nce more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. "This
will be a notable day for Athens!"

"Our good friend surely thinks so!" rejoined the potter, dryly; "but since
he won't trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more
interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must
be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate. Yonder rides Themistocles now to
take command."

The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels
were prancing Cimon, Democrates, Glaucon, and many another youth of the
noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his
head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again
perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief
and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as
Agis.

"Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a 'steward' of the
procession to-day," wondered Crito.

"You'll be enlightened to-morrow," said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the
band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, "Ah, me,--I wish I
could afford to serve in the cavalry. It's far safer than tugging a spear
on foot. But there's one young man out yonder on whose horse I'd not
gladly be sitting."

"_Phui_," complained Clearchus, "you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and
bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to take
her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as
handsome as her husband."

"She needn't 'draw up her eyebrows,' "(6) growled the juror, viciously;
"they're marks of disloyalty even in her. Can't you see she wears shoes of
the Theban model, laced open so as to display her bare feet, though
everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She's no better than Glaucon."

"Hush," ordered Clearchus, rising, "you have spoken folly enough. Those
trumpets tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march
ourselves."

* * * * * * *

Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,--what words call
down light on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the
artist,--his pencil may not limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and
glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the
sculptor's marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the
warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The
festival of the Panathenaea was the