"And I, sirs, supplicate you for the barest forms of law and
justice. Let it not be in the power of Critias to strike off either
me, or any one of you whom he will. But in my case, in what may be your
case, if we are tried, let our trial be in accordance with the law they
have made concerning those on the list. I know," he added, "but too
well, that this altar will not protect me; but I will make it plain that
these men are as impious towards the gods as they are nefarious towards
men. Yet I do marvel, good sirs and honest gentlemen, for so you are,
that you will not help yourselves, and that too when you must see that
the name of every one of you is as easily erased as mine."

But when he had got so far, the voice of the herald was heard giving the
order to the Eleven to seize Theramenes. They at that instant entered
with their satellites--at their head Satyrus, the boldest and most
shameless of the body--and Critias exclaimed, addressing the Eleven, "We
deliver over to you Theramenes yonder, who has been condemned according
to the law. Do you take him and lead him away to the proper place, and
do there with him what remains to do." As Critias uttered the words,
Satyrus laid hold upon Theramenes to drag him from the altar, and the
attendants lent their aid. But he, as was natural, called upon gods and
men to witness what was happening. The senators the while kept silence,
seeing the companions of Satyrus at the bar, and the whole front of the
senate house crowded with the foreign guards, nor did they need to be
told that there were daggers in reserve among those present.

And so Theramenes was dragged through the Agora, in vehement and loud
tones proclaiming the wrongs that he was suffering. One word, which is
said to have fallen from his lips, I cite. It is this: Satyrus, bade him
"Be silent, or he would rue the day;" to which he made answer, "And if I
be silent, shall I not rue it?" Also, when they brought him the hemlock,
and the time was come to drink the fatal draught, they tell how he
playfully jerked out the dregs from the bottom of the cup, like one who
plays "Cottabos," (22) with the words, "This to the lovely Critias."
These are but "apophthegms" (23) too trivial, it may be thought, to find
a place in history. Yet I must deem it an admirable trait in this man's
character, if at such a moment, when death confronted him, neither his
wits forsook him, nor could the childlike sportiveness vanish from his
soul.