that he and his kind were the last of the men; now these Hellenes of Lacedæmon 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 Hellenes 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 starker pride than these men of Lacedæmon. 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 Hellenes! Little I care for your quarrels. It is nothing to me if your Hellas is under the heel 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 Lacedæmon."

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 Hellenes. 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 winds would be blowing, and the noise of the surf below the cliffs would come faint to the ear. In the hall the maids would 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

When in the evening the Persians took toll of the dead, they found one man who puzzled them. He lay among the tall Lacedæmonians, 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. survivors could tell nothing except that he had fought like a god and had been singing all the while.

The

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 valour beyond the Hellenes 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 Hellenes might seem to have been conquered by a lesser force, Atta's body was laid out with pomp in the midst of the Lacedæmonians. 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, & Lesbian and 8 cautious man, had fought at Thermopyla 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 Egean 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 ricefield, found the cup which Atta had given to Poseidon. There was much talk about the discovery, and scholars debated hotly about its origin. To-day it is in the Munich Museum, and according to the new fashion in archæology 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 this was the private badge of Atta's house.

seen

first part of the journey lay down the great river, then at its highest, and two or more miles wide in places, full of turbid rushing water, a brownyellow flood doing a good five miles an hour on its way down to the sea six hundred miles distant. This part was very easy going, and the twenty miles were soon reeled off. It was distinctly impressive, the might, the irresistible force of the river, seen from the tiny steamer racing down stream on its bosom. Huge trees were being hurried down by the flood together with small islands several yards square, consisting of masses washed off from a projecting corner of bank. The banks were too far away to be clearly, but one got an impression of the upper halves of trees with a brown torrent tearing at the roots. The presence of the load on the sun-deck made the little craft top-heavy, and Ogle invited his fellow-passengers to sit down at the sides and to keep still. The rain passed off, but the day remained clouded over, and was dull and cold-looking when the White Duck turned sharp to the left, and, leaving the great river, started up the Dongabba, which joins it at that point from the south. Now the Dongabba pours its waters out by two mouths, forming a delta, and the current in the channels of this delta is not very serious, 80 that progress for a time was satisfactory, though it became less and less so momentarily.

When the delta was cleared and the main stream entered things

were different. A stream varying in width from half a mile down to a hundred yards, a winding channel, and a four-mile current, plus rocks and snags dotted about in the stream, combine to make up a proposition that a vessel of the calibre of the White Duck is like to find difficulty in discussing.

She rolled 8 good deal under the opposing forces of paddle and stream, and Ogle fetched all the sun-deck passengers down below, and made them lie down, to keep her as steady as might be. That wretched eight or nine inches of free - board rendered the taking of chances inadvisable. She fought her way up, yard by yard, and in an hour achieved about a mile. It was then 4 P.M., and the next two hours were spent in trying to round a bend at a point where the river was very narrow, very deep, and running more strongly than ever. She was taken up under every ounce of steam that her boiler could stand, close under the near bank, and she went along along well enough till she started to put her nose round the corner. Then the rushing stream caught her, swung her broadside on to the stream, and, in a few seconds, hustled her, fighting every inch and rolling badly, right down stream again, hard up against the far bank. Repeated half a dozen times, the manœuvre tended to become monot