A light broke in upon Xenophon. He had had a general recollection of the occasion, but could not remember the particular incident. Now it all came back to him.
“Ah,” he cried, “I remember; it was you who were carrying the sick man?”
“Yes,” the man confessed, “I did so, by your compulsion; and a pretty mess was made of the kit that I had upon the mule’s back.”
“Nay, not so; the men carried the things themselves, and nothing was lost. But hear the rest of the story,” he went on, turning to the assembly, “and, indeed it is worth hearing. I found a poor fellow lying upon the ground, who could not move a step further. I knew the man, and knew him as one who had done good service. And I compelled you, sir,” addressing Nicharchus, “to carry him. For if I mistake not, the enemy were close behind us.”
The Arcadian nodded assent.
“Well then; I sent you forward with your burden, and after a while, overtook you again, when I came up with the rear-guard. You were digging a trench in which to bury the man. I thought it a pious act, and praised you for it. But, lo! while I was speaking, the dead man, as I thought he was, twitched his leg. ‘Why he’s alive,’ the bystanders cried out. ‘Alive or dead, as he pleases,’ you said, ‘but I am not going to carry him any further.’ Then I struck you. I acknowledge it. It seemed to me that you were going to bury the poor fellow alive.”
“Well,” said the Arcadian, “you won’t deny, I suppose, that the man died after all.”
“Yes,” replied Xenophon, “he died, I acknowledge. We must all die some day; but, meanwhile, there is no reason why we should be buried alive.”
The man hung his head and said nothing.
“What say you, comrades?” cried Xenophon.