chers
wisely guessed--a force to disembark on Psyttaleia, the islet betwixt
Salamis and the main, a vantage-point in the coming battle.

The coming battle? It was so silent, ghostlike, far away, imagination
scarce could picture it. Was this black slumberous water to be the scene
at dawn of a combat beside which that of Hector and Achilles under Troy
would be only as a tale that is told? And was he, Glaucon, son of Conon
the Alcmaeonid, sitting there in the skiff alone with Sicinnus, to have a
part therein, in a battle the fame whereof should ring through the ages?
Bump, bump--still the monologue of the oars. A fish near by leaped from the
water, splashing loudly. Then for an instant the clouds broke. Selene
uncovered her face. The silvery flash quickly come, more quickly flying,
showed him the headlands of that Attica now in Xerxes's hands. He saw
Pentelicus and Hymettus, Parnes and Cithaeron, the hills he had wandered
over in glad boyhood, the hills where rested his ancestors' dust. It was
no dream. He felt his warm blood quicken. He felt the round-bowed skiff
spring over the waves, as with unwearied hands he tugged at the oar. There
are moments when the dullest mind grows prophetic, and the mind of the
Athenian was not dull. The moonlight had vanished. In its place through
the magic darkness seemed gathering all the heroes of his people beckoning
him and his compeers onward. Perseus was there, and Theseus and
Erechtheus, Heracles the Mighty, and Odysseus the Patient, whose intellect
Themistocles possessed, Solon the Wise, Periander the Crafty, Diomedes the
Undaunted, men of reality, men of fable, sages, warriors, demigods,
crowding together, speaking one message: "Be strong, for the heritage of
what you do this coming day shall be passed beyond children's children,
shall be passed down to peoples to whom the tongue, the gods, yea, the
name of Hellas, are but as a dream."

Glaucon felt the weariness fly from him. He was refreshed as never by
wine. Then through the void in place of the band of heroes slowly
outspread the tracery of a vessel at anchor,--the outermost guardship of
the fleet of the Hellenes. They were again amongst friends. The watcher on
the trireme was keeping himself awake after the manner of sentries by
singing. In the night-stillness the catch from Archilochus rang lustily.

"By my spear I have won my bread,
By spear won my clear, red wine,
On my spear I will lean and drink,--
Show me a mer