At the first utterance of his pent-up thoughts his countenance glowed with animation. His personality seemed to himself to be projected on to the listening multitude. Almost unconscious of his individuality, there was a consciousness of a great silence round about him—a silence of everything except his own voice, which sounded as from a distance on his ears. He felt the rapt attention of the crowd, and saw ten thousand faces turned to him, their eyes fixed on him alone. He marvelled for a moment at his rush of eloquence, his facility of speech, his ready argument. Yet it was altogether different to that which they had been accustomed to from Kleon. There was no ranting, no pacing up and down. He had not studied in the schools of rhetoric in vain. Even the lessons he had learnt among the Sophists were of use to him. There was a conciseness, a conclusiveness, in his arguments. His very hesitation sometimes for a word, when he wished to be precise, the repetition which he sometimes made of one sentence ere he began another, which he sometimes made, gave an added power to his utterance. But there was something more than this—a soul which spake from out the depths, and went to the souls of his hearers, holding them captive. His splendid presence, his graceful action, lent a charm to all he said, and when roused to passion his whole face seemed transformed, his eyes fired with the latent energy within. At first he spoke of Nikias and the peace, and showed how it had been dictated by a selfish policy, because Nikias, having got a reputation as a general, had nothing more to gain by war, and was anxious to enjoy the laurels he had won, for peace meant to him a long continuance of such fame as he had got, free from all further risk, while it prevented any other from rising up to rival him. The people rose, and, as it were, with one voice demanded that Nikias should be haled before the dikasts, the judges in such cases, and tried for treason to the state. With perhaps real generosity, Alkibiades soothed their vehemence. ‘After all, it may have been the fault of old age and imbecility, not of design,’ he said, and then went on to say that others at one time—indeed, he himself for a short space—had thought that peace was necessary. So, passing by the peace, he came to deal with the alliance. ‘Alliance!’ he exclaimed, and with a state known for its perfidy. Alliance! With a people whose selfishness and craft made it better to have them as open enemies than as friends! Alliance! With a people who from the time when they had laid upon themselves the most sacred obligations, with all the solemn sanction of libations to the gods, had never ceased to break each separate clause and article of the treaty they then made; and who quite lately, when they renewed their promises, were, at that very time, intriguing with the enemies of Athens!