Brave old Hipponikos was slain at the beginning of the rout while endeavouring to rally his retreating men. From the hilly nature of the ground where the main attack had been delivered, the small force of cavalry, placed at each extremity of the Athenian line, had been unable to give much help during the heat of the conflict. That division of the horse posted on the left wing, where Alkibiades chafed at his compulsory inaction, covered, as far as it could, the disorderly retreat. While thus engaged, it was his good fortune to save the life of Sokrates, and so repay the service his friend had rendered him seven years before at Potidaia. He came upon him retiring with his face to the Boiotians as calmly as if he had been combating some common error in the groves at Athens. Misfortune ever made more manifest the greatness that was in him. The rugged figure had a majesty about it as he bade defiance to the foe. Death when threatened by his country’s enemies brought no more fear to him than when at last it came to him in the cup of hemlock, by which that country afterwards rewarded him. The temple at Delion was soon afterwards retaken by the Boiotians, and that disastrous campaign was ended. At the same time in Thrace the Spartans, under Brasidas, were encouraging Athenian dependencies to revolt. Through the negligence of the historian Thoukydides they were able to take Amphipolis, one of the most important possessions of Athens on the Thrakian coast, an event which became of curious importance in deciding the future life of Alkibiades. He had returned to Athens in less glorious circumstances than those in which he had set out. Through no fault of his, he and the other knights had been unable to do much. He was discontented. His wife received him back with tears. He who was almost all to her had come back indeed, but the brave old father, where was he? Her father had ever been her constant friend, the dear companion of her childish days and early womanhood. When his wife left him his daughter had become everything to him. He lavished all his love on her, for the worthless Kallias deserved and got but little. And he who gave it to her so ungrudgingly was gone. She would never see that strong old tender face again. How could she keep her tears from flowing—tears of grief, tears, too, of joy, as her husband stood by her side once more? Egoism, from which most men, even the best, suffer more or less, was not a stranger in the breast of Alkibiades. He liked the blind devotion of his wife, and would not have her show her grief for anyone when he was there. He did not understand how much less worth her love for him must be if she did not love her father with another and as great a love.