idas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade
his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed
starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,--hoping at least to find
some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.

The _Solon_, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian
model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,--excellent for cargo, but
none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed
mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint
oaths, and began to pray--sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed
almost too panic-stricken to aid in flinging the cargo overboard. Several
were raving.

"Hearken, Poseidon of Calauria," howled a Peiraeus merchant against the
screeching blasts, "save from this peril and I vow thee and thy temple two
mixing bowls of purest gold!"

"A great vow," suggested a calmer comrade. "All your fortune can hardly
pay it."

"Hush," spoke the other, in undertone, "don't let the god overhear me; let
me get safe to Mother Earth and Poseidon has not one obol. His power is
only over the sea."

A creaking from the mainmast told that it might fall at any moment.
Passengers and crew redoubled their shouts to Poseidon and to Zeus of
AEgina. A fat passenger staggered from his cabin, a huge money-bag bound to
his belt,--as if gold were the safest spar to cling to in that boiling
deep. Others, less frantic, gave commissions one to another, in case one
perished and another escaped.

"You alone have no messages, pray no prayers, show no fear!" spoke a
grave, elderly man to Glaucon, as both clutched the swaying bulwark.

"And wherefore?" came the bitter answer; "what is left me to fear? I
desire no life hereafter. There can be no consciousness without sad
memory."

"You are very young to speak thus."

"But not too young to have suffered."

A wave dashed one of the steering rudders out of the grip of the sailor
guiding it. The rush of water swept him overboard. The _Solon_ lurched.
The wind smote the straining mainsail, and the shivered mainmast tore from
its stays and socket. Above the bawling of wind and water sounded the
crash. The ship, with only a small sail upon the poop, blew about into the
trough of the sea. A mountain of green water thundered over the prow,
bearing away men and wreckage. The "governor," Brasidas's mate, flung away
the last steering tiller.

"The _Solon_