“Ah!” he cried, “it is old Hipparchus.” And he waved his hand with a friendly gesture.
“It is a bad news he brings,” he said again after a quiet pause, “he makes no reply.”
A few more strokes brought the boat alongside of the pier. Alcibiades reached his hand to the steersman, and helped him to disembark. That his errand was bad was only too evident from his look. He was deadly pale, and in his eyes was the expression of one who had lately seen some terrible sight.
“It is all over,” he said, “Athens is lost.”
For a few minutes the three men stood silent. Perhaps it was then that Alcibiades felt the keenest remorse of his life. After all, it was he who, more than any living man, had brought this ruin to his country. He had led her into an enterprise which overmatched her strength; and he had suggested to her enemies, the too successful policy that had ended in her overthrow. If Athens was indeed lost it was his doing—and yet he loved her. Much of this the younger man could guess at, for he had not been at Bisanthe for now nearly a year without learning something of his host’s inner thoughts. He turned away his face unwilling to witness the emotion which he felt could be seen in the other’s countenance. The messenger from the scene of the disaster stood with downcast eyes, absorbed in the dismal recollections of what he had lately witnessed.
“Tell us how it happened,” said Alcibiades.
“For five days,” so he began, “we manned our ships every morning about the third hour, formed them in line of battle, and moved across the strait to the harbor of Lampsacus. The Spartan fleet was ranged in line outside the harbor with their army drawn up upon the shore on either side. Our admirals did not venture to attack; and so we sailed back. I noticed that a few quick-sailing galleys followed us at about half a mile distance. When we got back to our station, our men used to scatter in search of provisions for their noonday meal—our commissariat, you must know, was very ill-supplied. Some went up the country, but most made their way to Sestos. None of our admirals, except Conon, seemed to have a notion that this was dangerous, though some of us old sailors could have warned them if we had dared. Conon always kept his men together. Well, on the fifth day—our men, you must understand, had been growing more and more careless—about an hour after we got back, a shield was run up to the masthead of one of the Spartan swift-sailing galleys. I saw it flash in the sunshine; and a few moments afterwards the whole Spartan fleet rowed from their anchorage and made their way across the strait. They caught us entirely unprepared. There was no battle; scarcely a blow was struck. I can easily believe that they did not lose a single man. Some of our ships they found absolutely deserted. None of them had more than two-thirds of their complement. No, I should not say none; twelve were ready, Conon’s eight and four others, one of which was the Parelus.[51] I was on board Menander’s own ship, of which I was steersman. There were eight others with me. We hurried as fast as we could to Sestos. There, the next day, I was able to hire this boat, and thought the best thing that I could do was to come here.”
“You say that twelve ships escaped,” said Alcibiades, “how many then were taken?”
“About a hundred and seventy,” answered the man.
“And how many prisoners?”