The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence, while many a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned Acropolis, asked once, yes twice, “Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to that?” Then after the silence broke the clamour of voices.
“The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!”
Hegias, the “King Archon,” chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.
“All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.”
Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered “Silence!” and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said “the wooden wall” would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.
So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more. “Kataba! Kataba!” “Go down! go down!” pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.
“Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!”
But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.
“Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!”
The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.