The battle raged around him as before. He heard the din of it confusedly—the calling on the gods, the cries of rage, the clanking of the swords and shields; no one seemed to notice him. Those who, just now, wondered at his courage were too much engaged to see his fall. His blood, although he knew it not, was pouring from his wound. A dim vision of his past life came before him—his father’s parting words, his hopes, his ambition; now all was over, ended at his first attempt to make a famous name. The great gods had struck him down in his pride. He recollected indistinctly his late excesses, and dread Aiakos, the Judge of Hell, he had been used to jest about as his old ancestor in his careless health and jollity; he trembled as he thought how soon he was to meet him. And then a sweet remembrance swam before his darkening eyes of a sunny afternoon by the Ilissos, and the pleasant voice and kindly words of that strange friend of his came back to him, like far-off music in his ears; then darkness, and then—nothing. Presently a sound as of the same voice came over him again. That which had been indistinct and dreamy was now real and clear. His eyes opened, and he saw Sokrates striding across him, his big eyes shining with a rage which made them look almost beautiful; the ungraceful body trembled with a god-like energy, his whole countenance glowed as if inspired. With a blow he had brought to the ground a Potidaian, who, taking advantage of the young man’s helplessness, was about to slay him with his sword. The Athenian army, everywhere victorious, chased the enemy into Potidaia, and left the young hoplite and the philosopher behind amongst the dead and dying. Neither of them spoke: one was too weak, the other only stood and watched him. When some of their side returned, Alkibiades was taken to his tent, and his wound was dressed. Youth, vigour, and relenting Zeus soon did the rest. Amidst rejoicing and loud hymns of triumph to the God of War, with which the Athenians celebrated their success, the generals deliberated, according to their wont, to whom the prize of valour should be given. They decided on the favourite Alkibiades, already celebrated for his wealth and beauty and now made famous by his prowess. Alkibiades refused, and with true generosity declared that Sokrates, the saviour of his life, deserved it more than he did. But the generals cared little for the philosopher, so Alkibiades was afterwards crowned with laurel and invested with a splendid suit of armour before the assembled host, as hero of the victorious day.