Callias: A Tale of the Fall of Athens Part 11

"Don't press me any further: it would be a dishonor to me to leave Athens now."

The argument was continued for some time longer; but Hippocles could not flatter himself with the idea that he had made any impression. At last he seemed to abandon the attempt.

"Well," he said, "a willful man must have his way. I can only hope that you will never live to repent it. But you will not refuse to come and see us--my daughter adds her invitation to mine--you will not be so ungallant as to refuse."

"No, I should not think of refusing," said Callias. "You have called me back to life. I thought that my heart would have burnt with grief and rage. You can't imagine what your sympathy is to me."

"Well," said Hippocles, "show your grat.i.tude by dining with us to-night."

Callias promised that he would, and accordingly at the time appointed presented himself at the merchant's house.

After dinner the discussion was resumed. Hippocles and Hermione urged all the arguments that they knew to persuade the young man to think of his own safety, but they urged in vain.

"No!" said the young man, as he rose to take his leave, "no, I thank you for your care for me, but your advice I may not follow. I refuse to believe that the Athenian people can keep the the base and ungrateful temper which they showed the other day. It was the madness of an hour, and they must have repented of it long ago. If they have not, then an honest man who happens to be born into this citizens.h.i.+p had best die.

Athens is no place for him. Anyhow, I shall try, at the very next a.s.sembly, unless I can get some other and abler man than I am to do it for me, to indict Callixenus for unconst.i.tutional practices. Did I pa.s.s by this occasion of vengeance, the blood of Diomedon and his brave colleagues might well cry out of the ground against me."

Several days pa.s.sed without any disturbing incident. Callias had warnings indeed. Mysterious letters were brought to him, bidding him beware of dangers that were imminent; more than one stranger who found him in the streets let fall, it seemed by the merest accident, words that could not but be meant to give a warning; friends spoke openly to the same effect; but the young man remained unmoved. At the table of Hippocles, where he was a frequent guest, the subject was dropped. It seemed to be conceded by common consent that Callias was to have his own way.

He was returning to his home in the upper city from the Piraeus on a dark and stormy night, picking his way under the shelter of one of the Long Walls[41] when he felt himself suddenly seized from behind. So suddenly and so skilfully made was the attack that in an instant the young man, though sufficiently active and vigorous, was reduced to absolute helplessness. His arms were fastened to his side; his legs pinioned; his eyes blindfolded, and a gag thrust into his mouth. All this was done without any unnecessary violence, but with a firmness that made resistance impossible. The young man then felt himself lifted on to some conveyance which had been waiting, it seemed, in the neighborhood, and driven rapidly in a northerly direction. So much the prisoner could guess from feeling the wind which he knew had been coming from the east, blowing upon his right cheek. After being driven rapidly for a few minutes the gag was removed with an apology for the necessity that had compelled its use. The journey was continued with unabated and even increased rapidity, the lash, as Callias' ear told him, being freely used to urge the animals to their full speed. Before long the sound of the waves breaking upon the sh.o.r.e could be distinctly heard above the clatter of the horses' hoofs and the grinding of the chariot wheels upon the road. Then came a stoppage. The prisoner was lifted from his seat and put on board what he guessed to be a small boat. He felt that this was pushed out from the land, that it began by making fair progress, and that not long after starting, when it had pa.s.sed, as he conjectured beyond the shelter of some bay or promontory, it began to meet bad weather. The waves were breaking, it was easy to tell, over the boat, in which the water was rising in spite of the efforts of the men who were busy bailing to keep it under. It was time for our hero to speak; so busy were the sailors in struggling with their difficulties, that they might easily have forgotten their prisoner, and let him go to the bottom like a stone.

"Friends," he cried, "you had best let me help you and myself."

"By Poseidon! I had forgotten him," he heard one of the men cry. "If he drowns there will be no profit to us in floating." A consultation carried on in low, rapid whispers followed. It ended in the prisoner's bonds being severed, and the bandage being removed from his eyes.

When the situation became visible to the young Athenian it was certainly far from encouraging. The boat was low in the water, and was getting lower. It was evident that it could not live more than a few minutes more. The night was dark, and the sea so high that even the most expert swimmer could not expect to survive very long. The only hope seemed to lie in the chance of being blown ash.o.r.e. But obviously the first thing to be done was to prepare for a swim. Callias, accordingly, threw off his upper garment and untied his sandals. This done he waited for the end.

It was not long in coming. The boat was too low in the water to rise to the waves, and one of unusual size now broke over and swamped it, immersing the crew, who numbered nine persons including Callias. Happily they were good swimmers, and if speedy help were to come, might hope to escape. And, luckily, help was nearer than any of them had hoped. A light became visible in the darkness; and the swimmers shouted in concert to let the new comers know of their whereabouts. An answering shout came from the galley, for as may be supposed, it was a galley that carried the light. "Be of good cheer," shouted a voice which Callias thought that he recognized. The swimmers shouted in answer, and felt new hope and new life infused into them. But the rescue was no easy task.

Each man in turn had to fasten under his armpits a rope with a noose at the end which was thrown to him, and was then drawn up the side of the galley. This took time. Some of the men found it hard to do their part of the work, and so delayed the rescue of the others. By the time that Callias was reached, and he was the last of the nine, he was almost beyond the reach of help. By one supreme effort, however, he managed to slip the rope about him. As he was dragged on to the deck the last conscious impression that he had--and so strange was it that he thought it must be a dream--was the face of Hermione bent over him with an expression of intense anxiety.

FOOTNOTES:

[41] The "Long Walls" ran from Athens down to its chief harbor the Piraeus.

CHAPTER XII.

THE VOYAGE OF THE SKYLARK.

It was not long before Callias recovered his consciousness; but he was so worn out by excitement and fatigue, coming as they did after the exhausting emotions through which he had pa.s.sed since the death of the generals, that he found it impossible to rouse himself to any exertion.

The yacht, which as my readers will have guessed was that excellent sea-boat the _Skylark_, had never been in any danger, though she had had to be very skillfully handled while she was engaged in picking up the swimmers. This task accomplished, her head was put northward, and before very long she had gained the shelter of Euboea. Callias guessed as much when he found that she ceased to roll, and gladly resigned himself to the slumber against which he had hitherto done his best to struggle.

He slept late into the morning; indeed it wanted only an hour of noon when at last he opened his eyes. The first object that they fell upon was the figure of Hippocles, who was sitting by the side of his berth.

"Then it was not a dream," said the young man. "I thought I saw your daughter on board last night, but could not believe my eyes."

"Yes, she is on board," said Hippocles, with a slight smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

"But tell me what it all means. I was seized in the streets of Athens, pinioned, blindfolded, and gagged. I was carried off I know not where, thrown into a boat, as nearly as possible drowned, and now, when I come to myself, I see you. Surely I have a right to ask what it means."

"My dear Callias," replied Hippocles, "I have always tried to be your friend, as it was my priviledge to be your father's before you. You will allow so much?"

"Certainly," said the young man. "I shall never forget how much I owe you."

"Well, then, trust me for an hour. I will not ask you to do anything more. If you are not fully satisfied then, I will make you any redress that you may demand. I know that you have a right to ask for it. I know," he added with an air of proud humility that sat very well upon him, "that Hippocles the Alien is asking a great favor when he makes such a request of Callias the Eupatrid,[42] but believe me I do not ask it without a reason."

The young Athenian could do nothing else than consent to a request so reasonable. Some irritation he felt, for there was no doubt in his mind that Hippocles had had something to do with the violence to which he had been subjected. The intention, however, had been manifestly friendly, and there might be something to tell which would change annoyance into grat.i.tude.

A sailor now brought him some refreshment, and when this had been disposed of, another furnished him with some clothing. His own, it will be remembered, he had thrown away, when preparing to swim for his life.

His toilet completed, he came up on deck and found Hippocles and his daughter seated near the stern. Both rose to greet him. He could not fail to observe that Hermione was pale and agitated. The frank friendliness of her old manner, which, blended as it had been with a perfect maidenly modesty, had been inexpressibly charming, had disappeared. She was now timid and hesitating. She could not lift her eyes when she acknowleged his greeting. He could even see that she trembled.

The young man stood astonished and perplexed. What was this strange reserve of which he had never before seen a trace? Was there anything in himself that had caused it? Had he--so he asked himself, being a modest young fellow and ready to lay the blame on his own shoulders--had he given any offence?

"Tell him the story, father," she said, after an anxious pause during which her agitation manifestly increased, "tell him the story. I feel that I cannot speak."

"My little girl has a confession to make. In a word, it is her doing that you are here to-day."

"Her doing that I am here to-day," echoed Callias, his astonishment giving a certain harshness to his voice.

The girl burst into tears. Callias stepped forward, and would have caught her hand. She drew back.

"Tell him, father, tell him all," she whispered again in an agitated voice.

"Well then," said her father, "if I must confess your misdeeds, I will speak. You know," he went on addressing himself to the young Athenian, "you know how we vainly sought to persuade you to leave Athens. I had a better and stronger reason for speaking as I did than I could tell you.

From private information, the source of which I could not divulge, if you had asked it, as you probably would have done, I had found out that you were in the most serious danger. Not only were you to be arrested--so much you know--but having been arrested, you were to be put out of the way. You talked of answering for yourself before the a.s.sembly, even of accusing your enemies and the men who murdered your friends. You never would have had the chance. There are diseases strangely sudden and fatal to which prisoners are liable, and there was only too much reason to fear that you would be attacked by one of them.

There are other poisons, you know, besides the hemlock, which the state administers to the condemned, and an adverse verdict is not always wanted before they are given. Well; we were at our wits' end. You were obstinate--pardon me for using the word--and I would not tell you the whole truth. Even if I had, it was doubtful, in the temper of mind you were in, whether you would have believed me. Then Hermione here came to the rescue. 'We must save him,' she cried, 'against his will.' 'How can we do that?' I asked; and I a.s.sure you that I had not the least idea of what she meant. 'You must contrive to carry him off to some safe place.'

I was astonished. 'What!' I said, 'a free citizen of Athens.' 'What will that help him, with the men who are plotting to take his life?' she answered. Then she told me her plan. I need not describe it to you. It was carried out exactly. Now can you forgive her?"

"Oh! lady"--the young man began.

"Stop a moment," cried Hippocles. "I have something more to say, before you p.r.o.nounce your judgment. You must take into account that if she has erred, she has already suffered."

"Oh! father," interrupted the girl, "it is enough; say nothing more. I am ready to bear the blame."

And she sank back into her seat and covered her face with her mantle.

Hippocles went on: "I say she has suffered. We did not reckon on that unlucky wind. It was bad enough to have carried you off against your will; but when it seemed that we might drown you as well, that looked serious. I was not much afraid, myself. I felt pretty sure that we should be able to pick you up. But still there was a chance of something going wrong. And she, of course, felt responsible for it all. It was true that it was the only way of saving you--that, I swear by Zeus and Athene, and all the G.o.ds above and below, is the simple, literal fact--but still, I must own, it was a trying moment, and if anything _had_ happened--Then you were the last to be picked up, and just at the last moment, something went wrong. The clumsy fellow at the helm--I ought to have been there myself, but I wanted to help in getting you on board--the clumsy fellow at the helm, I say, gave us a wrong turn. We should have had a world of trouble in bringing the _Skylark_ about again. Hermione saw it, sprang to the tiller, and put things right--I have always taught her how to steer. So you really owe her something for that. I don't exactly say that she saved your life, but you might have been in the water a little longer than you liked. Well, it was trying to the poor girl. I can imagine how she felt; but she bore up till we got you on board. Then she fainted; for the very first time in her life, I give you my word, for she is not given to that sort of thing. Now, say, can you forgive her and us? We really did it for the best, and thanks to Poseidon, it has ended pretty well, so far, after all."

"This is no case for forgiveness," cried the young Athenian earnestly; "it is a case of grat.i.tude which I shall never exhaust as long as I live. I am a headstrong young fool, a silly child, in fact, and you were quite right in dealing with me as grown people must deal with a child, help it and do it good against its will. Forgive me, lady," he went on, and kneeling before her chair, he took one of her hands in his own, and carried it to his lips.

So far all was well. A bold achievement had ended happily, but the situation was a little strained, to use a common phrase, and Callias, like the well bred gentleman that he was, felt that it would be a relief to the girl if it was brought to an end. Happily, too, at that moment the ludicrous side of the affair struck him, and it was without any affectation that he sprang to his feet and burst into a hearty laugh.

"And now that you have captured me," he said, "what is your pleasure?

What are you going to do with me?"

"You shall go where you please," said Hippocles. "Even if you want to return to Athens I will not hinder you. But my plan is this, subject of course, to your consent. Come with me as far as Thasus. I have business there, to look after my vineyard, or rather the vintage. My people, I find, are sadly apt to blunder about it. This will take me no little time, and while I am engaged there, the _Skylark_ shall take you on to Alcibiades' castle in Thrace. I was going to say that I would commend you to him. But that will not be necessary. He is, you know, a distant kinsman, and is hospitality itself. In my judgment he has had hard usage. It would have been better for Athens, if she had trusted him more. But all that is past. Meanwhile I think that his castle is the safest place for you just now. You and he are very much in the same case, I fancy. Athens has not treated either of you fairly and yet you wish well to her."