He pushed the matted locks from his brow as he peered into the mist.  His hair was thick with salt, and his eyes smarted from the greenwood fire on the poop.  The four slaves who crouched beside the thwarts-Carians with thin birdlike faces-were in a pitiable case, their hands blue with oar-weals and the lash marks on their shoulders beginning to gape from sun and sea.  The Lemnian himself bore marks of ill usage.  His cloak was still sopping, his eyes heavy with watching, and his lips black and cracked with thirst.  Two days before the storm had caught him and swept his little craft into mid-Aegean.  He was a sailor, come of sailor stock, and he had fought the gale manfully and well.  But the sea had burst his waterjars, and the torments of drought had been added to his toil.  He had been driven south almost to Scyros, but had found no harbour.  Then a weary day with the oars had brought him close to the Euboean shore, when a freshet of storm drove him seaward again.  Now at last in this northerly creek of Sciathos he had found shelter and a spring.  But it was a perilous place, for there were robbers in the bushy hills-mainland men who loved above all things to rob an islander:  and out at sea, as he looked towards Pelion, there seemed something adoing which boded little good.  There was deep water beneath a ledge of cliff, half covered by a tangle of wildwood.  So Atta lay in the bows, looking through the trails of vine at the racing tides now reddening in the dawn.

The storm had hit others besides him it seemed.  The channel was full of ships, aimless ships that tossed between tide and wind.  Looking closer, he saw that they were all wreckage.  There had been tremendous doings in the north, and a navy of some sort had come to grief.  Atta was a prudent man, and knew that a broken fleet might be dangerous.  There might be men lurking in the maimed galleys who would make short work of the owner of a battered but navigable craft.  At first he thought that the ships were those of the Hellènes.  The troublesome fellows were everywhere in the islands, stirring up strife and robbing the old lords.  But the tides running strongly from the east were bringing some of the wreckage in an eddy into the bay.  He lay closer and watched the spars and splintered poops as they neared him.  These were no galleys of the Hellènes.  Then came a drowned man, swollen and horrible:  then another-swarthy, hooknosed fellows, all yellow with the sea.  Atta was puzzled.  They must be the men from the East about whom he had been hearing.  Long ere he left Lemnos there had been news about the Persians.  They were coming like locusts out of the dawn, swarming over Ionia and Thrace, men and ships numerous beyond telling.  They meant no ill to honest islanders:  a little earth and water were enough to win their friendship.  But they meant death to the hubris of the Hellènes.  Atta was on the side of the invaders; he wished them well in their war with his ancient foes.  They would eat them up, Athenians, Lacedaemonians, Corinthians, Aeginetans, men of Argos and Elis, and none would be left to trouble him.  But in the meantime something had gone wrong.  Clearly there had been no battle.  As the bodies butted against the side of the galley he hooked up one or two and found no trace of a wound.  Poseidon had grown cranky, and had claimed victims.  The god would be appeased by this time, and all would go well.

Danger being past, he bade the men get ashore and fill the water-skins.  “God’s curse on all Hellènes,” he said, as he soaked up the cold water from the spring in the thicket.

About noon he set sail again.  The wind sat in the north-east, but the wall of Pelion turned it into a light stern breeze which carried him swiftly westward.  The four slaves, still leg-weary and arm-weary, lay like logs beside the thwarts.  Two slept; one munched some salty figs; the fourth, the headman, stared wearily forward, with ever and again a glance back at his master.  But the Lemnian never looked his way.  His head was on his breast, as he steered, and he brooded on the sins of the Hellènes.  He was of the old Pelasgian stock, the first bords of the land, who had come out of the soil at the call of God.  The pillaging northmen had crushed his folk out of the mainlands and most of the islands, but in Lemnos they had met their match.  It was a family story how every grown male had been slain, and how the women long after had slaughtered their conquerors in the night.  “Lemnian deeds,” said the Hellènes, when they wished to speak of some shameful thing:  but to Atta the shame was a glory to be cherished for ever.  He and his kind were the ancient people, and the gods loved old things, as those new folk would find.  Very especially he hated the men of Athens.  Had not one of their captains, Militades, beaten the Lemnians and brought the island under Athenian sway?  True, it was a rule only in name, for any Athenian who came alone to Lemnos would soon be cleaving the air from the highest cliff-top.  But the thought irked his pride, and he gloated over the Persians’ coming.  The Great King from beyond the deserts would smite those outrageous upstarts.  Atta would willingly give earth and water.  It was the whim of a fantastic barbarian, and would be well repaid if the bastard Hellènes were destroyed.  They spoke his own tongue, and worshipped his own gods, and yet did evil.  Let the nemesis of Zeus devour them!

The wreckage pursued him everywhere.  Dead men shouldered the sides of the galley, and the straits were stuck full of things like monstrous buoys, where tall ships had foundered.  At Artemision he thought he saw signs of an anchored fleet with the low poops of the Hellènes, and sheered off to the northern shores.  There, looking towards Oeta and the Malian Gulf, he found an anchorage at sunset.  The waters were ugly and the times ill, and he had come on an enterprise bigger than he had dreamed.  The Lemnian was a stout fellow, but he had no love for needless danger.  He laughed mirthlessly as he thought of his errand, for he was going to Hellas, to the shrine of the Hellènes.

It was a woman’s doing, like most crazy enterprises.  Three years ago his wife had laboured hard in childbirth, and had had the whims of labouring women.  Up in the keep of Larisa, on the windy hillside, there had been heart-searching and talk about the gods.  The little olive-wood Hermes, the very private and particular god of Atta’s folk, was good enough in simple things like a lambing or a harvest, but he was scarcely fit for heavy tasks.  Atta’s wife declared that her lord lacked piety.  There were mainland gods who repaid worship, but his scorn of all Hellènes made him blind to the merits of those potent divinities.  At first Atta resisted.  There was Attic blood in his wife, and he strove to argue with her unorthodox craving.  But the woman persisted, and a Lemnian wife, as she is beyond other wives in virtue and comeliness, excels them in stubbornness of temper.  A second time she was with child, and nothing would content her but that Atta should make his prayers to the stronger gods.  Dodona was far away, and long ere he reached it his throat would be cut in the hills.  But Delphi was but two days’ journey from the Malian coast, and the god of Delphi, the Far-Darter had surprising gifts, if one were to credit travellers’ tales.  Atta yielded with an ill grace, and out of his wealth devised an offering to Apollo.  So on this July day he found himself looking across the gulf to Kallidromos bound for a Hellenic shrine, but hating all Hellènes in his soul.  A verse of Homer consoled him-the words which Phocion spoke to Achilles.  “Verily even the gods may be turned, they whose excellence and honour and strength are greater than thine; yet even these do men, when they pray, turn from their purpose with offerings of incense and pleasant vows.”  The Far-Darter must hate the hubris of those Hellènes, and be the more ready to avenge it since they dared to claim his countenance.  “No race has ownership in the gods,” a Lemnian song-maker had said when Atta had been questioning the ways of Poseidon.

The following dawn found him coasting past the north end of Euboea in the thin fog of a windless summer morn.  He steered by the peak of Othrys and a spur of Oeta, as he had learnt from a slave who had travelled the road.  Presently he was in the muddy Malian waters, and the sun was scattering the mist on the landward side.  And then he became aware of a greater commotion than Poseidon’s play with the ships off Pelion.  A murmur like a winter’s storm came seawards.  He lowered the sail, which he had set to catch a chance breeze, and bade the men rest on their oars.  An earthquake seemed to be tearing at the roots of the hills.

The mist rolled up, and his hawk eyes saw a strange sight.  The water was green and still around him, but shoreward it changed its colour.  It was a dirty red, and things bobbed about in it like the Persians in the creek of Sciathos.  On the strip of shore, below the sheer wall of Kallidromos, men were fighting-myriads of men, for away towards Locris they stretched in ranks and banners and tents till the eye lost them in the haze.  There was no sail on the queer, muddy-red-edged sea; there was no man on the hills:  but on that one flat ribbon of sand all the nations of the earth were warring.  He remembered about the place:  Thermopylae they called it, the Gate of the Hot Springs.  The Hellènes were fighting the Persians in the pass for their Fatherland.

Atta was prudent and loved not other men’s quarrels.  He gave the word to the rowers to row seaward.  In twenty strokes they were in the mist again...

Atta was prudent, but he was also stubborn.  He spent the day in a creek on the northern shore of the gulf, listening to the weird hum which came over the waters out of the haze.  He cursed the delay.  Up on Kallidromos would be clear dry air and the path to Delphi among the oak woods.  The Hellènes could not be fighting everywhere at once.  He might find some spot on the shore, far in their rear, where he could land and gain the hills.  There was danger indeed, but once on the ridge he would be safe; and by the time he came back the Great King would have swept the defenders into the sea, and be well on the road for Athens.  He asked himself if it were fitting that a Lemnian should be stayed in his holy task by the struggles of Hellene and Barbarian.  His thoughts flew to his steading at Larisa, and the dark-eyed wife who was awaiting his homecoming.  He could not return without Apollo’s favour:  his manhood and the memory of his lady’s eyes forbade it.  So late in the afternoon he pushed off again and steered his galley for the south.

About sunset the mist cleared from the sea; but the dark falls swiftly in the shadow of the high hills, and Atta had no fear.  With the night the hum sank to a whisper; it seemed that the invaders were drawing off to camp, for the sound receded to the west.  At the last light the Lemnian touched a rock-point well to the rear of the defence.  He noticed that the spume at the tide’s edge was reddish and stuck to his hands like gum.  Of a surety much blood was flowing on that coast.

He bade his slaves return to the north shore and lie hidden to await him.  When he came back he would light a signal fire on the topmost bluff of Kallidromos.  Let them watch for it and come to take him off.  Then he seized his bow and quiver, and his short hunting-spear, buckled his cloak about him, saw that the gift to Apollo was safe in the folds of it, and marched sturdily up the hillside.

The moon was in her first quarter, a slim horn which at her rise showed only the faint outline of the hill.  Atta plodded steadfastly on, but he found the way hard.  This was not like the crisp sea-turf of Lemnos, where among the barrows of the ancient dead, sheep and kine could find sweet fodder.  Kallidromos ran up as steep as the roof of a barn.  Cytisus and thyme and juniper grew rank, but above all the place was strewn with rocks, leg-twisting boulders, and great cliffs where eagles dwelt.  Being a seaman, Atta had his bearings.  The path to Delphi left the shore road near the Hot Springs, and went south by a rift of the mountain.  If he went up the slope in a beeline he must strike it in time and find better going.  Still it was an eerie place to be tramping after dark.  The Hellènes had strange gods of the thicket and hillside, and he had no wish to intrude upon their sanctuaries.  He told himself that next to the Hellènes he hated this country of theirs, where a man sweltered in hot jungles or tripped among hidden crags.  He sighed for the cool beaches below Larisa, where the surf was white as the snows of Samothrace, and the fisherboys sang round their smoking broth-pots.

Presently he found a path.  It was not the mule road, worn by many feet, that he had looked for, but a little track which twined among the boulders.  Still it eased his feet, so he cleared the thorns from his sandals, strapped his belt tighter, and stepped out more confidently.  Up and up he went, making odd detours among the crags.  Once he came to a promontory, and, looking down, saw lights twinkling from the Hot Springs.  He had thought the course lay more southerly, but consoled himself by remembering that a mountain path must have many windings.  The great matter was that he was ascending, for he knew that he must cross the ridge of Oeta before he struck the Locrian glens that led to the Far-Darter’s shrine.

At what seemed the summit of the first ridge he halted for breath, and, prone on the thyme, looked back to sea.  The Hot Springs were hidden, but across the gulf a single light shone from the far shore.  He guessed that by this time his galley had been beached and his slaves were cooking supper.  The thought made him homesick.  He had beaten and cursed these slaves of his times without number, but now in this strange land he felt them kinsfolk, men of his own household.  Then he told himself he was no better than a woman.  Had he not gone sailing to Chalcedon and distant Pontus, many months’ journey from home while this was but a trip of days?  In a week he would be welcomed by a smiling wife, with a friendly god behind him.

The track still bore west, though Delphi lay in the south.  Moreover, he had come to a broader road running through a little tableland.  The highest peaks of Oeta were dark against the sky, and around him was a flat glade where oaks whispered in the night breezes.  By this time he judged from the stars that midnight had passed, and he began to consider whether, now that he was beyond the fighting, he should not sleep and wait for dawn.  He made up his mind to find a shelter, and, in the aimless way of the night traveller, pushed on and on in the quest of it.  The truth is his mind was on Lemnos, and a dark-eyed, white-armed dame spinning in the evening by the threshold.  His eyes roamed among the oaktrees, but vacantly and idly, and many a mossy corner was passed unheeded.  He forgot his ill temper, and hummed cheerfully the song his reapers sang in the barley-fields below his orchard.  It was a song of seamen turned husbandmen, for the gods it called on were the gods of the sea....

Suddenly he found himself crouching among the young oaks, peering and listening.  There was something coming from the west.  It was like the first mutterings of a storm in a narrow harbour, a steady rustling and whispering.  It was not wind; he knew winds too well to be deceived.  It was the tramp of light-shod feet among the twigs ­many feet, for the sound remained steady, while the noise of a few men will rise and fall.  They were coming fast and coming silently.  The war had reached far up Kallidromos.

Atta had played this game often in the little island wars.  Very swiftly he ran back and away from the path up the slope which he knew to be the first ridge of Kallidromos.  The army, whatever it might be, was on the Delphian road.  Were the Hellènes about to turn the flank of the Great King?

A moment later he laughed at his folly.  For the men began to appear, and they were crossing to meet him, coming from the west.  Lying close in the brushwood he could see them clearly.  It was well he had left the road, for they stuck to it, following every winding-crouching, too, like hunters after deer.  The first man he saw was a Hellene, but the ranks behind were no Hellènes.  There was no glint of bronze or gleam of fair skin.  They were dark, long-haired fellows, with spears like his own, and round Eastern caps, and egg-shaped bucklers.  Then Atta rejoiced.  It was the Great King who was turning the flank of the Hellènes.  They guarded the gate, the fools, while the enemy slipped through the roof.

He did not rejoice long.  The van of the army was narrow and kept to the path, but the men behind were straggling all over the hillside.  Another minute and he would be discovered.  The thought was cheerless.  It was true that he was an islander and friendly to the Persian, but up on the heights who would listen to his tale?  He would be taken for a spy, and one of those thirsty spears would drink his blood.  It must be farewell to Delphi for the moment, he thought, or farewell to Lemnos for ever.  Crouching low, he ran back and away from the path to the crest of the sea-ridge of Kallidromos.

The men came no nearer him.  They were keeping roughly to the line of the path, and drifted through the oak wood before him, an army without end.  He had scarcely thought there were so many fighting men in the world.  He resolved to lie there on the crest, in the hope that ere the first light they would be gone.  Then he would push on to Delphi, leaving them to settle their quarrels behind him.  These were the hard times for a pious pilgrim.

But another noise caught his ear from the right.  The army had flanking squadrons, and men were coming along the ridge.  Very bitter anger rose in Atta’s heart.  He had cursed the Hellènes, and now he cursed the Barbarians no less.  Nay, he cursed all war, that spoiled the errands of peaceful folk.  And then, seeking safety, he dropped over the crest on to the steep shoreward face of the mountain.

In an instant his breath had gone from him.  He slid down a long slope of screes, and then with a gasp found himself falling sheer into space.  Another second and he was caught in a tangle of bush, and then dropped once more upon screes, where he clutched desperately for handhold.  Breathless and bleeding he came to anchor on a shelf of greensward and found himself blinking up at the crest which seemed to tower a thousand feet above.  There were men on the crest now.  He heard them speak and felt that they were looking down.

The shock kept him still till the men had passed.  Then the terror of the place gripped him, and he tried feverishly to retrace his steps.  A dweller all his days among gentle downs, he grew dizzy with the sense of being hung in space.  But the only fruit of his efforts was to set him slipping again.  This time he pulled up at the root of gnarled oak, which overhung the sheerest cliff on Kallidromos.  The danger brought his wits back.  He sullenly reviewed his case, and found it desperate.

He could not go back, and, even if he did, he would meet the Persians.  If he went on he would break his neck, or at the best fall into the Hellènes’ hands.  Oddly enough he feared his old enemies less than his friends.  He did not think that the Hellènes would butcher him.  Again, he might sit perched in his eyrie till they settled their quarrel, or he fell off.  He rejected this last way.  Fall off he should for certain, unless he kept moving.  Already he was retching with the vertigo of the heights.  It was growing lighter.  Suddenly 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 Hellènes.  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 Hellènes before evening.”

“What frightened you, Islander?” the stranger asked.  “Did a wolf bark up on the hillside?”

“Ay, a wolf.  The wolf from the East with a multitude of wolflings.  There will be fine eating soon in the pass.”

The man’s face grew dark.  He put his hand to his mouth and called.  Half a dozen sentries ran to join him.  He spoke to them in the harsh Lacedaemonian speech which made Atta sick to hear.  They talked with the back of the throat and there was not an “s” in their words.

“There is mischief in the hills,” the first man said.  “This islander has been frightened down over the rocks.  The Persian is stealing a march on us.”

The sentries laughed.  One quoted a proverb about island courage.  Atta’s wrath flared and he forgot himself.  He had no wish to warn the Hellènes, but it irked his pride to be thought a liar.  He began to tell his story hastily, angrily, confusedly; and the men still laughed.

Then he turned eastward and saw the proof before him.  The light had grown and the sun was coming up over Pelion.  The first beam fell on the eastern ridge of Kallidromos, and there, clear on the sky-line, was the proof.  The Persian was making a wide circuit, but moving shoreward.  In a little he would be at the coast, and by noon at the Hellènes’ rear.

His hearers doubted no more.  Atta was hurried forward through the lines of the Greeks to the narrow throat of the pass, where behind a rough rampart of stones lay the Lacedaemonian headquarters.  He was still giddy from the heights, and it was in a giddy dream that he traversed the misty shingles of the beach amid ranks of sleeping warriors.  It was a grim place, for there were dead and dying in it, and blood on every stone.  But in the lee of the wall little fires were burning and slaves were cooking breakfast.  The smell of roasting flesh came pleasantly to his nostrils, and he remembered that he had had no meal since he crossed the gulf.

Then he found himself the centre of a group who had the air of kings.  They looked as if they had been years in war.  Never had he seen faces so worn and so terribly scarred.  The hollows in their cheeks gave them the air of smiling, and yet they were grave.  Their scarlet vests were torn and muddled, and the armour which lay near was dinted like the scrap-iron before a smithy door.  But what caught his attention were the eyes of the men.  They glittered as no eyes he had ever seen before glittered.  The sight cleared his bewilderment and took the pride out of his heart.  He could not pretend to despise a folk who looked like Ares fresh from the wars of the Immortals.

They spoke among themselves in quiet voices.  Scouts came and went, and once or twice one of the men, taller than the rest, asked Atta a question.  The Lemnian sat in the heart of the group, sniffing the smell of cooking, and looking at the rents in his cloak and the long scratches on his legs.  Something was pressing on his breast, and he found that it was Apollo’s gift.  He had forgotten all about it.  Delphi seemed beyond the moon, and his errand a child’s dream.

Then the King, for so he thought of the tall man, spoke ­

“You have done us a service, Islander.  The Persian is at our back and front, and there will be no escape for those who stay.  Our allies are going home, for they do not share our vows.  We of Lacedaemon wait in the pass.  If you go with the men of Corinth you will find a place of safety before noon.  No doubt in the Euripus there is some boat to take you to your own land.”

He spoke courteously, not in the rude Athenian way; and somehow the quietness of his voice and his glittering eyes roused wild longings in Atta’s heart.  His island pride was face to face with a greater-greater than he had ever dreamed of.

“Bid yon cooks give me some broth,” he said gruffly.  “I am faint.  After I have eaten I will speak with you.”

He was given food, and as he ate he thought.  He was on trial before these men of Lacedaemon.  More, the old faith of the islands, the pride of the first masters, was at stake in his hands.  He had boasted that he and his kind were the last of the men; now these Hellènes of Lacedaemon were preparing a great deed, and they deemed him unworthy to share in it.  They offered him safety.  Could he brook the insult?  He had forgotten that the cause of the Persian was his; that the Hellènes were the foes of his race.  He saw only that the last test of manhood was preparing and the manhood in him rose to greet the trial.  An odd wild ecstasy surged in his veins.  It was not the lust of battle, for he had no love of slaying, or hate for the Persian, for he was his friend.  It was the sheer joy of proving that the Lemnian stock had a stärker pride than these men of Lacedamon.  They would die for their fatherland, and their vows; but he, for a whim, a scruple, a delicacy of honour.  His mind was so clear that no other course occurred to him.  There was only one way for a man.  He, too, would be dying for his fatherland, for through him the island race would be ennobled in the eyes of gods and men.

Troops were filing fast to the east ­Thebans, Corinthians.  “Time flies, Islander,” said the King’s voice.  “The hours of safety are slipping past.”  Atta looked up carelessly.  “I will stay,” he said.  “God’s curse on all Hellènes!  Little I care for your quarrels.  It is nothing to me if your Hellas is under the heels of the East.  But I care much for brave men.  It shall never be said that a man of Lemnos, a son of the old race, fell back when Death threatened.  I stay with you, men of Lacedaemon.”

The King’s eyes glittered; they seemed to peer into his heart.

“It appears they breed men in the islands,” he said.  “But you err.  Death does not threaten.  Death awaits us.

“It is all one,” said Atta.  “But I crave a boon.  Let me fight my last fight by your side.  I am of older stock than you, and a king in my own country.  I would strike my last blow among kings.”

There was an hour of respite before battle was joined, and Atta spent it by the edge of the sea.  He had been given arms, and in girding himself for the fight he had found Apollo’s offering in his breastfold.  He was done with the gods of the Hellènes.  His offering should go to the gods of his own people.  So, calling upon Poseidon, he flung the little gold cup far out to sea.  It flashed in the sunlight, and then sank in the soft green tides so noiselessly that it seemed as if the hand of the Sea-god had been stretched to take it.  “Hail, Poseidon!” the Lemnian cried.  “I am bound this day for the Ferryman.  To you only I make prayer, and to the little Hermes of Larisa.  Be kind to my kin when they travel the sea, and keep them islanders and seafarers for ever.  Hail and farewell, God of my own folk!”

Then, while the little waves lapped on the white sand, Atta made a song.  He was thinking of the homestead far up in the green downs, looking over to the snows of Samothrace.  At this hour in the morning there would be a tinkle of sheep-bells as the flocks went down to the low pastures.  Cool wind would be blowing, and the noise of the surf below the cliffs would come faint to the ear.  In the hall the maids mould be spinning, while their dark-haired mistress would be casting swift glances to the doorway, lest it might be filled any moment by the form of her returning lord.  Outside in the chequered sunlight of the orchard the child would be playing with his nurse, crooning in childish syllables the chanty his father had taught him.  And at the thought of his home a great passion welled up in Atta’s heart.  It was not regret, but joy and pride and aching love.  In his antique island creed the death he was awaiting was not other than a bridal.  He was dying for the things he loved, and by his death they would be blessed eternally.  He would not have long to wait before bright eyes came to greet him in the House of Shadows.

So Atta made the Song of Atta, and sang it then, and later in the press of battle.  It was a simple song, like the lays of seafarers.  It put into rough verse the thought which cheers the heart of all adventurers ­nay, which makes adventure possible for those who have much to leave.  It spoke of the shining pathway of the sea which is the Great Uniter.  A man may lie dead in Pontus or beyond the Pillars of Herakles, but if he dies on the shore there is nothing between him and his fatherland.  It spoke of a battle all the long dark night in a strange place ­a place of marshes and black cliffs and shadowy terrors.

“In the dawn the sweet light comes,” said the song, “and the salt winds and the tides will bear me home...”

When in the evening the Persians took toll of the dead, they found one man who puzzled them.  He lay among the tall Lacedaemonians on the very lip of the sea, and around him were swathes of their countrymen.  It looked as if he had been fighting his way to the water, and had been overtaken by death as his feet reached the edge.  Nowhere in the pass did the dead lie so thick, and yet he was no Hellene.  He was torn like a deer that the dogs have worried, but the little left of his garments and his features spoke of Eastern race.  The survivors could tell nothing except that he had fought like a god and had been singing all the while.

The matter came to the ear of the Great King who was sore enough at the issue of the day.  That one of his men had performed feats of valeur beyond the Hellènes was a pleasant tale to tell.  And so his captains reported it.  Accordingly when the fleet from Artemision arrived next morning, and all but a few score Persians were shovelled into holes, that the Hellènes might seem to have been conquered by a lesser force, Atta’s body was laid out with pomp in the midst of the Lacedaemonians.  And the seamen rubbed their eyes and thanked their strange gods that one man of the East had been found to match those terrible warriors whose name was a nightmare.  Further, the Great King gave orders that the body of Atta should be embalmed and carried with the army, and that his name and kin should be sought out and duly honoured.  This latter was a task too hard for the staff, and no more was heard of it till months later, when the King, in full flight after Salamis, bethought him of the one man who had not played him false.  Finding that his lieutenants had nothing to tell him, he eased five of them of their heads.

As it happened, the deed was not quite forgotten.  An islander, a Lesbian and a cautious man, had fought at Therrnopylae in the Persian ranks, and had heard Atta’s singing and seen how he fell.  Long afterwards some errand took this man to Lemnos, and in the evening, speaking with the Elders, he told his tale and repeated something of the song.  There was that in the words which gave the Lemnians a clue, the mention, I think, of the olive-wood Hermes and the snows of Samothrace.  So Atta came to great honour among his own people, and his memory and his words were handed down to the generations.  The song became a favourite island lay, and for centuries throughout the Aegean seafaring men sang it when they turned their prows to wild seas.  Nay, it travelled farther, for you will find part of it stolen by Euripides and put in a chorus of the Andromache.  There are echoes of it in some of the epigrams of the Anthology; and, though the old days have gone, the simple fisher-folk still sing snatches in their barbarous dialect.  The Klephts used to make a catch of it at night round their fires in the hills, and only the other day I met a man in Scyros who had collected a dozen variants, and was publishing them in a dull book on island folklore.

In the centuries which followed the great fight, the sea fell away from the roots of the cliffs and left a mile of marshland.  About fifty years ago a peasant, digging in a rice-field, found the cup which Atta bad given to Poseidon.  There was much talk about the discovery, and scholars debated hotly about its origin.  To-day it is in the Berlin Museum, and according to the new fashion in archaeology it is labelled “Minoan,” and kept in the Cretan Section.  But any one who looks carefully will see behind the rim a neat little carving of a dolphin; and I happen to know that that was the private badge of Atta’s house.

Atta’s song.

(Roughly translated.)

  I will sing of thee, Great Sea-Mother,
  Whose white arms gather
  Thy sons in the ending: 
  And draw them homeward
  From far sad marches ­
  Wild lands in the sunset,
  Bitter shores of the morning ­
  Soothe them and guide them
  By shining pathways
  Homeward to thee.

  All day I have striven in dark glens
  With parched throat and dim eyes,
  Where the red crags choke the stream
  And dank thickets hide the spear. 
  I have spilled the blood of my foes
  And their wolves have torn my flanks. 
  I am faint, O Mother,
  Faint and aweary. 
  I have longed for thy cool winds
  And thy kind grey eyes
  And thy lover’s arms.

  At the even I came
  To a land of terrors,
  Of hot swamps where the feet mired
  And waters that flowerd red with blood
  There I strove with thousands,
  Wild-eyed and lost,
  As a lion among serpents. 
   ­But sudden before me
  I saw the flash
  Of the sweet wide waters
  That wash my homeland
  And mirror the stars of home. 
  Then sang I for joy,
  For I knew the Preserver,
  Thee, the Uniter,
  The great Sea-Mother. 
  Soon will the sweet light come,
  And the salt winds and the tides
  Will bear me home.

  Far in the sunrise,
  Nestled in thy bosom,
  Lies my own green isle. 
  Thither wilt thou bear me. 
  To where, above the sea-cliffs,
  Stretch mild meadows, flower-decked, thyme-scented,
  Crisp with sea breezes. 
  There my flocks feed
  On sunny uplands,
  Looking over thy waters
  To where the mount Saos
  Raises purl snows to God.

  Hermes, guide of souls,
  I made thee a shrine in my orchard,
  And round thy olive-wood limbs
  The maidens twined Spring blossoms ­
  Violet and helichryse
  And the pale wind flowers. 
  Keep thou watch for me,
  For I am coming. 
  Tell to my lady
  And to all my kinsfolk
  That I who have gone from them
  Tarry not long, but come swift o’er the sea-path,
  My feet light with joy,
  My eyes bright with longing. 
  For little it matters
  Where a man may fall,
  If he fall by the sea-shore;
  The kind waters await him,
  The white arms are around him,
  And the wise Mother of Men
  Will carry him home.

  I who sing
  Wait joyfully on the morning. 
  Ten thousand beset me
  And their spears ache for my heart. 
  They will crush me and grind me to mire,
  So that none will know the man that once was me. 
  But at the first light I shall be gone,
  Singing, flitting, o’er the grey waters,
  Outward, homeward,
  To thee, the Preserver,
  Thee, the Uniter,
  Mother the Sea.