simonides’ country-house to look after a vineyard whose fruit, in Polycles’ opinion, was the best in Thessaly. When they returned home, accompanied by a male and female slave, evening was approaching. The sun was sinking behind some hills, and the atmosphere glowed with orange and crimson hues. The road they were following was only marked by a few deep wheel tracks in the grass; on the right was a clump of gnarled olive trees, whose foliage as usual reflected the color of the sky, so that now in the sunset radiance they seemed covered with a golden veil; on the left a brook flowed between hedges of flowering laurel. A light mist was rising from the meadows, and the whole air was filled with the spicy odor of blossoms. Ever and anon a faint twitter echoed from the bushes; sometimes a bee, apparently bewildered and drowsy, buzzed upward from the grass at their feet, and through the profound stillness of the country a dog’s bark was heard in the distance.

There was something in the peacefulness of the evening which invited familiar conversation. Polycles took Myrtale’s hand.

“Dear child,” he said. “It is time to think of your affairs.”

“What do you mean, Polycles?”

“I am wondering whether among the youths of the city, whom you must have seen on festival days, there is not one you would like for a husband.”

Myrtale blushed faintly, but shook her head.

“There is Theagenes, the son of Straton, the dyer. True, he is rather stout for a young man, but he is clever, talks well, and has a fortune at least as large as your own.”

Myrtale made no reply; but struck, with the tassel on the corner of her upper robe, the head of a dandelion growing by the roadside, so that its white down flew in every direction.

Polycles understood that the proposed suitor was excluded from the list.

“There is Eumolpus, son of Socles the rope-maker!” he continued. “He is slender, well-formed, and handsome. True, he is on intimate terms with a hetaira, but after marriage....”

Myrtale made no answer in words; but the tassel was put in motion with the same result as before.

“There is also,” added Polycles, “young Nicias, your neighbor’s son. I don’t deny that since his visit to Athens he has become a dandy; but....”

This was too much for Myrtale; she forgot the reserve required of a young girl and wrathfully exclaimed:

“The coxcomb!”

“But is there no one?”

Myrtale silently lowered her eyes; then, to change the conversation, said:

“How is the house in the Street of the Bakers? Has it been much damaged by the flood and the earthquake?”

“Only one of the pillars in the peristyle was twisted awry; but the damage has been repaired and, so far as your home is concerned, you can have the wedding there any day.”

As they approached the city Myrtale became more and more thoughtful. Suddenly she sighed, drew her hand from her companion’s clasp, and remarked:

“It’s a pity that Lycon is a slave!” Then, as if fearing she had said too much, she hastened to add: “Don’t you think so, too?”

Polycles looked keenly at her and, in spite of the dusk of evening, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed.

“You are mistaken, child,” he replied. “Lycon is no slave. Your father freed him on the day of his death.”

“And I knew nothing about it?”

“You were standing at the hearth, preparing the decoction the physician had ordered.”

“My dear father!” exclaimed Myrtale, deeply moved, kissing her fingers as if she had seen the dead man alive before her.

“But that doesn’t settle everything,” said Polycles gravely. “In Athens Lycon is a spurious citizen and subject to the penalty of the law. He would be made a slave there.”

Myrtale started.

“Do what you can for him,” she said hurriedly, clasping Polycles’ hand in both her own.

“That is no easy matter,” replied Polycles, who found a secret satisfaction in being entreated to do what he himself intended. “It’s no easy matter, I tell you.”

“You _can_ free him, if you _wish_. Remember what he has done for the city. Besides, did he not save my father’s life and mine?”

“I’ll think of it,” said Polycles.

“No, no, you must promise me!” exclaimed Myrtale. “Save him from the punishment of the law, and I will be a daughter to you!” And raising herself on tiptoe, she flung her arms around Polycles’ neck and kissed him on the cheek.

Polycles felt the soft pressure of Myrtale’s youthful figure and, when he had taken leave of her at the door of the women’s apartment in his house, he stood still, absorbed in thought.

“By Aphrodite!” he cried, “the girl is bewitching, and I am not so old....”

But at the same instant he beheld, as he had done in his dream, the oil-jar suspended by a blue ribbon over the door of his house. He pressed his hands upon his eyes and, when he entered his lonely sleeping-room, he said, sighing:

“Polycles, you are a greater simpleton than I had supposed.”

XII.

The next morning the public criers summoned the citizens to a popular assembly, and soon after the streets were filled with young and old, rich and poor, who, amid hubbub, shrieks, and laughter, flocked towards the theatre, the place where popular assemblies were usually held in the smaller cities.

Thessaly, renowned for its beautiful river valley, its fine horses, and its powerful sorceresses, was at that time under the sole rule of Alexander of Pherae--a man who treated his subjects so harshly that he ordered some to be buried alive and had others dressed in bear-skins and torn to pieces by dogs. Like all tyrants, he lived in perpetual fear. He had so little faith in his own body guard that he had himself watched by a dog; he spent the night in the upper loft of his stately palace, that he might be able to draw the ladder up after him. The family to which he belonged had raised themselves from Tagoi, chiefs elected by the people, to sovereigns, and he himself, like his predecessor, had paved his way to power by murder.

But heavily as Alexander’s yoke rested upon the city of Pherae, it was comparatively little felt in Methone, though the latter was scarcely a day’s journey away. When the little city had sent its quota of men to the army and paid its taxes, the citizens had full liberty to attend to their own affairs, while the descendants of the original inhabitants of the country, as slaves, penestae, performed all the field work and drudgery. Whoever did not know better might have easily believed that Methone was a free state.

On the way to the place of assembly, Polycles followed the least frequented streets. Suddenly he signed to the slaves who accompanied him to keep back and, throwing his arm over Lycon’s shoulder, he said to him:

“My friend, I have important matters to discuss with you to-day! You know that Simonides, in his last will, left me his fortune and his daughter. But, as I am too old to marry a young wife, I want to ask if you are willing to take the girl with a dowry of eighteen talents?”

Lycon stopped, but did not utter a word in reply. If the rude statue of Poseidon in front of the temple of the god had suddenly descended from its pedestal and come towards him, he could not have been more speechless with bewilderment.

“That this may be done,” Polycles continued smiling, “I will adopt you as a son and make you my heir. True, I should have preferred a suitor who was the girl’s equal in birth, but as she seems to incline to you, I will submit to her wish.”

Lycon drew a long breath, and passed his huge hand over his face several times.

“I thank you, Polycles,” he said at last, “I thank you from my heart! But how is this to be? I am a freedman, it is true; but you forget....”

“I forget nothing,” answered Polycles. “But one thing you must know--the citizens must hear the whole story ... your condition of slave, your sin, and the punishment whose mark you bear. In a little place like Methone nothing can be hidden, so it is better to confess everything yourself rather than have it discovered by others. Besides, matters relating to inheritance, marriage, and other kindred affairs are often discussed in our popular assemblies. Here, where all the citizens know each other, no distinction is made between public and private business.”

In front of the theatre the city police were busily engaged in urging on the groups of gossiping, laughing citizens by threatening to mark them with ropes covered with red paint. These ropes left ugly stains on mantles, and the people therefore tried to avoid them.

But the largest crowd outside of the theatre was not disturbed by the police. It consisted of slaves waiting for the close of the assembly to attend their masters to the market, baths, or gymnasium. These slaves were no less merry than the citizens. Their attention was specially directed to the flat roofs of the nearest houses, where a group of young slave-girls were busily sunning rugs and cushions, to get an opportunity to see the throngs of men and be seen by them. Signs, not always the most seemly, were sometimes exchanged between the square before the theatre and the roofs.

At the entrance the recording clerk objected to admitting Lycon; but Polycles patted him on the shoulder, saying: “If this man isn’t a citizen of Methone, he will soon become one. Let him go in.”

The interior of the theatre presented a deep, semi-circular recess, surrounded by a mound of earth slanting upward, covered with stone benches, and supported by a thick encircling wall. About the center of the place, between the seats rising around, stood the altar, where, at the moment Polycles and Lycon entered, a priest in a long white robe, with a garland on his hair, was in the act of offering the customary sacrifice of purification. When this short ceremony was over the chief magistrate took his seat and a struggle, half jest, half earnest, followed, for all wanted places in the front row where they could hear best.

The chief magistrate opened the meeting by relating the misfortunes which had recently overwhelmed the place. When he spoke of the efficient service rendered by the boats during the flood, a smith rose in the crowd and in a deep voice shouted:

“Let us not forget the brave Athenian, Lycon. But for him many of us would have perished. It is he who saved us by first unmooring the boats.”

“Yes, yes, the smith is right!” responded many voices, with an earnestness which showed that the speakers themselves had been among the number of those rescued.

The dead and missing had not even one word of remembrance. Human life was of little value in those days. On the other hand, the magistrate did not forget to mention that the lands of the city had suffered very little damage, almost all of them having been too high to be reached by the flood. The shocks of earthquake had caused warm springs, which possibly possessed healing powers, to bubble up in many places, and in that case they might become a source of great wealth to the city and perhaps render it as much frequented as Aedepsus in Eubœa.

As exaggerated rumors of the injury sustained by the city had been in circulation, this report was received with joy, and the assembly was in the best humor when a tall, thin man, with hollow cheeks and a long beard, stepped forward saying:

“I am a friend of the simple, frugal customs of our ancestors.”

“That’s why you go ragged and shoeless,” shouted a youthful voice from one of the nearest passages between the seats.

The speaker was a little disconcerted, but recovered his composure.

“I do not favor the new custom of bestowing on any one who does the place a trifling service the high-sounding title of benefactor of the city, and overwhelming him with rewards and marks of distinction. If we keep on so there will soon be as many benefactors as citizens; one after another is not only released from paying taxes, but granted money to boot, while the really useful citizens, the instructors of youth and the people....”

“Who is that speaking?” asked a white-bearded old man on the front row of seats, holding his hand to his ear to catch the answer:

“That is the orator, Philopator,” replied the person addressed, with a scornful emphasis on the word “orator.”

“He’s also called the man with the mustard face,” added another.

As these explanations were given to a deaf man, Philopator could not avoid hearing them. Perceiving that the current of feeling was against him, he continued more rapidly with visible irresolution.

“The gods forbid that I should envy anybody. No one can feel a deeper reverence for actual services, deeds truly great, exploits really noble. But, my friends, is there anything great in saving a few people in a boat? That requires neither the sage’s sagacity, the warrior’s courage, nor the sacrifice of self. It is a thing any one can do, the ignorant as well as the expert.”

“Then you ought to have done it, Philopator,” shouted the smith’s deep voice, and as there was something in Philopator’s appearance that showed he had never handled an oar, the interruption caused immoderate laughter.

Philopator wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“I have never boasted of seamanship,” he replied.

The words were received with a fresh outbreak of mirth.

“You have talked enough!” cried a voice.

“We know what you want to say!” shouted a second.

“Back to your seat!” added a third.

Then, as the luckless orator still remained standing, a terrible tumult arose and at the same time deafening shouts burst like a gust of wind or a sudden tempest over the assembly.

The wretched Philopator, at whom hundreds of throats were yelling, became fairly frantic. He turned deadly pale, tore his hair, and ran to and fro in the level space as though out of his senses. As his voice would have been lost amid the shouts, he threw himself humbly on his knees and extended his arms towards the benches from which echoed the most furious cries. At last the storm subsided and the smith’s deep voice said:

“Go back to your seat, Philopator, that’s the best thing to do.”

The orator followed the good advice and, trembling from head to foot, slunk back to his place, where he cowered making himself as small as possible.

Polycles signed to Lycon to seat himself behind the bema, where he was concealed from every one; then he himself stepped forward, apparently as calm as when moving among the guests in front of his house.

“Fellow citizens,” he said, “I am no professional orator like Philopator yonder, but perhaps you will listen to me, since I wish to speak to you of a man who came to us in an evil time and who, within a few days, has become dear to the whole city.”

“Speak, speak!” shouted numerous voices.

“Much evil and much good can be told of him. I will begin with the evil.... You think Lycon is an Athenian--he is not. You think Lycon is a citizen--he is not that either. He is a freedman, who a little more than a month ago was a slave.”

This statement was followed by silence so profound that no one would have believed himself to be in the same place and among the same men who a short time before were yelling at Philopator. Amid the breathless expectation of the throng, external surroundings suddenly seemed like a revelation from another world. The wind was heard sighing through the tree-tops and the swallows twittering in the air. Many on the back seats rose and held their hands behind their ears, that they might not lose a single word.

Polycles did not spare Lycon, but told the people that his dead friend Simonides a few years before had bought a young slave named Zenon, who, after being branded for theft, had fled to Poseidon’s altar. For a long time Zenon had served his new master well; but when he saw a man from Hypata pay Simonides a large sum of money, he ran away with it during the night.

A movement passed through the assembly, one man muttered to another. Polycles foresaw a fresh storm.

“Friends and fellow citizens,” he said in a jesting tone; “we know each other, so I shall not ask you to keep quiet. On the contrary, I will beg you to chatter and yell to your hearts’ content, in order to have it over the sooner.”

Some of the men laughed; but most were already too angry to allow themselves to be softened by a jest.

“A branded slave!” cried some.

“And we have been permitted to do him honor!”

“Why did no one tell us?”

“Let us drive this Zenon out of the city!”

“We’ll stone him!”

“Truly a fine benefactor to add to the rest of the city’s benefactors!” shouted Philopator. But those who sat nearest seized his robe and forced him back into his seat. As he made wild gestures with his arms and assumed the air of a deeply injured man, the smith turned towards him.

“Philopator!”

He merely uttered the man’s name, but in precisely the same tone as if he had been a dog. Philopator made no reply, but shrunk into as small a space in his corner as possible.

At the sight of this submission, which could only be explained by a thorough respect for the smith’s brawny fists, a noisy expression of mirth ran through the assembly.

Polycles continued:

“I will now speak of Lycon’s good qualities,” and he related how the latter had been respected as a citizen and popular with all in Athens. “We Methonians,” he added, “have cause to be proud that an insignificant slave from this city was found worthy to associate with the leading men in Athens, so that he was daily seen arm in arm with the rich Timotheus, son of Conon.”

Polycles knew his fellow citizens, the Methonians. If anything could flatter their pride, it would be to have one of their own number, and a poor slave into the bargain, win favor and affection in Athens.

“Even if the man did once take what belonged to others,” observed a friendly philosopher, “there may be some good in him.”

“Yes, Lycon is really a good man,” replied Polycles, and now related how the latter, who was living so prosperously in Athens, had no sooner heard of Simonides’ illness and the slaves’ neglect than he sold everything he possessed and came to Methone to restore order in the household and obtain his master’s forgiveness.

“That was a noble act! Yes, by Zeus, a noble act!” shouted many voices.

Polycles then spoke of the flood and, by a clever inspiration, described how Philopator, who thought it was so easy to save a few people in a boat, would have behaved. At sight of the gigantic billow that rolled in, threatening to sweep everything away, he would surely have been no less disconcerted than at the storm which had recently burst upon him in the assembly. He would have fled at full speed up the street, but would have been overtaken by the water and met his death with the men in the boats. But how had Lycon behaved? Instead of flying before the flood, he had jumped into the nearest boat and, instead of thinking solely of himself, in the midst of the peril had remembered others and warned the men in the rest of the boats. “Had it not been for Lycon,” said Polycles, raising his voice, “not only would thirty men in the boats have perished, but a number of free citizens, as well as slaves, would have lost their lives in the flooded streets. For, on that day of misfortune, Lycon, with perhaps a score of boats, saved from about twenty flooded houses eighty citizens, men, women and children, besides more than two hundred and seventy slaves. So great is the number of those who owe their lives to Lycon.”

A deafening tumult of joy arose, a storm of applause, and it was long ere Polycles could again be heard.

“I think, therefore,” he added, “that Lycon has some claim--even if Philopator does not consider it--to deserve the name of benefactor of the city.”

Just at that moment a voice from one of the back seats shouted: “Where is Lycon? We want to see him.”

The cry was instantly taken up by all, and the whole theatre echoed with the call: “Where is Lycon?”

“It seems to me,” said Polycles, smiling, “that the very men who a short time ago wanted to drive Lycon out of the city and stone him, are now shouting the loudest.”

These words roused much noisy hilarity. The worthy Methonians could not help laughing themselves at the ease with which they passed from one extreme to the other.

“As I knew you would want to see Lycon,” Polycles added, “I have, with the chief magistrate’s permission, brought him with me.” He beckoned to Lycon and the latter, pale with emotion but apparently calm, now came forward before the rampart of human faces formed by the seats towering before him.

At the sight of Lycon’s frank, good-natured face and powerful form, a new and long continued storm of applause arose.

“Dear friends and fellow citizens,” Polycles began again, “I will propose to you to reward this man in a way that will bring no great expense upon the city and yet, perhaps, best suit his own wishes. Simonides, as you know, bequeathed me his fortune with his daughter. But, as I am too old to take a young wife and the girl has a fancy for Lycon, I thought of giving her to him in marriage, by which he will come into possession of the greater part of her property. But, to do this, you must make him a citizen; then I will adopt him as a son and name him my heir, that he may become a proper suitor. But to prevent any one in future from taunting Lycon with having been a branded slave, I propose to you that as a public reward, you bestow upon him exemption from taxes and a free maintenance in the Prytaneium.

“Lastly, let there be hung in the temple of Poseidon a tablet bearing a representation of Lycon’s deed at the time of the flood and a short account of his life, in which it should be stated that he had been a branded slave. Coming generations could then read there that the city of Methone did her duty even to the most insignificant person. This, dear fellow citizens, is my proposal concerning Lycon. If any one has a better plan to suggest, I will gladly recall it.”

The rope-maker, Socles, rose. He was a small, stout man, with big, prominent eyes and a wide half open mouth, which gave him an extremely foolish air.

“I can vote for no reward to this Lycon,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because, by Zeus, he seems to me one of the most foolish of men!... If he was living so merrily and contentedly at Athens as is said, why doesn’t he stay there? What does he want here of us?”

Lycon laughed and asked:

“Of what city is this man a native?”

“Of Chæroneia.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Lycon laughing, “I thought the man who reproached me for my return to Methone, the only good deed I ever performed, must be a--Bœotian!”

Socles did not know what to answer and, seeing him stand there with his mouth wide open, an image of Bœotian stupidity, the whole assembly burst into a roar of laughter, so scornful, noisy, deafening in its mirth, that it seemed as if every stone in the theatre was laughing.

Socles stood for a moment as though paralyzed with bewilderment. Then, wrapping his mantle around him, he started with crimson face for the nearest entrance, slipping through the crowd, striding over empty places in the stone benches, and forcing his way through the groups in the passages. It was done so quickly that it looked as if the fat little man was blown away over the seats by the unbridled laughter of the throng.

“Why, why, how he jumps!” shouted the smith, shaking with glee as, fairly convulsed with merriment, he loudly slapped his thigh.

“Lycon has made Socles a deer!” cried a second voice.

“He skips like a discus behind the mark!” added a third.

When silence was partially restored, the chief magistrate put Polycles’ proposal to vote. All raised their hands except Philopator. But when the smith, who still kept an eye on him, cleared his throat loudly and looked askance at him, Philopator’s hand also rose, though slowly and reluctantly.

The chief magistrate, a white-haired old man of venerable aspect, embraced Lycon in the presence of the whole assembly and said to him in a tone so loud and distinct that amid the deep silence it was heard in the most distant seats:

“You are now a citizen of Methone and a guest of the Prytaneium. May you have happiness and prosperity.”

XIII.

The next day Polycles sent by a trustworthy messenger a letter to the ship-owner in Athens who had been the demarch of Lycon’s district. The wine-dealer knew him, for the latter had visited Methone more than once in his ship. Ten days after the answer came, stating that if Lycon would pay a fine of ten minae his name would be erased from the list of citizens, thereby avoiding any legal prosecution.

At this message Lycon drew a deep breath, like a man who has reached dry land after fighting a long time for his life among the waves.

“The gods be praised!” he exclaimed. “Now, for the first time, I can use my liberty as a thing which belongs to me, and which no man has a right to take away.”

Myrtale embraced Polycles, and said with her brightest smile:

“So you, too, are a benefactor! Have you not saved the city’s deliverer from becoming a slave in a strange place?”