he was
looking not into a black world, but to a pearl-grey floor far beneath
him. It was the sea, the thing he knew and loved. The sight screwed
up his courage. He remembered that he was Lemnian and a seafarer. He
would be conquered neither by rock, nor by Hellene, nor by the Great
King. Least of all by the last, who was a barbarian. Slowly, with
clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, he began to clamber down a ridge
which flanked the great cliffs of Kallidromos. His plan was to reach
the shore and take the road to the east before the Persians completed
their circuit. Some instinct told him that a great army would not take
the track he had mounted by. There must be some longer and easier way
debouching farther down the coast. He might yet have the good luck to
slip between them and the sea.

The two hours which followed tried his courage hard. Thrice he fell,
and only a juniper-root stood between him and death. His hands grew
ragged, and his nails were worn to the quick. He had long ago lost his
weapons; his cloak was in shreds, all save the breast-fold which held
the gift to Apollo. The heavens brightened, but he dared not look
around. He knew he was traversing awesome places, where a goat could
scarcely tread. Many times he gave up hope of life. His head was
swimming, and he was so deadly sick that often he had to lie gasping on
some shoulder of rock less steep than the rest. But his anger kept him
to his purpose. He was filled with fury at the Hellenes. It was they
and their folly that had brought him these mischances. Some day ....

He found himself sitting blinking on the shore of the sea. A furlong
off the water was lapping on the reefs. A man, larger than human in
the morning mist, was standing above him.

"Greeting, stranger," said the voice. "By Hermes, you choose the
difficult roads to travel."

Atta felt for broken bones, and, reassured, struggled to his feet.

"God's curse upon all mountains," he said. He staggered to the edge of
the tide and laved his brow. The savour of salt revived him. He
turned to find the tall man at his elbow, and noted how worn and ragged
he was, and yet how upright. "When a pigeon is flushed from the rocks,
there is a hawk near," said the voice.

Atta was angry. "A hawk!" he cried. "Nay, an army of eagles. There
will be some rare flushing of Hellenes before evening."

"What frightened you, Islander?" the stranger asked. "Did a wolf bark
up on th