We who have followed the story of his life till now, and have endeavoured, as far as may be possible, after more than two thousand years have passed away, to gain some insight into the working of his soul; we who have seen him suffering under similar injustice, and know how these wrongs, and only these, could greatly stir his spirit, and change for a time a loyal and kindly nature into the fierce, relentless hatred of the wounded lion, may well expect the threats of vengeance, the cry of rage, the determination to undo the wrong, and punish the authors of his injuries. But whether it was that he was growing weary of this constant strife, or that years had softened his resentment and relaxed his care to battle longer with his secret foes; whether he began to think that the power and the glory which throughout his life had been hitherto his aim was, after all, not worth the fighting for; or whether his love for his country had grown so deep that he would do nothing that might injure it, we cannot tell. Certain it is he went upon his way, and, during the time which remained to him to live, showed no sign whatever of anger or resentment. While he was in the Chersonesos two years before he had marked the beauty and commanding position of a high rock looking out over the Hellespont towards Lampsakos, where the straits are not much more than a mile across. Washed by the waves of the sea in front, the hillsides form a natural fortress on the north and west; the only approach lay over the stream called Aigos Potamoi, or Goat’s Rivers, which winds below the cliffs on the south, and empties itself hard by into the Hellespont. He saw what an impregnable stronghold might be erected there, and of what value it would be to Athens against an enemy who might attack the towns which he was rapidly receiving back to their allegiance. With his own private resources he planned and built a fortress on this almost inaccessible spot, and to this lonely tower he now retired with a few constant friends, some of whom we have seen before clinging to him in his exile. There, like Achilles, he stayed watching the turns of fortune, waiting to see how soon his countrymen, recovering from their blindness, would repent of their ingratitude.