passed him the myrtle crown, as token that he had the Bema. In a tense
hush his voice sounded clearly.

"I was informed of the oracles before the assembly met. The meaning is
plain. By the 'wooden wall' is meant our ships. But if we risk a battle,
we are told slaughter and defeat will follow. The god commands, therefore,
that without resistance we quit Attica, gathering our wives, our children,
and our goods, and sail away to some far country."

Xenagoras paused with the smile of him who performs a sad but necessary
duty, removed the wreath, and descended the Bema.

"Quit Attica without a blow! Our fathers' fathers' sepulchres, the shrines
of our gods, the pleasant farmsteads, the land where our Attic race have
dwelt from dimmest time!"

The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence,
while many a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned
Acropolis, asked once, yes twice, "Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to
that?" Then after the silence broke the clamour of voices.

"The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!"

Hegias, the "King Archon," chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His
speech was brief and to the point.

"All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for
them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others'
interpretation."

Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where
they stood. The chairman in vain ordered "Silence!" and was fain to bid
the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself
forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema.
His advice was simple. The oracle said "the wooden wall" would be a
bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had
once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the
citadel and endure a siege.

So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could
endure no more. "_Kataba! Kataba!_" "Go down! go down!" pealed the yell,
emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head
and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.

"Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!"

But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude
turned to another favourite.

"Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!"

The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat nea