"But there are no victories for us," said the first speaker
mournfully.

"Never, if ye despair," said the Mothon loftily. "What," he added
after a pause, looking round at the crowd, "what, do ye not see that
hope dawned upon us from the hour when thirty-five thousand of us were
admitted as soldiers, ay, and as conquerors, at Plataea? From that
moment we knew our strength. Listen to me. At Samos once a thousand
slaves--mark me, but a thousand,--escaped the yoke--seized on arms,
fled to the mountains (we have mountains even in Laconia), descended
from time to time to devastate the fields and to harass their
ancient lords. By habit they learned war, by desperation they grew
indomitable. What became of these slaves? were they cut off? Did they
perish by hunger, by the sword, in the dungeon or field? No; those
brave men were the founders of Ephesus."[25]

"But the Samians were not Spartans," mumbled the old Helot.

"As ye will, as ye will," said Alcman, relapsing into his usual
coldness. "I wish you never to strike unless ye are prepared to die or
conquer."

"Some of us are," said the younger Helot.

"Sacrifice a cock to the Fates, then."

"But why, think you," asked one of the Helots, "that we shall be so
soon summoned back to Laconia?"

"Because while ye are drinking and idling here--drones that ye