and thus she drew together a little band, "and found a ship at Kaunos," and they turned "The glad prow westward, soon were out at sea, Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek, Proud for our heart's true harbour." But they were pursued by pirates, and, fleeing from these, drove unawares into the harbour of that very Syracuse where Nikias and Demosthenes had perished, and in whose quarries their countrymen were slaves. The inhabitants refused them admission, for they had heard, as the ship came into harbour, Balaustion singing "that song of ours which saved at Salamis." She had sprung upon the altar by the mast, and carolled it forth to encourage the oarsmen; and now it was vain to tell the Sicilians that these were Rhodians who had cast in their lot with the Spartan League, for the Captain of Syracuse answered: "Ay, but we heard all Athens in one ode . . . You bring a boatful of Athenians here"; and Athenians they would not have at Syracuse, "with memories of Salamis" to stir up the slaves in the quarry. No prayers, no blandishments, availed the Rhodians; they were just about to turn away and face the pirates in despair, when somebody raised a question, and ". . . 'Wait!' Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure). 'That song was veritable Aischulos, Familiar to the mouth of man and boy, Old glory: how about Euripides? Might you know any of his verses too?'" Browning here makes use of the historical fact that Euripides was reverenced far more by foreigners and the non-Athenian Greeks than by the Athenians--for Balaustion, "the Rhodian," had been brought up in his worship, though she knew and loved the other great Greek poets also; and already it was known to our voyagers that the captives in the quarries had found that those who could "teach Euripides to Syracuse" gained indulgence far beyond what any of the others could obtain. Thus, when the question sounded, "Might you know any of his verses too?" the captain of the vessel cried: "Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands, Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl! * * * * * Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through, Has she been falling thick in flakes of him, * * * * * And so, although she has some other name, We only call her Wild-Pomegranate-Flower, Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns * * * * * You shall find food, drink, odour all at once." He called upon her to save their little band by singing a strophe. But she could do better than that--she could recite a whole play: "That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his, ALKESTIS!"